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THE EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS;

OR,

A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.

No. VII.

"Stulta, jocosa, canenda, dolentia, seria, sacra,
En posita ante oculos, Lector amice, tuos;
Quisquis es, hic aliquid quod delectabit habebis ;
Tristior an levior, selige quicquid amas."

FRIENDS, readers, and contributors! May has come once more! the "merry month of May !"-smiling in the blue skies, and on the feathery clouds, sparkling on the broad breast of the placid sea, and greatly rejoicing the hearts of all the fishes in brook, stream, lake, and river. Many a pair of slippers that formed the solace of the winter fire-side, are now stowed away far back under a huge chest of drawers, or behind a great trunk, or in a rarely--frequented closet, covered with dust, neglected and forgotten! Such is the world's gratitude. It is attentive to its friends as long as they can be of any service, but its attachment ends with the chance of some reciprocal advantages arising out of the connexion. Fie on't! Such is not our mode of treating the companions of bygone days ;

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of these has wellnigh brought our mother's weakness to our eyes, and we blessed God, that though inured in all the cold and artificial habits of the common earth, we were still capable of casting the stiff mantle of manhood away, and recalling to ourselves the nature of a boy who lies among the heather on a bright hill-side, and dreams of the crystal world he is about to enter. And what is man, or the life of man, worth, if he cannot continue to throw, at intervals, a rainbow light over the dulness of reality? Woe unto him who scoffs at the existence, and ridicules the enjoyment, of all pure and lovely emotions! We speak not of the boisterous mirth of nocturnal conviviality, though even that hath its redeeming points;-we speak not with the view of painting a fabled Utopia, which hath no being in the nature of things. All that we stand up for, (and now that our SLIPPERS are on, we do not stand so high by a full inch as we did before)—all that we stand up for is, that no poet has ever exaggerated the value and the might of friendship, or the glory and the rapture of woman's love. Poets, with all their inspiration, have but limited powers. They can describe but what they see, and what they feel. They may express feelings, which, in the particular case alluded to, did not belong to them, but which other circumstances either have called or will call forth. Hence all the privileges they enjoy ;-friendship is with them a passion, and a glad delirium ;-love, a transport and a splendour. Let it be granted that the friendship dies out, and that the love may in time grow cold. It matters not; better to be loved by them for a day, than by all the rest of mankind for a hundred years! We speak no rash and hasty paradox. What is friendship? What is love? It is a succession of feelings towards another, existing within the recesses of our own nature. To a certain extent, these feelings may be expressed by outward signs, and made palpable to the object beloved,—but only to a certain ex tent, and in noble natures to a wretchedly limited extent. By far the higher part of the mystery remains unseen. The movement of the outward wheels may be discovered, but the delicate mechanism of the interior, productive of the acutest nicety of perception, is hid from the vulgar eye-is for ever incapable of being communicated even to the object on which all our regard is lavished. But the mechanism, or, to use a higher and a better word, the soul, with its concomitant emotions, exists, though the It was in such moments as these that the better por- weakness of the material senses cannot discover them to tions of our nature awoke within us, and all the scor- others. They exist, and for ever hallow to the mind of pions of our heart laid themselves down to sleep. The the poet the subject by which such emotions are called petty cares, the contemptible jealousies, the perpetual forth. Is this a matter of little moment? Is it a small squabbles, which agitate the literary world, and in the thing to be a poet's friend,—a poet's love ?—not for what vortex of which even we are sometimes involved, faded he writes or says about his friendship or his love, but for away like the mist of morning upon a mountain brow, what he feels, and what he could not ever attempt either and we felt prepared to love and to be beloved by all to write or say? Words are but feeble types of thoughts. mankind. Then came tripping forth, like fairies in the They are not thoughts itself,—they are but symbols of it. moonlight, our affections and gentler feelings ;-a single Can a symbol ever be so good as an original? Think you stanza of divine poesy,-a tone or two of pensive music, that the language of a book, or even the syllables which perchance one of our old accustomed melodies, loved drop from the tongue, are equally fervent and expressive from childhood, and loved now a thousand times more as the throbbings of the unseen heart? or as those lights because those whom we love, love them too,-the glance and shades of feeling, which cause neither a thrilling nor of a kind eye,—the sound of a familiar voice,—each or all | a throbbing, which pass like a sun-blink, or the reflection

