name of one, of whom the hand of sudden death deprived us but a few weeks since, and who, though perhaps not a first-rate poet, was still an elegant and accomplished scholar in a variety of languages, and gave to the world" Helga," and many other poems, which have found favour in the eyes of the learned, "laudata a laudatis viris;"- -we allude to the late Dean of Manchester, Dr. W. Herbert, the editor of the "Musæ Etonenses." In him the Chapter of Manchester have lost an able and skilful President-its poor, a father-and the world of literature one of the highest stars of its firmament. Still more cheering than all this is the hold which Sacred Poetry has within the last few years got on the mind of the generality. We mean such works as the "Christian Year," already in its twenty-eighth edition, and the "Lyra Innocentium," by the same author, which promises, if not to surpass, at least to equal its predecessor, "Matre pulchra filia pulchrior." While such is the case, and while books of such beauty are duly valued, how can it be said that this generation is inferior to the last? But not only does the author of the "Christian Year" enjoy the name of a Poet; he is well known, moreover, as an accomplished scholar, and one of the best living divines of our Church. It would be almost presumption in us to add our small tribute to his acknowledged worth. Such are the Poets of the age, who may proudly challenge comparison with Byron, Shelley, Leigh Hunt, and the "Satanic School." Keble (in his beautiful Prælections) marks a primary Poet by a love for religion, and monarchy, and a simple, quiet style, more imitative of the great originals than anxious to strike out into a new line for himself 66 'Insigne recens, adhuc Indictum ore alio." Doubtless Homer had a due regard for the first two things, or why does he talk so constantly of the Διατρέφεες βασιλήες ? why so often allude to the fate of the murderer Ægisthus, and to the crime of Paris and Helen, as the cause of the Trojan War and its fatal consequences? why does he represent Ulysses taking such terrible vengeance on the suitors of his wife?surely not merely because they feasted at his expense? The poet intended them as models of wicked demagogues, who despised the gods and their fellowcreatures, and would have overturned the monarchy in the absence of its chief. One need hardly mention Shakspeare and Milton as bearing this mark: we may claim it also for the Lake Poets Shakspeare, Milton, and all the great originals, are their study. They prefer the admiration of the talented few, to the applause of the indiscriminating many. They are the poets of the affections. Love, as represented by them, is not another name for lust, but a chaste, sublime passion, capable of ennobling man, free from all the pollutions of vice and impurity with which writers of the Satanic school have invested it. And what is more to their credit, their practice is identical with their profession. A true poet, therefore, is neither a profligate nor a demagogue; nor does true poetry consist in tales of crime and blood, in misanthropy, sedition, or blasphemy. Better, a thousand times better, would it be, if those writers had never been gifted with superior talents, than that they should have used them in disseminating wickedness. A true poet is a good Christian, and a good subject; his poetry is not such as shall, during the season, form only a topic of conversation for female blues or aristocratic coteries; his style is quiet and elegant, and, through his heroes, he stands in defence of his God, his country, and his sovereign. But above all is he blessed, who tunes to his strains the praises of his Maker. The greatest popularity that a poet can enjoy among his fellow-men is small, compared with that exalted pleasure which the Sacred Poet, at the close of his life, may proudly claim for himself. So died the poet Mason, who, while on the verge of death, offered up, like the dying swan, his feeble thanks for his talents: "Still (thank Heaven!) if I not falsely deem, My lyre, yet vocal, freely can afford Strains not discordant to each moral theme: In Thee, my God, my Saviour, and my Lord!" A TALE OF REAL LIFE. "At -, on Wednesday, an inquest was held on the body of Jane Miller, aged 22. It appeared that in September last, she had been out for a country walk, with her lover, Francis Vallis; and on some expression she used, he struck her violently on the side. She complained of pain there, but did not divulge the cause of it till on her death-bed. The surgeons said, that on a postmortem examination, they found two of the ribs broken, which probably occasioned irritation of the lungs, and consumption,-the cause of her death. Verdict, Manslaughter against Francis Vallis.”—Provincial Newspaper. "I KNOW I'm dying, mother; well I know I cannot live; That e'en your loving tenderness no long reprieve can give. Nay, do not gaze so sadly,-I cannot longer stay; Oh! pray to God to ease my pain, and take me quick away: you, too, would desire that I soon might be at rest, For If you knew what mingled grief and pain are raging in my breast. As blithesome as the younglings of the shepherd's flock I played ;- 'Twas one bright autumn evening, now almost six months ago, The breeze was whisp'ring o'er the lea in murmurs soft and low; The sun, a ball of fiery red, was sinking in the west, And in the elms each cawing rook was settling to his rest; I leant upon our garden gate, beneath the sun's warm light, And thought how sad 'twould be to leave this world so fair and bright; When o'er the grass I heard a well-known footstep quickly come, He hoped I'd come, and stroll awhile, and breathe the cooling air. Poured forth, and in the pale twilight all things were growing dim. |