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THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE. WILLIAM CROWE (circa 1746–1829) was the son of a carpenter at Winchester, and was admitted upon the foundation as a poor scholar. He was transferred to New College, Oxford, and was elected Fellow in 1773. He rose to be Professor of Poetry and Public Orator, holding at the same time the valuable rectory of Alton Barnes. Crowe was author of 'Lewesdon Hill' (1786), a descriptive poem in blank verse, and of various other pieces. Several editions of his ‘Poems' have been published, the latest in 1827. There is poetry of a very high order in the works of Crowe, though it has never been popular,

Wreck of the · Halsewell,' East Indiaman.
See how the sun, here clouded, afar off
Pours down the golden radiance of his light
Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship
Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
But falsely flattering, was yon surface calm,
When forth for India sailed, in evil time,
That vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,
Filled every breast with horror, and each eye
With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.
Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm
Shattered and driven along past yonder isle,
She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,
To gain the port within it, or at worst,
To shun that harbourless and hollow coast
From Portland eastward to the promontory
Where still St. Alban's high-built chapel stands.
But art nor strength avail her-on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;
And there 'mong rocks and high o'erhanging cliffs
Dashed piteously, with all her precious freight,
Was lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jaws
Swallowed up quick! The richest-laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that annual sent
To the Philippines o'er the southern main
From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,
Were poor to this; freighted with hopeful youth,
And beauty and high courage undismayed
By mortal terrors, and paternal love,
Strong and unconquerable even in death-
Alas, they perished all, all in one hour !*

The Miseries of War. From "Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre of Oxford, on the In stallation of the Duke of Portland as Chancellor of the University.'

If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else ;
If they that make the cause might taste th' effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix;
Then might the bard, though child of peace, delight

The Aalsevoeli. Captain Pierce. was wrecked in January 1786, having struck on the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck, between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head. All the passengers perished; but out of 240 souls on board, 74 were saved. Seven interesting and accomplished young ladies (two of them daughters of the captain) were among the drowned.

To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow:
Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on
Whom justice arms for vengeance. But alas !
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heavier on th' exposed innocent ;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves
Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.-Oh, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph-hymns to God,
O'er the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughtered sons !

CHARLOTTE SMITH. Several ladies cultivated poetry with success at this time. Among these was MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH (whose admirable prose fictions will afterwards be noticed). She was the daughter of Mr. Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and born on the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for precocity of talents, and for a lively playful humour that shewed itself in conversation, and in compositions both in prose and verse. Being early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly though expensively educated, and introduced into society at a very early age. Her father having decided on a second marriage, the friends of the young and admired poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, and she was induced to accept the hand of Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. The husband was twenty-one years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash union was productive of mutual discontent and misery. Mr. Smith was careless and extravagant, business was neglected, and his father dying, left a will so complicated and voluminous that no two lawyers understood it in the same sense. Law-suits and embarrassments were therefore the portion of this ill-starred pair for all their after-lives. Mr. Smith was ultimately forced to sell the greater part of his property, after he had been thrown into prison, and his faithful wife had shared with him the misery and discomfort of his confinement. After an unhappy union of twenty-three years, Mrs. Smith separated from her busband, and, taking a cottage near Chichester, applied herself to her literary occupations with cheerful assiduity, supplying to her children the duties of both parents. In eight months she completed her novel of ‘Emmeline,' published in 1788. In the following year appeared another novel from her pen, entitled “Ethelinde;' and in 1791, a third under the name of Celestina.' She imbibed the opinions of the French Revolution, and embodied them in a romance entitled “Desmond.' This work arrayed against her many of her friends and readers, but she regained the public favour by her tale, the Old Manor-house,' which is the best of her novels. Part of this work was written at Eartham, the residence of Hayley, during the period of Cowper's visit to that poetical retreat. It was delightful,' says Hayley, 'to hear her read what she had just written, for she read, as she wrote, with simplicity and grace. Cowper was also astonished at the rapidity and excellence of her composition. Mrs Smith continued her literary labours amidst private and family distress. She wrote a valuable little compendium for children, under the title of Conversations; A History of British Birds;' a descriptive poem on ‘Beachy Head,' &c. She died at Tilford, 'near Farnham, on the 28th of October 1806. The poetry of Mrs. Smith is elegant and sentimental, and generally of a pathetic cast.

Sonnets. - On the Departure of the Nightingale.
Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu !

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be Jong ere thou shalt sing anew,

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on spring thy wandering flights await,

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate,

And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide

Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide

The gentle bird who sings of pity best :
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

Written at the Close of Spring.
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove;

Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew,
Anemones that spangled every grove,

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.
Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring :
Ah! why has happiness no second Spring ?
Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers;
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,

The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ;
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy !

So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse,
But darker now grows life's anhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come:

so have I sought tway with friendshy day,

Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,

And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb,
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more! Recollections of English Scenery.-From' Beachy Head.

Haunts of my youth !
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant by the northern slopes,
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb,
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way,
While heavily upward moved the labouring
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone
The grating wheel.

Advancing higher still,
The prospect widens, and the village church.
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the south
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash and beach,
And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden ; most for use designed,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow,
Almost uncultured; some with dark-green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
'r spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at nature's shrine,
I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.


MISS BLAMIRE. Miss SUSANNA BLAMIRE (1747-1794), a Cumberland lady, was distinguished for the excellence of her Scottish poetry, which has all the idiomatic ease and grace of a native minstrel. Miss Blamire was born of a respectable family in Cumberland, at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, where she resided till her twentieth year, beloved by a circle of friends and acquaintance, with whom she associated in what were called merry neets, or merry evening-parties, in her native district. Her sister becoming the wife of Colonel Graham of Duchray, Perthshire, Susanna accompanied the pair to Scotland, where she remained some years, and imbibed that taste for Scottish melody and music which prompted her beautiful lyrics, The Nabob,' The. Siller Croun,' &c. She also wrote some pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, and a descriptive poem of some length, entitled 'Stocklewath, or the Cumbrian Village.' Miss Blamire died unmarried at Carlisle, in her forty-seventh year, and her name had almost faded from remembrance, when, in 1842, her poetical works were collected and published in one volume, with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell.

The Nabob. When silent time, wi’ lightly foot, Some penny chiels, a new-sprung race Had trod on thirty years,

Wad next their welcome pay, I sought again my native land

Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, Wi' mony hopes and fears.

And wished my groves away. Wha kens gin the dear friends I left

Cut, cut,' they cried, those aged elms; May still continue mine?

Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' Or gin I e'er again shall taste

Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, The joys I left langsyne?.

Memorials o' langsyne.

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