"Come, ye SLIPPERS, fair and free, In Heaven worn by Euphrosyne,—" come once more unto our willing feet, and albeit the grate sparkles in the brightness of its own well-tempered metal, unconscious of a fire, albeit our easy-chair, into which we sink as into a bed of eider-down, be now for a time discarded, albeit the air is soft and balmy, and when we throw open the casement of our suburban retreat, the perfume of a thousand flowers hurries the sense into Elysium, still we are prepared to address our SLIPPERS in the language of Goldsmith, and say,

"Eternal blessings crown our earliest friend!" In the long, frosty, blue, coal-consuming nights of winter, how often have they met us smilingly after the fatigues of the day, and, with the gentle pressure of mute affection, a pressure like unto that of a maiden's soft and thrilling hand, how often have they restored our wounded spirit to the conviction that some small portion of peace and happiness was still left for us in the world!

of a cloud upon the water, but which stamp the character and elevate the individual into something far different from the multitude? O ye men of genius! wear SLIPPERS, and commune with your own hearts, and be still.

Reader! perchance thou art a lady! If so, Heaven bless thee! Art thou fond of flowers? Thou art perhaps the lady who wrote the lines in the style of Miss Landon on a tuft of early violets, which are as follows:

"The first that grew this season!

whatever you have been doing, we have a regard for thee. But if thou art a man, then, O man! away with thee to the country for as long a period as thou canst—a day, a week, or a month. Thou knowest not how fresh and lovely it looks at this moment. Couldst thou but get Not having read over the above paragraphs, we shall one glimpse of the blossoms upon the cherry-trees, we not be too positive, but we are certainly inclined to think should have a greater respect for thee. Thou smilest with they contain some very splendid writing. A set of a grave serenity, and thinkest to thyself" I am a lawyer, dolts will assert that it is vain in us to say so. Nay, and lo! I wear a wig; what have I to do with the blossoms it has even reached our ears, that the EDITOR IN HIS on the cherry-trees?" But again, we say unto thee, O man! SLIPPERS is thought at times rather conceited and egotisti- fling thy wig to the four winds of heaven, take unto thyself cal! Good God! (as Mr Brougham says in the House the feelings of a boy-a rosy blossom newly shaken from of Commons when he wants to be very eloquent,) what the tree of life-and away with thee to the blessed green an idea is this to enter into the mind of a rational hu- fields. We should have rejoiced to have taken thee with man being! Because we sometimes make our own popu- us to Roseneath, that fairest peninsula in the Firth of larity the subject of a good-humoured joke, must we be Clyde, which we visited but a few short days ago. We therefore classed with the petty coxcombs of this and should have rejoiced to point out to thee the beauties of former ages? By Jupiter Ammon! and likewise by Helensburgh, and the loveliness of the Gair Loch, with Jupiter Tonans, and also by the Capitoline Jove! the day its towering amphitheatre of hills in the background; nor will come when we shall shake that notion out of the should we have asked thee to have thrown thyself after minds of our worst foes! Proud of being the Editor of us, when we were foolish enough to tumble out of the the Edinburgh Literary Journal, forsooth! What is it, steam-boat into the water, for well we know that it is after all, but a mere sixpenny periodical, very neatly only the ignoble and the undistinguished who die the printed, to be sure, by Ballantyne, and in very universal ¦ death of a blind puppy,—therefore we smiled in the water circulation and esteem, but still only a weekly Gazette of with a calm smile, and, after a brief space, regained the sixteen pages? Heaven and earth! who is it fancies that boat. periodical writing of any kind would satisfy our ambi. tion? Look at the editors of all the periodicals,-they are mere nobodies, unless they have done something distinct and apart from contributing anonymous articles to Reviews, Magazines, or Literary Journals. Does Lockhart owe his reputation to that most respectable and heavy concern the Quarterly Review? What has Jeffrey made by the Edinburgh, except that he fretted his hour upon the stage, and then departed? Who ever thinks of Campbell Well, it must have been a pleasant walk, whether short as the editor of the New Monthly, with its Cockney or long. Have you a passion for primroses? Here they sketches and little bits of unreadable trash of poetry?are in living groups,—most lovely and gentle things! Do Will not a single page of the "Isle of Palms," or the you like cowslips, whose perfume is like the beautiful "City of the Plague," or "Lights and Shadows," or thought of an innocent girl? If so, there is a bank all something he will yet write, do more to perpetuate the golden with them. But are not all flowers alike? They name of John Wilson than all Blackwood's Magazine put are nature's eternal jewels, and their odour oppresses the together? Is Dr Bowring better known as a poetical heart with a joy that weighs it down almost as if it were translator from the modern languages, or as the conductor a sorrow. We hate a lady who looks coldly upon flowers; of that able and suspicious review the Westminster ? As we love her best who is affected by them even unto sadfor the scribblers in Frazer's Magazine, the Monthly, and others, which nobody ever sees or hears of, unless through the medium of a newspaper advertisement, their very names are unknown; and though they were, they would not live one week longer than their own periodicals, which will be short enough. The Edinburgh Literary Journal ranks, we believe, higher than any other weekly miscel.. lany now in existence; but what kind of satisfaction is it to know this, when we also know that we could, if we chose, rise to as great a height above the Journal, as the Journal is above Cobbett's Register, or the Cork Quarterly Magazine? Vanity, indeed! We shall see, before five years elapse, whether the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS is a person to be sneezed at in this way. The Edinburgh Literary Journal, like a rock rolled from the top of a mountain, shall go on to prosper with increased celerity and quickly accumulating influence, but it shall be confessed, ere long, to be only the smallest gem in our coronet. So much for egotism. Let the small fry sneer and snarl if they will. WE have said it.

