He thought 'twas want of exercise-he'd write
A short prescription, which to him seemed best."-
This fragment of it 's extant-the style's eligible.
And (like all doctors' Latin) quite intelligible.
"Rex Arturus, diabolis cæruleis
Eger, ob desiderium Gigantum
"Decollatorum in Calendis Juliis,
"Sal matrimon. quotidie capiat quantum "Suff. et conjugialibus aculeis
(Versus desideratur—unus tantum)
"Haustu matut. merid. et vespertino
“Rix. pulv. pii.—Fiat―auct. M.D. Merlino.”
The meaning of the document is plain-
The king was dying of a quiet life,
And therefore Merlin wisely did ordain
That he should take unto himself a wife ;
After which treatment should he e'er again
Complain of any lack of noise or strife,
Merlin acknowledged a disease so tragic
Would baffle both his medicine and his magic.
CCCLIII. THOMAS K. HERVEY, 1804-
'Tis thus with our life: while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song,
Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore, Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er.
CCCLIV. WILL. SEWELL, 1804-
Lo, as in some dark time-worn pile,
At evening's close, 'tis good to sit,
O'er moss-grown arch, and broken aisle,
To mark the moon-light shadows flit.
Midst leaves, which scarce the night-winds wave,
To watch the struggling meteors shoot;
Or bend o'er some forgotten grave,
Till startled by the owlet's hoot:
So let me sit at times, and gaze
On that dark wreck, immortal man;
While yet amidst its ruin strays
A twilight softness, faint and wan.
For still they spring, in damp and gloom,
The flowers, that erst in Eden smiled;
And light is in the fractured tomb,
And strains of peace midst tempests wild.
CCCLV. HENRY TAYLOR, 1805--
1. THE RUINED GARDEN.
Delighted was the child to call
The plot of garden ground her own;
Delighted was she at the fall
Of evening mild, when shadows tall
Cross-barred the mound and cottage wall,
To linger there alone.
Nor seem'd the garden flowers less fair,
Nor loved she less to linger there,
When glisten'd in the morning dew
Each lip of red and eye of blue;
And when the sun too brightly burned
Towards the forest's verge she turned,
Where stretched away from glade to glade
A green interminable shade;
And in the skirts thereof a bower
Was built with many a creeping flower,
For shelter at the noon-tide hour;
And from the forest walks was heard
The voice of many a singing bird,
With murmurs of the cushat-dove,
That tell the secret of her love;
And pleasant therefore all day long,
From earliest dawn to even-song,-
Supremely pleasant was this wild
Sweet garden to the woodman's child.—-
The whirlwind came with fire and flood
And smote the garden in the wood;
All that was formed to give delight
Destruction levelled in a night;
The morning broke, the child awoke,
And when she saw what sudden stroke
The garden which she loved had swept
To ruin, she sat down and wept.
Her grief was great, but it had vent ;
Its force, not spared, was sooner spent;
And she bethought her to repair
The garden which had been so fair.
Then roam'd she through the forest walks
Cropping the wild flowers by their stalks,
And divers full-blown blossoms gay
She gather'd, and in fair array
Disposed, and stuck them in the mound,
Which had been once her garden-ground.
They seem'd to flourish for awhile,
A moment's space she seemed to smile;
But brief the bloom and vain the toil,
They were not native to the soil.
That other child, beneath whose zone
Were passions fearfully full-grown,—
She too essayed to deck the waste
Where love had grown, which love had graced
With false adornments, flowers not fruit,
Fast-fading flowers, that strike not root,--
With pleasures alien to her breast,
That bloom but briefly at the best,
The world's sad substitutes for joys
To minds that lose their equipoise.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
CCCLVI. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON, 1806
But in the highest home of all
A bitter silence now must fall,
And sobbing hearts shall yearn in vain
To bring the Old Year back again.
Oh! then and now-last year and this-
Father and Friend whose gifts they miss,
Husband whose kind and noble face
Hath vanish'd from the vacant place,-
What thoughts, what prayers, can lesser make
The anguish suffer'd for thy sake?
The Widow's wintry coif is there!
Its snowdrift hides her shining hair,-
And men may weep who now behold,
Remembering all its bands of gold
In her youth's high triumphal day,
Lit by the unexpected ray
Which still its gentle halo shows
Where Leslie's magic canvas glows;
When deck'd with sceptre and with globe,
And glittering in Dalmatian robe,
The girlish form knelt gently down,
To rise the wearer of a crown:
And o'er that spot where, old and good,
The mild Ecclesiastic stood,
To give, with his religious hand,
Her consecration of command,
And while reverberate shouts that hailed
England's new monarch, yet prevailed,—
A sunbeam like a glory fell
From Gothic arch and pinnacle,
As though it were God's blessing shed
Upon that reverent youthful head.
Bowed is that head!-bowed low once more!
But not as in the days of yore;
Not with the future opening bright
A dream of splendour to her sight;
Not where the shouting lieges crowd;
Alone-in grief-her head is bowed.
Her sad eyes watch the fire-light gleams;
Her weary soul hath humbler dreams;
Roaming from Osborne's sengirt bowers,
By royal Windsor's moated towers,
To vaults where flowers lie, dark and dank :—
Gone! Gone!-fill up the blank !
ROBERT ANSTRUTHER, 1807–1856.
Oft have I seen, when wandering at times
Amongst the native forests of these climes,
A wounded oak, in which the woodsman left
His axe, o'ermastered by the closing cleft;
No strength could wrest it from its oaken sheath,
But, flinging o'er the foe its knotty wreath,
The oak grew on, and towering over all
Bore in its heart the axe that sought its fall!
E'en so my friend-his faith had grown above
The iron in his soul, his early love.
CCCLVIII. SELINA, LADY DUFFERIN, 1807-
SONG: OH, BAY OF DUBLIN.
Oh! Bay of Dublin! my heart you're troublin',
Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream:
Like frozen fountains that the sun sets bubbling,
My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name And never till its life-pulse ceases,
My earliest, latest thought you'll cease to be
Oh! there's no one here knows how fair that place is,
And no one cares how dear it is to me.
Sweet Wicklow mountains! the sun-light, sleeping
On your green banks, is a picture rare;
You crowd around me, like young girls peeping,
And puzzling one to say which is most fair.
As though you'd see your own sweet faces
Refiected in that smooth and silver sea;
Oh! my blessin' on those lovely places,
Though no one cares how dear they are to me.
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