There, when he heard the voice of Jubal's lyre, Instinctive genius caught the ethereal fire; And soon, with sweetly-modulating skill, He learned to wind the passions at his will; To rule the chords with such mysterious art, They seemed the life-strings of the hearer's heart! Then glory's opening field he proudly trod, Forsook the worship and the ways of God, Round the vain world pursued the phantom Fame, And cast away his birthright for a name.
Yet no delight the minstrel's bosom knew, None save the tones that from his harp he drew, And the warm visions of a wayward mind, Whose transient splendour left a gloom behind, Frail as the clouds of sunset, and as fair, Pageants of light, resolving into air.
The world, whose charms his young affections stole, He found too mean for an immortal soul; Wound with his life, through all his feelings wrought, Death and eternity possessed his thought: Remorse impelled him, unremitting care Harassed his path, and stung him to despair. Still was the secret of his griefs unknown; Amidst the universe he sighed alone; The fame he followed and the fame he found, Healed not his heart's immedicable wound; Admired, applauded, crowned, where'er he roved, The bard was homeless, friendless, unbeloved. All else that breathed below the circling sky, Were linked to earth by some endearing tie; He only, like the ocean-weed uptorn, And loose along the world of waters borne, Was cast, companionless, from wave to wave, On life's rough sea-and there was none to save.
Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, Keel-upward from the deep emerged a shell, Shaped like the moon ere half her horn is filled; Fraught with young life, it righted as it rose, And moved at will along the yielding water. The native pilot of this little bark Put out a tier of oars on either side, Spread to the wafting breeze a twofold sail, And mounted up and glided down the billow In happy freedom, pleased to feel the air, And wander in the luxury of light. Worth all the dead creation, in that hour, To me appeared this lonely Nautilus,
My fellow-being, like myself alive.
Entranced in contemplation, vague yet sweet, I watched its vagrant course and rippling wake, Till I forgot the sun amidst the heavens.
It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing; While the last bubble crowned the dimpling eddy, Through which mine eyes still giddily pursued it, A joyous creature vaulted through the air- The aspiring fish that fain would be a bird, On long, light wings, that flung a diamond-shower Of dewdrops round its evanescent form, Sprang into light, and instantly descended. Ere I could greet the stranger as a friend, Or mourn his quick departure, on the surge
A shoal of dolphins, tumbling in wild glee, Glowed with such orient tints, they might have been The rainbow's offspring, when it met the ocean In that resplendent vision I had seen. While yet in ecstacy I hung o'er these, With every motion pouring out fresh beauties, As though the conscious colours came and went At pleasure, glorying in their subtle changes- Enormous o'er the flood, Leviathan
Looked forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent Two fountains to the sky, then plunged amain In headlong pastime through the closing gulf.
A fountain issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw To heaven its column, pure and bright, Returning thence in showers of dew; But soon a humbler course it took, And glid away a nameless brook. Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface played, Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows strayed; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest. 'Twas beautiful to stand and watch The fountain's crystal turn to gems, And from the sky such colours catch As if 'twere raining diadems; Yet all was cold and curious art, That charmed the eye, but missed the heart. Dearer to me the little stream
Whose unimprisoned waters run, Wild as the changes of a dream,
By rock and glen, through shade and sun; Its lovely links had power to bind
In welcome chains my wandering mind.
So thought I when I saw the face By happy portraiture revealed, Of one adorned with every grace,
Her name and date from me concealed, But not her story; she had been The pride of many a splendid scene. She cast her glory round a court,
And frolicked in the gayest ring, Where fashion's high-born minions sport Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing;
But thence when love had touched her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.
From din, and pageantry, and strife,
'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life,
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,
No fountain scattering diamond-showers, But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.
There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil.
For misery stole me at my birth, And cast me helpless on the wild: I perish; O, my mother earth!
Take home thy child!
On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, Shall gently moulder into thee; Nor leave one wretched trace behind Resembling me.
Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear; My pulse, my brain runs wild-I rave: Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemned in wretchedness to roam, Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, A quiet home.
To friendship didst thou trust thy fame? And was thy friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast, to aim A surer blow?
Live! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told: Thou hast mistaken sordid dross For friendship's gold. Go, seek that treasure, seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound With heavenly balm.
Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the fair one faithless prove? Hath she betrayed thee with her smile, And sold thy love?
Live! 'twas a false bewildering fire: Too often love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, But kills the heart.
Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening beauty's eye! To ask and pause in hope and fear Till she reply!
A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter maiden faithful prove; Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest In woman's love.
Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly-kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God.
A bruised reed he will not break; Afflictions all his children feel; He wounds them for his mercy's sake; He wounds to heal!
Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore: "Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more.
Now, traveller in the vale of tears! To realms of everlasting light,
Through time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground;
The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day!
The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The soul, immortal as its sire, Shall never die.'
The Field of the World.
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thine hand; To doubt and fear give thou no heed, Broad-cast it o'er the land.
Beside all waters sow;
The highway furrows stock; Drop it where thorns and thistles grow; Scatter it on the rock.