Revert we once more to the pleasant fact, that this is the first morning of May. Where hast thou been, dear reader?-away up on the mountain side, gathering the sweetest and the brightest dew of all the year, or down by the stream, catching a score of the biggest trout it boasts, or lying in bed, amidst a profusion of shattered dreams dancing round thee like motes in the sunbeam, till the breakfast bell rang for the last time, and you knew that all the rest would be in the parlour before you, and that the eggs would be cold, and the Literary Journal half read before you got down? Well, never mind;

I have been miles for them! How many miles?—
Just two!"

ness.

Come, sit thee down beneath this pleasant tree, whose tender and feathery leaves quiver in the passing zephyr, and we shall furnish thee with an hour's reading that will make thee remember with delight the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS all the rest of thy days. Here is a scrap, in the first place, which we shrewdly suspect was written by ourselves as we walked in the garden yesternight, and had our attention attracted by the melancholy object which forms the subject of our poem.

TO A WITHERED CURRANT Bush.
What is the reason, thou currant bush,

That there is not a leaf upon thee,
Although there are leaves on the gooseberry bushes,
And leaves on the old apple-tree?

Art thou asleep in thy winter sleep,
Or art thou a stubborn thing

That will not be woo'd by the April sun,
Nor the breath of the gentle spring?

The heart's-ease looks up, with a smile, in thy face,
And the primrose is silent with joy,
And the butterfly flutters from flower to flower,
Like a happy, but truant boy.

The blackbird is singing among the boughs,
And the lark 'neath the rainbow's zone;
All nature is full of the spirit of joy,
But thou art dejected alone!

Good lack! I hope thou'rt not dead, currant bush,
For a doleful thing 'twould be,

To have no red currants when August comes,
And no red jelly at tea!

'Twas pleasant to pluck the luxuriant strings
Of the ruby beads that hung
In tempting clusters, ruddy and ripe,
Thy fresh green boughs among.

O! never glanced gems upon beauty's neck
With a richer glow of light,

Than the coral fruit upon thee, currant bush,
When autumn's skies were bright.

And I mind me well, six months ago,
How gladsome it was to see

The busy group of sisters small,

Who prattled and danced round thee.

