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FOREST SPORTS.

By man's erroneous standard. He discerns Sure grief hath set his sacred impress here,
No such inordinate difference and vast

To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom

By outward types the serious man within.-
Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, Alas! what part or portion can I claim
No man on earth is holy called! they best

In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet

Which other mourners use ? as namely, Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield

This black attire, abstraction from society, To him of his own works the praise, his due. Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom

smiles,

A cleaying sadness native to the brow,
FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JOHN All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
WOODVIL.

(That steal away the sense of loss almost)
Men's pity, and good offices

Which enemies themselves do for us then, Margaret. In the name of the boy God, who plays Putting their hostile disposition off, at bood-man-blind with the Muses, and cares not As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. whom he catches: what is it you love?

(Pauses, and observes the pictures.) Simon. Simply, all things that live,

These pictures must be taken down: From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, The portraitures of our most antient family And God-resembling likeness. The poor tly, For nigh three hundred years! how have I listen'd, That makes short holyday in the sunbeam,

To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, With little wings, yet greatly venturous

And pointing to the pictures where they hung, In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, Repeat by course their worthy histories, That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, Yon tall and elegant stag,

And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns

John: In the water, where he drinks.

Telling me, I must be his famous John.) Margaret. I myself love all these things, yet so But that was in old times. as with a difference:-for example, some animals Now, no more better than others, some men rather than other men; Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes, graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Have backward tainted all their noble blood, Your humour goes to confound all qualities. Rased out the memory of an ancient family, What sports do you use in the forest :

And quite revers'd the honors of our house. Simon. Not many; some few, as thus:

Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? To see the sun to bed, and to arise,

The secret history of his own times, Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,

And fashions of the world when he was young: Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, How England slept out three and twenty years, With all his fires and travelling glories round him. While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king: Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep And beauties of the court of James the First. Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.

Margaret enters. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disNought doing, saying little, thinking less,

grace? To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, And diminution of my honor's brightness. When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, You bring some images of old times, Margaret, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;

That should be now forgotten. And how the woods berries, and worms provide Margaret. Old times should never be forgotten, Without their pains, when earth has nought beside

John. To answer their small wants.

I came to talk about them with my friend. To view the graceful deer come tripping by,

John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Margaret. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, Like bashful younkers in society.

(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse To mark the structure of a plant or tree,

Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days,

When we two first began to love. When first, John. How beautiful, (handling his mourning.) Under pretence of visiting my father, And comely do these mourning garments shew! (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age)

THE MOURNER VISITED.

You came a wooing to his daughter, John.

Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Do you remember,

Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, (Young maidens must be chary of their speech) And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved I kept the honors of my maiden pride?

Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, I was your favourite then.

Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, John. O Margaret, Margaret!

Could not so separate, but now in this These your submissions to my low estate,

My day of shame, when all the world forsake, And cleaving to the fates of sunken Woodvil, You only visit me, love, and forgive me. Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.

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JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE PILLOW.
The head that oft this Pillow press'd,
That aching head is gone to rest;
Its little pleasures now no more,
And all its mighty sorrows o'er,
For ever, in the worms' dark bed.
For ever sleeps that humble head.

My Friend was young, the world was new;
The world was false, my Friend was true;
Lowly his lot, his birth obscure,
His fortune liard, my Friend was poor;
To wisdom he had no pretence,
A child of suffering, not of sense ;
For nature never did impart
A weaker or a warmer heart.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consum'd its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O Pillow! yet to me,
My gentle Friend survives in thee;
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead!

On Helicon's inspiring brink,
Ere yet my Friend had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The Muse of Sorrow wandered by;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The gipsy saw—she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest ;
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a mother's love.
Awaking from his rosy nap,
And gayly sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire:
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew;
Now a bolder hand he flings,
And dives among the deepest strings;
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder!
The Muse of Sorrow wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.

Ah! then no more his smiling hours
Were spent in childhood's Eden bowers;
The fall from infant innocence,
The fall to knowledge drives us thence:
O knowledge! worthless at the price,
Bought with the loss of Paradise !

As happy ignorance declined,
And reason rose upon his mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires!)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe through every future age,
To clasp the fitting shade of fame,
To build an everlasting name,
O’erleap the narrow vulgar span,
And live beyond the life of man!

Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd,
And Nature's glory fill'd his breast :
The sweet Spring morning's infant rays,
Meridian Summer's youthful blaze,
Maturer Autumn's evening mild,
And hoary Winter's midnight wild,
Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue;
For every scene he loved, he sung.
Rude were his songs, and simple truth,
Till boyhood blossom'd into youth ;
Then nobler themes his fancy fired,
To bolder flights his soul aspired ;
And as the new moon's opening eye
Broadens and brightens through the sky,
From the dim streak of western light
To the full orb that rules the night;
Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to heaven his genius soar'd,
Time and eternity explor’d,
And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
In Nature's temple, Nature's God:
Or pierced the human breast to scan
The bidden majesty of man;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride;
Pursued, along their erring course,
The streams of passion to their source;
Or in the mind's creation sought
New stars of fancy, worlds of thought!
-Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering infant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.

O Piliow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He poured his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes with mild controul
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,

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And realized his waking dreams.

His name has perished from the earth,
Soon from those waking dreams he woke,

This truth survives alone: -
The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire,

That joy and grief, and hope and fear
Through every chord that strung his lyre.

Alternate triumph'd in his breast; No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue,

His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear! Amidst the wilderness he sung;

-Oblivion hides the rest. Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, Whose dissonance his music drown'd:

The changing spirits' rise and fall; The public ear, the public voice,

We know that these were felt by him,
Despised his song, denied his choice,

For these are felt by all.
Denied a name,-a life in death,
Denied-a bubble and a breath.

He suffer'd,—but his pangs are o'er;
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,

Enjoy'd,—but his delights are fled; And disinherited of fame,

Had friends,-his friends are now no more;
To thee, O Pillow! thee alone,

And foes,-his foes are dead.
He made his silent anguish known;
His haughty spirit scorn’d the blow

He loved,

but whom he loved, the grave That laid his high ambition low;

Hath lost in its unconscious womb: But ah! his looks assumed in vain

O she was fair!—but nought could save A cold ineffable disdain,

Her beauty from the tomb. While deep he cherished in his breast

He saw whatever thou hast seen; The scorpion that consumed his rest.

Encounter'd all that troubles thee; Yet other secret griefs had he,

He was—whatever thou hast been;
O Pillow! only told to thee:

He is—what thou shalt be.
Say, did not hopeless love intrude
On his poor bosom's solitude ?

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, In dreams the cruel fair was kind,

Erewhile his portion, life and light,
That more intensely he might know

To him exist in vain.
The bitterness of waking woe.
Whate'er those pangs from me conceald,

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
To thee in midnight groans reveal'd;

That once their shades and glory threw, They stung remembrance to despair;

Have left in yonder silent sky “ A wounded spirit who can bear!"

No vestige where they flew. Meanwhile disease, with slow decay,

The annals of the human race, Moulder'd his feeble frame away!

Their ruins since the world began, And as his evening sun declined,

Of him afford no other trace
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.

Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirious fancy dwell

DEATH OF ADAM AND EVE. On madness, suicide, and hell!

-666 Leave me not, Adam! leave me not below; There was on earth no power to save:

With thee I tarry, or with thee I go,'-But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave,

She said, and yielding to his faint embrace, He saw from realms of light descend The friend of him who has no friend,

Clung round his neck, and wept upon his face.

Alarming recollection soon return'd, Religion !-her almighty breath

His fever'd frame with growing anguish burn’d: Rebuked the winds and waves of death; She bade the storm of frenzy cease,

Ah! then, as Nature's tenderest impulse wrought, And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace:

With fond solicitude of love she sought

To soothe his limbs upon their grassy bed,
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To Heaven his gentle spirit rose.

And make the pillow easy to his head;
She wiped his reeking temples with her hair;

She shook the leaves to stir the sleeping air;
THE COMMON LOT.

Moisten'd his lips with kisses: with her breath Once in the flight of ages past

Vainly essay'd to quell the fire of death, There lived a man :--and who was ve?

That ran and revelled through his swollen veins -Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

With quicker pulses, and severer pains. That man resembled thee.

