Nay, why lament the doom which mocks control? Then dry thy tears, and see the river roll O'er rocks, that crowned yon time-dark heights of yore, Bears down at Noe's side the bloom-bowed hawthorn tree. Dear children! when the flowers are full of bees; When sun-touched blossoms shed their fragrant snow; "Tis passing sweet to wander, free as air, Of all self-buried things the most unblessed: O Morn! to them no blissful tribute pay! O Night's long-courted slumbers! bring no rest To men who laud man's foes, and deem the basest best! God! would they handcuff thee? and, if they could, To every field; and bid the warbling wood For love-sweet odours, where the woodbine blows And trades with every cloud and every beam Of the rich sky! Their gods are bonds and blows, Rocks, and blind shipwreck; and they hate the stream That leaves them still behind, and mocks their changeless dream. They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome me, Blue Eyebright!* loveliest flower of all that grow In flower-loved England! Flower, whose hedge-side gaze The Germander Speedwell. The dazzling rill, companion ol the road Which the lone bard most loveth, in the days When hope and love are young? Oh, come abroad, O faithful love, by poverty embraced! Thy joys are roses born on Hecla's brow; Thy home is Eden warm amid the snow; And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm, When o'er thy bowed roof darkest falls the night.] Yet while in gloom your freezing day declines, And calmly wave, beneath the darkest hour, The ice-born fruit, the frost-defying flower. Let luxury, sickening in profusion's chair, Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir, And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble too! But love and labour, blush not, fear not you! Your children-splinters from the mountain's side→ With rugged hands, shall for themselves provide. Parent of valour, cast away thy fear! Mother of men, be proud without a tear! While round your hearth the woe-nursed virtues move, Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair; Remember Arkwright, and the peasant Clare. Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood-notes wild, Sire, green in age, mild, patient, toil-inured, Endure thine evils as thou hast endured. Behold thy wedded daughter, and rejoice! Hear hope's sweet accents in a grandchild's voice And Hampden, Russell, Sidney in your eyes! Northumbrian vales! ye saw in silent pride, w! When, poor, yet learned, he wandered young and free, Scenes of his youth, where first he wooed the Nine, As when he breathed, your blue-belled paths along, Born in a lowly hut an infant slept, Dreamful in sleep, and sleeping, smiled or wept: The worm came up to drink the welcome shower; A Poet's Prayer. Almighty Father! let thy lowly child, Let him live usefully, and not die old! Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays, Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been. And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, Let him be buried where the grass is green, To hear the bee his busy note prolong; There let him slumber, and in peace await The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng, Who scorn the wind-flower's blush, the redbreast's lovely song. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. MR. BAYLY (1797-1839) was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age, and he composed a number of light dramas. He was the son of a solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife : Oh, No! We never Mention Him. Oh no! we never mention him, his name is never heard; They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see; They tell me he is happy now, the gayest of the gay; They hint that he forgets me, too-but I heed not what they say: This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His songs contain the pathos of a section of our social system; but they are more calculated to attract attention by their refined and happy diction, than to melt us by their feeling. Several of them, as The Soldier's Tear,' 'She Wore a Wreath of Roses;' 'Oh, no! We never Mention Him;' and 'We met-'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extraordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, ‘I'd be a Butterfly' was the most felicitous: it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms exceeding even Horace in gaiety. What though you tell me each gay little rover To die when all fair things are fading away. Dying when fair things are fading away! THE REV. JOHN KEBLE. In 1827 appeared a volume of sacred poetry, entitled 'The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year.' The work has had extraordinary success. The object of the author was to bring the thoughts and feelings of his readers into more entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the English Prayer-Book, and some of his little poems have great tenderness, beauty, and devotional feeling. Thus, on the text: 'So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city' (Genesis, xi. 8), we have this descriptive passage: Since all that is not Heaven must fade, Upon the home I love: With lulling spell let soft Decay The crash of tower and grove. Another text (Proverbs, xiv. 10) ment: Far opening down some woodland deep' And wild-flower wreaths from side to side What ruthless Time has wrought. suggests a train of touching senti Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. The following is one of the poems entire: Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity. The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.-Habakkuk, ii 3. The morning mist is cleared away, Yet still the face of heaven is gray, Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirred the grove, Faded yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The redbreast warbles round this leafy cove. Sweet messenger of 'calm decay,' Saluting sorrow as you may, As one still bent to find or make the best, |