And surely thou wert right pleased, currant bush,
To be rifled by such sweet fingers;
And of them, perchance, 'midst thy withering boughs,
Some faint remembrance lingers.

Poor bush! I pity thee much ;--and more
That thy fate has a touch of my own;
The April sun now shines on us both,

But not as it once has shone !

nie Dundee." As we are desirous that our readers should not exist a month longer without unravelling the wanderings of this princely stream, we are glad to present them with the following graphic sketch of its beauties by one who knows them well.

THE BEAUTIES OF THE TAY, AND ITS TRIBUTARIES.

Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land !—Marmion.

Is there a Briton who has visited the Alpine scenery of Switzerland, the Italian lakes, or the banks of the Rhine, and who yet remains ignorant of the beauties of the first of British rivers? Let him take the earliest opportunity of correcting his omission, and of making himself acquainted with the loveliness of the Tay, and its tributary streams.

If he follows my advice, he will convey himself, on foot, should he really wish to enjoy his tour, to the comfortable inn at Tyndrum, which I would recommend as the starting-post. Here he may watch the infant Tay struggling through the wild and romantic solitudes of Strathfillan, and coming into existence, as it were, under

the guardianship of the saint, whose memory is still pre

served in the recesses of Breadalbane.

Proceeding eastward from Strathfillan, the traveller gradually finds himself in Glendochart. In the upper part of this glen, there is much variety in the scenery; the woods of Innerardoran, Lochdochart, with its island and ruined castle, and the stupendous masses of Benmore, by which the valley is bounded on the right, combining to produce a very diversified landscape. The lower part of Glendochart is more monotonous in its character, but the eye is at length relieved by the striking, yet simple, grandeur of Macnab's burying-ground, with its dark grove of pine-trees standing in the midst of the foaming tor rent. After passing the bridge of Killin, the rude but sublime scenery of Glendochart is almost instantly exchanged for one of the most lovely landscapes which can be seen in Scotland. In front are the beautiful grounds of Kinnell, and beyond them Loch Tay, winding to the eastward, round the base of the lofty Benlawers. On the right, the eye is arrested by gently-swelling banks, clothed with rich plantations, among which, and looking to the lake, is the delightful residence of Auchmore. On the left, the Lochay slowly winds its way to join the lake through the gorge of a valley, almost unequalled in beauty, overhung by the magnificent woods which crown the heights of Finlarig, with the frowning ridge of Ben Cailliach in the back-ground. The Lochay is the first tributary of any consequence received by the Tay; and in the lower part of its course, it forms a remarkable contrast to the fierce impetuosity which characterises the descent of the Dochart.