“ The sun, in summer majesty on high, Unknown the region of his birth,

Darted his fierce effulgence down the sky; The land in which he died unknown:

Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays, His orb expanded through a dreary haze,

“ Amidst this war of elements, within And, circled with a red portentous zone,

More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, He look'd in sickly horror from his throne;

Whose victim on his bed of torture lay,
The vital air was still; the torrid beat

Breathing the slow remains of life away.
Oppress'd our hearts, that labour'd hard to beat. Erewhile, victorious faith sublimer rose
When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade, Beneath the pressure of collected woes:
Thence to his home our father we convey'd, But now bis spirit waver'd, went and came,
And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves, Like the loose vapour of departing flame,
On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die
Here, though his sufferings through the glen were For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye,
known,

Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, We chose to watch his dying bed alone,

The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began:
Eve, Seth, and I.-In vain he sigh'd for rest,
And oft his meek complainings thus express’d:

_“Oye that shudder at this awful strife, - Blow on me, wind! I faint with heat! O bring

This wrestling agony of death and life, Delicious water from the deepest spring;

Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast,

Will leave me thus forsaken to the last;
Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse,

Nature's infirmity alone you see ;
Ye cedars! wash me cold with midnight dews.
-Cheer me, my friends! with looks of kindness

My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free;
Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear; (cheer;

Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust, Those sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom;

The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust. This silence is the silence of the tomb.

Horror and anguish seize me;—'tis the hour Thither I hasten; help me on my way;

Of darkness, and I mourn beneath its power; O sing to sooth me, and to strengthen pray!'

The Tempter plies me with his direst art, We sang to sooth him,-hopeless was the

I feel the Serpent coiling round my heart;

song; We pray'd to strengthen him,-he grew not strong.

He stirs the wound he once inflicted there, In vain from every herb, and fruit, and flower,

Instils the deadening poison of despair, Of cordial sweetness, or of healing power,

Belies the truth of God's delaying grace, We press'd the virtue; no terrestrial balm

And bids me curse my Maker to his face.

-I will not curse Him, though his grace delay; Nature's dissolving agony could calm. Thus as the day declined, the fell disease

I will not cease to trust Him, though he slay; Eclipsed the light of life by slow degrees:

Full on his promised mercy I rely, Yet while his pangs grew sharper, more resign'd,

For God hath spoken,-God, who cannot lie. More self-collected, grew the sụfferer's mind;

-Thou, of my faith the Author and the End ! Patient of heart, though rack'd at every pore,

Mine early, late, and everlasting friend!

The joy, that once thy presence gave, restore
The righteous penalty of sin he bore;

Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more:
Not his the fortitude that mocks at pains,
But that which feels them most, and yet sustains.

Down to the dust returns this earthly frame, - Tis just, 'tis merciful,' we heard him say;

Receive my spirit, Lord! from whom it came; • Yet wherefore hath he turn’d his face away!

Rebuke the Tempter, shew thy power to save, I see him not; I hear him not; I call;

O let thy glory light me to the grave, My God! my Godl support me, or I fall.'

That these, who witness my departing breath,

May learn to triumph in the grasp of death.' “ The sun went down, amidst an angry glare “ He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smile, Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air;

And seem'd to rest in silent prayer awhile: The winds brake loose; the forest boughs were torn, Around his couch with filial awe we kneeld, And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne;

When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd Cattle to shelter scudded in affright;

A spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door;The florid evening vanish'd into night:

The sword of God in his right hand he bore; Then burst the hurricane upon the vale,

His countenance was lightning, and his vest In peals of thunder, and thick-vollied hail ;

Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest; Prone rushing rains with torrents whelm'd the land,

Yet so benignly beautiful his form, Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand;

His

presence still'd the fury of the storm; Around its base, the foamy-crested streams

At once the winds retire, the waters cease; Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's

His look was love, his salutation, · Peace!' gleams;

[ground, With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the « Our mother first beheld bim, sore amazed, The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round; But terror grew to transport, while she gazed: Never since nature into being came,

-'Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim, who drove Had such mysterious motion shook her frame; Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove ; We thought, ingulpht in floods, or wrapt in fire, Adam, my life, my spouse, awake!' she cried; The world itself would perisha with our sire. • Return to Paradise ; behold thy guide!

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