praises of the lowly. Assailed by the pitiless abuse of some, who forgot the period of his splendid services to their cause, that they might indulge in unlimited condemnation of one who, during by far the greater part of his political career, had fought the same battles with themselves-torn in mind and harassed in body—he fell, like his great master, Pitt, a victim to his proud and exalted station. Distant from all extremes-firm in principle, and conciliatory in action-the friend of Improvement, and the enemy of Innovation, England fondly looked to him for her peace and glory; who, from first to last, had been her faithful servant and her sure friend.
The decrees of inscrutable Wisdom are unknown to us but if ever there was a man for whose sake it was meet to indulge the kindly, though frail, feelings of our nature-for whom the tear of sorrow was, to us, both prompted by affection and dictated by duty-that man was GEORGE CANNING.
Note. On reviewing what has been written, I am somewhat fearful lest I should seem to have endeavoured to depreciate the Ancients. Such an endeavour, I am well aware, would recoil severely and deservedly on my own head: and there its action would terminate. I am their devoted, though unworthy, admirer. But I admire the Moderns still more: and am only anxious to rescue myself from the imputation of an attempt, which would be equally insolent and feeble; exactly as weak as regarded hurting their reputation, as it would be effectual in proving and commemorating my folly.
Who has not dreamt a lovely dream,
Before his Spring of life has fled,
And left him spirits, that but seem
To hold communion with the dead?
When all around, above, beneath,
Alike for him have ceas'd to breathe,
And, living for himself alone,
He deems all others chang'd to stone.
Who, after such a life of pain,
Would not delight to dream again?
To live a new and fairy life
With every varied feeling rife?
Secluded from the worthless world,
A world I never lov'd too well,
From high Ambition's summit hurl'd,
I learn in peace at last to dwell.
Adieu the hopes my boyhood sent!-
Welcome, thou Winter's discontent!
If I may call my
dreams my own
What boots it whither ye are flown?
I ask not you, whose hearts are cold
To all that love or youth unfold,
To hearken to my tale of woe,
And bid the tear of pity flow;
But you that still with transport cling
To the bright hopes of boyhood's Spring,
Whose youthful visions have not fled,
And left reality instead.
It was a lovely morn of Spring,
The joyous lark was on the wing,
And, borne with airy flight on high,
Had sung his carol in the sky.
There, in yonder shady bower,
Where blooms full many a fragrant flower,
Where noontide beams may ne'er intrude,
Fair Ada sat, in solitude.
With many a lovely flower entwin'd,
Wav'd her dark tresses in the wind.
That deep-drawn sigh, that silent tear,
Too well forebode some secret fear.
Does sorrow touch young Ada's heart?
She knows that Raymond must depart.
Her sigh is hush'd, her tear is dried,
For Raymond sits by Ada's side;
Oh! for a Raphael's pencil now
To paint that lady's beauteous brow:
The beaming eye-the heav'nly grace
That smiles on Ada's angel face :
'Tis only in her lover's mind
The living portrait is enshrin'd.
They have a language of their own
In Nature's book-not words alone.
They have a purer, lovelier sky,
Than seen by every mortal eye;
A world of spirits-an universe
Untouch'd by the primeval curse:
The Serpent has not entered there,
Nor voice of sin, nor frown of care.
They look'd upon each other-now
True love is written on each brow.
He fixes on her hand a kiss ;
His love would ask no more than this.
Than this-Oh! Heaven-is Paradise
A fairer thing than Ada's eyes?
And many a time on a brighter day,
When morn had chas'd the dew away,
Had Raymond sought that lonely bower,
And cull'd the fragrance of the flower,
And many a wreath of beauteous hue
Had he twin'd for her hair, as their ripe lips grew
Into an innocent kiss, as sweet
As that which now doth Ada greet.
Ah! can he think of parting now
While gazing on his Ada's brow?
The big tear stood in Ada's eye,
While Raymond's bosom heav'd a sigh.
She seiz'd her lover's yielding hand-
"Thou goest to a foreign land,
"Where warrior's honours, fairer dame,
"O Raymond !-how I lov'd thee-how
"I love-thou didst not know till now;
"This burning tear, this heaving breast
"Leave now no secret to be guess'd.
"I do not ask thee to resign
"All hope of fame for love of mine-
"I do not beg thee here to stay,
"I would not, may not, wish delay-"With hapless Ada's prayer depart,
"Thou hast her love, then have her heart. "And when in some more blissful hour, "Thou sittest in a lovelier bower,
"With softer maiden by thy side,
Forget not in that moment's pride "Thine Ada's love forget not her
"Whom first in thought thou taught'st to err. "The rest I may not, dare not, tell. "One kiss-remember-Oh! farewell!"
His steed is at the gothic door,
His bark is anchor'd near the shore.
An ancient serf is seen to wait,
With tearful eye, by yonder gate;
With mantle o'er his shoulder flung
Upon that steed he wildly sprung.
One faint "Adieu, my love!" he cried,
Then fiercely spurr'd the courser's side.
Across the park to yon high wood,
He dash'd in sad and sullen mood.
He has outstript the dark-ey'd page,
Who check'd his gallant courser's rage:
He halted, gaz'd behind," "Tis well
That none be here my shame to tell-
"Tis well!-in stormy battle's field,
My Ada! be thou yet my shield:
If when, around, the death-bolts glare,
Like meteors in the troubl'd air,
If ever in the fateful hour,
When death displays his giant power,
If I forget thee-if I feel
A coward's fear upon me steal,
Ye lightnings blast my withering frame,
And, Ada, be thy lovely name
Remember'd but to speak my shame."
In silence then the two pursued
Their journey thro' the lonely wood.
They spoke no more, for Raymond's eye
With solemn sternness barr'd reply;
And gentle Hugo dar'd not brook
His angry master's chiding look.
And ev'ry tree of varied hue,
That near with leafy foliage grew,
And ev'ry path and ev'ry flow'r
Brought tokens of an happier hour:
Away, away, for many a league,
Their mettled chargers scorn fatigue ;
Until at length they reach the goal,
That cheers not Raymond's sullen soul.
The sunken eye, the vacant look,
The bloom that Ada's cheek forsook;
The deep-drawn sigh but half represt,
The heaving of her tender breast,
Show Ada's thoughts are wand'ring far
With Raymond and the toils of war.
The song of birds, the bloom of flow'rs,
That sooth'd her solitary hours,
All, all, must yield to restless care,
Lost love, and maddening despair.
The purple sun has sunk to rest
Amidst the islands of the blest;
Those glowing clouds that streak at ev ̊n,
The boundless realms of the lovely Heav'n-
Who that has seen the calm sun set,
That soft'ning hour can e'er forget?
Then o'er wide earth, and wider sea,
The queen of night steals silently.
It is the hour when even grief
Finds in the stillness a relief;
While o'er mountain, grove and vale,
Is heard the plaintive nightingale.
Seeks Ada now her fav'rite bow'r,
When silence tells 'tis twilight's hour?
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