In the whole range of creation, there is nothing more truly beautiful than a noble river; and what country more rich in rivers than Scotland? There is the Forth, which takes its rise from a small clear pool at the foot of Benlomond, and, after winding, for miles, like a silver thread through the wild and beautiful scenery of Stirlingshire, expands below Alloa into a broad and majestic sheet of water, rolling on slowly and silently to the German ocean. There is the Clyde, glittering in silver cascades through Lanarkshire, sweeping past Glasgow, giving beauty to Dunglass and Erskine House, laving the deep foundations of Dunbarton rock, supplying water to a hundred lochs, and at length mingling with the mighty Atlantic below the Cumbray Isles between the peaks of Ailsa and of Jura. There is the Tweed, the very Avon of our land, with its classic tributaries, the Gala Water and the Teviot, whose "wild and willowed shore" lives in immortal song. There is the Esk, or rather the Esks -the north and the south-tracing their origin up to the Grampian Hills, and, after finding their way, by different channels, through their native shire of Angus, meeting for the first and last time, just as they are passing into their common grave in the neighbourhood of Montrose. There are the Don and the Dee, the noblest of our Highland streams, whose course lies among rocks, Perhaps it is owing to the extreme richness and variety and moors, and glens, and heathy hills, softening the of the scenery at the west end of Loch Tay, that the midstern aspect of the mountains of Mar Forest, and giving dle part of this fine sheet of water does not possess such a softer beauty to the vale of Braemar. There are the attractions as might be expected; but, as if to compensate Nith and the Annan, rolling on in placid quiet to the for this temporary and comparative deficiency, (for it is boisterous Solway-the streams which Allan Cunning- only comparative,) the eastern extremity appears to vie ham loves, and which we love too for his sake. There with the west in beauty, although the character of each is the Devron, a river which hath for us a thousand is essentially different; that of the former being, perhappy associations, awaking at every turn the romance haps, more artificial, but not the less pleasing on that acof youth, the chief ornament of Banffshire, making lux-count, while that of the latter is altogether more wild and uriant the sweet valley of Forglen, sweeping round the foot of the green hill on whose brow stands the cottage Following the course of the Tay as it issues, now a of Eden, winding among the woods of Mount Coffre, noble stream, from the lake, we pass the princely sleeping in liquid crystal under the bridge of Alva, and grounds of Taymouth, and find ourselves in the finely finally meandering on through the noble parks of Duff wooded valley of Strath Tay, studded on every side with House, as if loth to leave them for the rude billows of various ancient castles and modern country seats. Here, the Murray Frith. And last, though not least, there is on the right, the Lyon joins the Tay. Glenlyon, a very the Tay, taking its source in the distant mountains of long and narrow valley, running from the most western Breadalbane, and, after gliding under the nine-arched part of Breadalbane, nearly parallel to Glendochart and bridge of Perth, enriching the Carse of Gowrie, and flow- Loch Tay, contains, within itself, some fine specimens of ing through a Caledonian Arcadia, until it swells into a Highland scenery; and the banks of the Lyon at Fortinfrith, and ceases to exist "betwixt St Johnston and bon-gal, where the vale widens, previous to the junction of the

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Lyon and the Tay, may, for romantic beauty, challenge a comparison with any similar scene in the island. Further down the strath, on the right, the Tay receives the waters which have hurried to join it over the rocks and among "the birks" of Aberfeldy. At length we reach Logierait, at the junction of the Tay and the Tummel. The situation of this ancient residence of the Earls of Atholl is magnificent beyond description-just what we should expect in the castle of a Highland baron of old, guarded by two broad and rapid rivers, and at the same time watching, with jealous care, two of the principal entrances to the Highlands. The course of the Tummel is, comparatively speaking, so little known, that it merits a more particular description.

The traveller who has journeyed from Dalmally or Tyndrum to the King's-house, on his way to Glencoe, will recollect, between King's-house and Inveroran, a black, dismal-looking moor, with several small lakes scattered through it, stretching far to the east, and bounded on the south and north by lofty mountains. That desolate moor is the moor of Rannoch, and from these lakes a river proceeds, to lose itself at last in Loch Rannoch, which receives also, near the same place, the waters that flow from Loch Ericht. Loch Rannoch is the least known, but not the least beautiful, of the Perthshire lakes ;-the view to the south, when travelling along the northern bank of the lake, is particularly fine; for, besides that the southern shores are clothed with a great variety of beautiful wood, there is to be seen on the rising grounds behind, the remains of one of the ancient pine forests of Scotland, while, at a greater distance, Schiehallion rears his beautifully conical peak to complete the landscape.

Issuing from Loch Rannoch, at the village of Kinloch, the river proceeds through the district of Bunrannoch to Loch Tummel, exhibiting, in its course, all the beauties which are usually found in Highland rivers. Soon after leaving this lake, and foaming down Strath Tummel in a number of cascades, it is joined at Faskally, by the united waters of the Garry and the Tilt, after they have escaped from the romantic Pass of Killiecrankie, and a little further down it meets the Tay at Logierait.

From this latter place the majestic river rolls along, through a succession of splendid landscapes, to Dunkeld, where it is joined by the Brand. The scenery here is too well known to require description.

It will be sufficient to mention the names of the remaining rivers which join the Tay before it reaches the

sea.