The good, the fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there;
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found; Go forth, then, everywhere.
Thou know'st not which may thrive, The late or early sown;
Grace keeps the precious germs alive, When and wherever strown.
And duly shall appear,
In verdure, beauty, strength, The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, And the full corn at length.
Thou canst not toil in vain :
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, Shall foster and mature the grain, For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end, The day of God is come, The angel-reapers shall descend, And heaven cry-' Harvest home.'
Aspirations of Youth.
Higher, higher, will we climb,
Up to the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls.
Deeper, deeper, let us toil
In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems.
Onward, onward, may we press Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth. Closer, closer, let us knit
Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather; O! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home.
The Common Lot.
Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man: and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth, This truth survives alone:
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bless and wo-a smile, a tear! Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
He suffered-but his pangs are o'er; Enjoyed-but his delights are fled; Had friends-his friends are now no more; And foes-his foes are dead.
He loved but whom he loved the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: O she was fair! but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee: He was whatever thou hast been; He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace
Than this-there lived a man!
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire Uttered or unexpressed; The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death: He enters heaven by prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, Behold he prays!'
The saints in prayer appear as one, In word, and deed, and mind, When with the Father and his Son Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way, The path of prayer thyself hast trod: Lord, teach us how to pray!
There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around; O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.
The HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER (1770-1834) published occasional poems of that description named vers de société, whose highest object is to gild the social hour. They were exaggerated in compliment and adulation, and wittily parodied in the 'Rejected Addresses.' As a companion, Mr Spencer was much prized by the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but falling into pecuniary difficulties, he removed to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and published in 1835. Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes the following fine lines' from one of his poems, as expressive of his own feel
ings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford :
The shade of youthful hope is there, That lingered long, and latest died; Ambition all dissolved to air,
With phantom honours by his side.
What empty shadows glimmer nigh?
They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love! Oh! die to thought, to memory die,
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!
Mr Spencer translated the Leonora of Bürger with great success, and in a vein of similar excellence composed some original ballads, one of which, marked by simplicity and pathos, we subjoin :
Beth Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerly siniled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, 'Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last Llewelyn's horn to hear.
Oh where does faithful Gêlert roam, The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave-a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?'
'Twas only at Llewelyn's board
The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise, All Snowden's craggy chaos yells The many-mingled cries!
That day Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved, For Gêlert was not there. Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gêlert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gained his castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet. Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, And on went Gêlert too; And still, where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.
He called his child-no voice replied- He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child.
'Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,'
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gêlert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, No pity could impart ; But still his Gêlert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewelyn's heir:
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's wo;
'Best of thy kind adieu!
The frantic blow which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue.'
And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
There, never could the spearman pass, Or forester unmoved;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold The name of Gêlert's Grave.'
Wife, Children, and Friends.
When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented (The list of what fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings-wife, children, and friends.
In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and friends.
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested, When drawn on the firm of-wife, children, and friends.
Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers, The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blessed was his home with-wife, children, and friends.
The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter old ages of glory
For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends.
Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends, The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover The bower where he sat with-wife, children, and friends.
The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow
No warmth from the smile of-wife, children, and friends.
Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children, and friends.
Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver, To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to-wife, children, and friends.
Too late I stayed-forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time! That only treads on flowers!
What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of the glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass!
Oh! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings!
Epitaph upon the Year 1806.
'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses! With the dust of dead ages to mix! Time's charnel for ever encloses
The year Eighteen Hundred and Six ! Though many may question thy merit, I duly thy dirge will perform, Content if thy heir but inherit
Thy portion of sunshine and storm. My blame and my blessing thou sharest, For black were thy moments in part; But oh thy fair days were the fairest
That ever have shone on my heart! If thine was a gloom the completest That death's darkest cypress could throw, Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest
That life in full blossom could show!
One hand gave the balmy corrector
Of ills which the other had brewed- One draught from thy chalice of nectar All taste of thy bitter subdued.
'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses! With mine, tears more precious may mix To hallow this midnight which closes The year Eighteen Hundred and Six!
When midnight o'er the moonless skies
Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, And nought is wakeful but the dead:
at the time of the American war, he espoused the British interest with so much warmth, that he had to leave the new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He took orders in the church of England, and was sometime tutor to the nephew of Lord Chandos, near Southgate. His son (who was named after his father's pupil, Mr Leigh) was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he continued till his fifteenth year. 'I was then,' he says, 'first deputy Grecian; and had the honour of going out of the school in the same rank, at the same age, and for the same reason as my friend Charles Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my speech. It was understood that a Grecian was bound to deliver a public speech before he left school, and to go into the church afterwards; and as I could do neither of these things, a Grecian I could not be.' Leigh was then a poet, and his father collected his verses, and published them with a large list of subscribers. He has himself described this volume as a heap of imitations, some of them clever enough for a youth of sixteen, but absolutely worthless in every other respect. In 1805, Mr Hunt's brother set up a paper called the News, and the poet went to live with him, and write the theatrical criticisms in it. Three years afterwards, they established, in joint partnership, the Examiner, a weekly journal still conducted with distinguished
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