Page images
PDF
EPUB

But when, as chanced, from limbs and wearied veins,
France, slavery stung, burst body bonds and chains;
Some were rejoiced; some doubted; some were sad;
But all at length allowed her Freedom mad;
Most for our own proclaimed a muzzle right,

Some would have slain, so much they feared the bite.
The danger, seen through mist, loomed large and near,
And Reason, Principles, were lost in Fear.

Then ancient statesmen took their daily range

Round one small spot, and shuddering talked of change;
Or, niched, discreet, behind Prescription's shield,
In his own wrong urged Valor to the field.

Wealth, 'mid his coffers, feared the approaching war,
And ribboned Title trembled for his star;

Vague unused terrors crept upon the brave,
And scarce the scornful Bar its scorn could save.
The ready Pulpit joined the Statesman's game,
And Freedom walked our British soil in shame.

Then follows a magnificent character of Burke, proving how just Mr. Kenyon can be to real greatness in every shade of opinion. The following stanza, from a beautiful poem called "Upper Austria," has the same rare merit of fairness and candor.

O Liberty! thou sacred name
Whate'er reproach may thee befall,
From judgment just or spiteful blame,
To thee I cling, on thee I call.
And yet thou art not all in all;
And e'en where thou art worshiped less,

In spite of check, in spite of thrall,
Content may spring and happiness.

The spirited and original anacreontic, entitled "Champagne Rose," was composed under very peculiar circumstances. Having improvised, while looking at the bubbles upon a glass of pink champagne, the exceedingly happy line that begins the song, Mr. Kenyon was challenged to complete it on the spot. He undertook to do so within twenty minutes, and accomplished his task, as very few besides himself could have done.

Lily on liquid roses floating

So floats yon foam o'er pink Champagne-
Fain would I join such pleasant boating,
And prove that ruby main,

Floating away on wine!

Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear,
Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim;
And true it is they drown old Care,
But what care we for him,

So we but float on wine!

And true it is they cross in pain
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry;
But only make our Styx Champagne,
And we shall cross right merry,
Floating away on wine!

Old Charon's self shall make him mellow,
Then gayly row his boat from shore;
While we and every jovial fellow
Hear unconcerned the oar,

That dips itself in wine!

The charming stanzas with which I conclude my extracts form part of a poem written to illustrate an engraving in Finden's Tableaux; one of the many kindnesses which I owe to Mr. Kenyon. It would be difficult to find verse more melodious, or

more pure.

THE SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN.

Who knows not, fair Sicilian land!
How proudly thou wert famed of yore
When all the Muses hymned thy strand,
And pleased to tread so sweet a shore.
Bacchus and Ceres, hand in hand,
To thee their choicest treasures bore,
And saw upreared their graceful shrines,
'Mid waving corn and curling vines.

Yes! land thou wert of fruits and flowers,
The favored land of Deity;

By Jove made glad with suns and showers,
By Neptune cheered with brightest sea;
E'en Dis, beneath his gloomy bowers,
Had heard and loved to dream of thee,
And when he willed to take a bride,
Snatched her from Ennar's sloping side.

Those hollow creeds have passed away,
Those false, if graceful, shrines are gone;
A purer faith, of stricter sway,
For our behoof their place hath won;

And Christian altars overlay
Yon temple's old foundation stone;
And in Minerva's* vacant cell
Sublimest wisdom deigns to dwell.

And where, within some deep shy wood,
And seen but half through curving bough,
In silent marble Dian stood,
Behold! a holier Virgin now
Hath sanctified the solitude;

And thou, meek Mary-Mother! thou
Dost hallow each old Pagan spot,
Or storied stream, or fabled grot!

The devious pilgrim, far beguiled,
How gladly doth he turn to greet
Thy long-sought image, 'mid the wild
A calming thought, a vision sweet.
If grief be his then, Lady mild !
Thy gentle aid we will entreat,

And bowed in heart, not less than deed,
Findeth a prayer to fit the need.

There, while his secret soul he bares,

That lonely altar bending by,

The traveler passing unawares,

Shall stay his step, but not too nigh,

And hearkening to those unforced prayers,

Albeit the creed he may deny,
Shall own his reason less averse,
And spirit surely not the worse.

Thy shrines are lovely, wheresoe'er,
And yet, if it were mine to choose
One, loveliest, where fretted lore
Might come to rest, or thought to muse,
'Twould be that one, so soft and fair,
That standeth by old Syracuse:
Just where those salt-sea waters take
The likeness of an inland lake.

Green tendriled plants, in many a ring
Creep round the gray stone tenderly,
As though in very love to cling
And clasp it; while the reverent sea
A fond up-looking wave doth bring
To break anon submissively;

The present cathedral of Syracuse was formerly a temple of Minerva.

[blocks in formation]

I wish more people would write such lucid and melodious verse; but I have a suspicion that among the many who call themselves poets, there are very few indeed who can.

R

XXX.

AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES.

THOMAS CHATTERTON-ROBERT SOUTHEY-SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE-WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

FROM Bath we proceeded to Bristol, or rather to Clifton, trav ersing the tunnels this time with as gay a confidence as I should do now. Of Bath, its buildings and its scenery, I had heard much good; of Bristol, its dirt, its dinginess, and its ugliness, much evil. Shall I confess-dare I confess, that I was charmed with the old city? The tall, narrow, picturesque dwellings with their quaint gables; the wooden houses in Wine-street, one of which was brought from Holland bodily, that is to say in ready-made bits, wanting only to be put together; the courts and lanes climbing like ladders up the steep acclivities; the hanging gardens, said to have been given by Queen Elizabeth to the washerwomen (every thing has a tradition in Bristol); the bustling quays; the crowded docks; the calm, silent, Dowry Parade (I have my own reasons for loving Dowry Parade) with its trees growing up between the pavement like the close of a cathedral; the Avon flowing between those two exquisite boundaries, the richly tufted Leigh Woods clothing the steep hillside, and the grand and lofty St. Vincent's Rocks, with houses perched upon the summits that looked ready to fall upon our heads; the airy line of the chain that swung from tower to tower of the intended suspension bridge, with its basket hanging in mid air like the car of a balloon, making one dizzy to look at it;-formed an enchanting picture. I know nothing in English landscape so lovely or so striking as that bit of the Avon beyond the Hot Wells, especially when the tide is in, the ferry-boat crossing, and some fine American ship steaming up the river.

As to Clifton, I suspect that my opinions were a little heretical

« PreviousContinue »