These are, on the left, the Isla and the Ardle, and, on the right, the Amond and the Earn. Were I to attempt to describe the scenery on each of these branches, it would savour of repetition, as all Highland straths and glens have a certain resemblance to one another, although, doubtless, each has its own peculiar beauties. I shall, therefore, content myself with drawing the attention of the stranger to the situation of PERTH, as seen from the heights to the southward of that town. When gazing on this scene of matchless beauty, containing all the various features that a painter could desire, from the rich cultivation in the neighbourhood of the town, to the blue Grampians in the distance, with the Scottish Tiber rolling at my feet, I found myself involuntarily spouting the stirring lines which I have placed at the head of this paper; and I would now, in the words of the same poet, ask him who has surveyed, as I have done, the beauties of the Tay and its Tributaries, commencing with the rugged fastness of Breadalbane and the desolate bleakness of the moor of Rannoch, and ending with Perth and the Carse of Gowrie,

"Where shall he find in foreign land" scenery to surpass that to which I have thus feebly attempted to introduce him?

G.

There is nothing which pleases us more than to meet with a fresh poetical mind. There is a poetical mind in Forfar, else the following verses could never have emana

ted from that town. Even with the full recollection of Campbell's magnificent address to the Rainbow, we fear not to present our readers with the following lines by Mr John Nevay on the same subject. They came to us with the letter which we subjoin:

Forfar, March 17th, 1830.' Sir,—If you condescend to look at these verses, I devoutly pray the Muses that it may be in that merry, but sacred hour, when the tragi-comic drama of poets and rhymesters is performed, wherein some, for their intrusion "behind the scenes," receive a mortal drubbing, whilst others, for their fair and honourable wooing, are wedded each to the Muse he loves, by the power of your immortal SLIPPERS. I am, sir, your very humble servant, J. NEVAY,

TO THE RAINBOW.

Ethereal child of dark and bright,
Clasping the heaven as in delight,
While in thy soft and balmy arms
Glad Nature smiles with fresher charms,
And man and beast, and tree and flower,
Feast on thy shining and thy shower;
Thou coronal of summer's sky,
What art thou to poetic eye?-
An arch tri-coloured, rich and rare,
Whence hallow'd saints and seraphs fair,
In joyous bands, may view delighted
The genial earth with heaven united ;—
The grand harp of the Deity
With music in its chords for me,
Still pouring from its golden strings
An anthem to the King of kings;
While earth sends up her breath of balm
To mingle with the holy psalm;—
The matchless banner-flag of Him
Who quell'd the rebel seraphim,
And in its stream of glowing hues,
Inwoven the verse of the holy Muse:
"Love, and peace, and felicity,-
Follow ye Christ, and these will be,
When sun and stars have pass'd away,
Your portion in eternal day."

Rainbow! thou art like the rapt bard's thought,
Sublime 'midst the light and cloud of his lot,—
The radiant Iris that spans his soul,

In a heaven of fancy from pole to pole;
A thing all beauty, and softness, and fire,
Where hangs in glory his own loved lyre.

We are inclined to think that the living poets of the "west countrie" have been brought into notice principally through the medium of the Literary Journal. A few of them write occasionally elsewhere, but never so well as when they write for us. Their efforts seem to be paralysed unless destined to come into contact with the genial light which emanates from the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS. From the many compositions which have reached us of late from the western shores, we proceed to select a few with which we think the public will be pleased. We have already introduced Mr William Mayne to our readers. We think the following one of his most successful efforts, poetical as they all are:

THE OVERWHELMED ISLE.

By William Mayne.

Oh, how the fancy loves to brood
Upon those islands of the sea,
Where nature dwells in solitude,

Amid her own fair imagery;
Where the sweet earth for ever blooms
Among the purest of perfumes;
Where the rich fruits adorn the bough,
And bend it gracefully below,

That on the soft grass they may lean,
And blend their crimson with its green;
Where scarce a sound is ever heard,

Save some sweet insect's hum at even,
Or the soft warble of a bird,

Or the most tender sighs of heaven;
Where, on each mild and blissful scene,
The tread of man has never been,
To make its healthy glow depart,
And fix foul cankers in its heart:
Oh, how the soul would swiftly flee
To one of those delightful isles,
And leave the deadly misery

Which round man's dwelling darkly coils;
Where sorrow's wail, so wild and drear,
Would never thrill upon the ear;
Where we would never know again
The world's neglect-the world's disdain.

One of those islands was my own,
Placed in a mild and friendly zone;
In it I found that mellow peace,
And joy, and sacred fruitfulness,
Which I had thought was never given
To any but the loved of Heaven.
Nor was I all alone,-forsaken
Of those dear beings who awaken
Those fond affections in the soul,
Which bend it under their control,
And make the loveliest places lie
More dearly beauteous on the eye!
For from the far-off shore I brought
A gentle maid of kindred thought,
Who was content to tread with me
Unto the world's extremity,
In search of some secluded spot,
Where peace would bless our earthly lot.
One of those islands was our own,
And there we nestled all alone;
Nor was the world so far away
From where our lovely island lay,
But that we could perceive, when on
The heaven day's clearest radiance shone,
Beyond the dark and potent tide,
Which spread around us calm and wide,
Its outline on the sky defined,
Soft as a shadow of the mind.
And often, at the close of even,

When sleep's soft shades embraced the heaven,
Would we forsake our cheerful toil,
And from some fair spot of our isle
Look with a long and ardent view
Upon its dim and distant hue,
Until we had forgot that hoar
And helpless misery roam'd it o'er,
And that it ever drove us forth
As sickly creatures, nothing worth.

Three children grew our steps around,

As fair as aught which blooms below, And from their guileless hearts we found Still sweeter streams of gladness flow : They grew around their mother's breast,

And clung there, like the smiles of morn, Which on the rose's soft leaves rest,

And even its loveliness adorn.
How oft I fancied they would spring
'Neath Nature's tender cherishing,
And other feelings never know,
Than those she kindly might bestow;
And though our bosoms were their source,
Be like those streams so calm and clear,

Which first begin their quiet course
From a dark lake, unblest and drear,

Then, after journeying a time

Along a fair and flowery shore,
Are cleansed of that dark lake's slime,
And brightly wander evermore.

Oh, we were happy! full of bright
And pleasant thoughts, from morn till night;
We seem'd like that pure family

Which God first planted on the earth,
Whose days as sweetly journey'd by

As though they own'd a heavenly birth.

Alas! alas! who could have thought

That island's breast, which seem'd so fair, Was with the earth-curse deeply fraught,

That death in secret revell'd there?
Who could have thought, who saw it lie
Upon the sea so peacefully,

Appearing, through the calm moonlight,
Like a soft slumbering creature white,
That it was doom'd to pass away,
As from a lake the April ray?

'Twas evening, and sleep's gentle wing
Was o'er us softly hovering;
But ere the middle of the night,
Among my dreams so sweet and bright,
There came a hoarse and heavy sound,
As if the sea had burst its bound,
And was on-rolling, fierce in wrath,
Shattering all objects from its path.
I started up, confused and wild,
And, horror-smitten, back recoil'd;
I saw our dwelling's outward wall
A moment reel, then forward fall,
As if to ope a fearful path
For the dark messenger of death.
I saw no more; one moment o'er

My wife my arm was fondly thrown,-
The next I heard the ocean's roar,

And its dread billows sweeping on,
And felt the waters round me chill,
And strangling me in their fierce will,
And spurning me their wrath before,
Like him who spurns a worthless foe,
And growling out a jocund roar,

As up I bounded from their flow.
Yet, in that black tempestuous sea,
My soul was wound to agony,
At thought of them, the loved, the fair,
Now rudely driven-I knew not where!
And round my arms I wildly flung
The heavy-swelling waves among,
In hope they might be strongly bound
My wife or helpless children round.
But there were none save I amid
Those mighty waters wild and dread!
I dash'd my head above the waves,
Which o'er me hung like moving graves,
And look'd a moment through the night,
To where I fancied was the isle;
But, ah! its fair peculiar light

No longer shed its blessed smile!
Nothing I saw, around, around,
But waves in everlasting bound.

I know no more, for frenzy cast
Its friendly darkness o'er my mind,
And hid the billow and the blast

The ocean had in store behind.

'Twas not the lashing wave o'ercame The ruling spirit of my frame,

No, 'twas the agonizing thought

Which there, even there, with madness smote,

That those, my joy, my life, my light!

Would bloom no more before my sight,

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