PHOEBE DAWSON.

The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,

Dimm'd the fair prospect with prophetic tears."

This is the taking side of the picture: At the end of two years, here is the reverse. Nothing can be more touching, we think, than the quiet suffering and solitary hysterics of this ill-fated young woman:

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Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,
And torn green gown, loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems, with patience, striving with her pains;
Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing, and whose hopes are fled!
Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnotic'd from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again!
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, maternal fear, alarms!
With water burden'd, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till in mid-green she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;

From whence her slender foot with pain she takes," &c.
"And now her path, but not her peace, she gains,
Safe from her task, but shiv'ring with her pains ;
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits!
In vain! - they come

she feels th' inflaming grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be represt;
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys,
Nor led by profit, nor allur'd by praise;

And waiting long, till these contentions cease,

She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace."-p. 77, 78.

The ardent lover, it seems, turned out a brutal husband:

290

CRABBE'S REGISTER ISAAC ASHFORD.

It may add to the interest which some readers will take in this simple story, to be told, that it was the last piece of poetry that was read to Mr. Fox during his fatal illness; and that he examined and made some flattering remarks on the manuscript of it a few days before his death.

We are obliged to pass over the rest of the Marriages, though some of them are extremely characteristic and beautiful, and to proceed to the Burials. Here we have a great variety of portraits, the old drunken innkeeper -the bustling farmer's wife-the infant-and next the lady of the manor. The following description of her deserted mansion is striking, and in the good old taste of Pope and Dryden:

"Forsaken stood the hall,

-

Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall; No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd; No cheerful light the long-clos'd sash convey'd; The crawling worm that turns a summer fly, Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die The winter-death; upon the bed of state, The bat, shrill-shrieking, woo'd his flick 'ring mate: To empty rooms, the curious came no more, From empty cellars, turn'd the angry poor, And surly beggars curs'd the ever-bolted door. To one small room the steward found his way, Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay. p. 104, 105. The old maid follows next to the shades of mortality. The description of her house, furniture, and person, is admirable, and affords a fine specimen of Mr. Crabbe's most minute finishing; but it is too long for extracting. We rather present our readers with a part of the character of Isaac Ashford:

-

"Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid :
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace," &c.
"Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Yet far was he from stoic-pride remov'd:
He felt, with many, and he warmly lov'd :

CRABBE'S POEMS

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

291

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And an old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak," &c.

p. 111, 112. The rest of the character is drawn with equal spirit; but we can only make room for the author's final commemoration of him.

"I feel his absence in the hours of

prayer,

And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there!
I see, no more, those white locks thinly spread,
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight;
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Mr. Ashford soften'd to a smile!

No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer,
Nor that pure faith, that gave it force are there:-
But he is blest; and I lament no more

A wise good man contented to be poor.” — p. 114.

We then bury the village midwife, superseded in her old age by a volatile doctor; then a surly rustic misanthrope; and last of all, the reverend author's ancient sexton, whose chronicle of his various pastors is given rather at too great length. The poem ends with a simple recapitulation.

in

We think this the most important of the new pieces in the volume; and have extended our account of it so much, that we can afford to say but little of the others. "The Library" and "The Newspaper" are republications. They are written with a good deal of terseness, sarcasm, and beauty; but the subjects are not very teresting, and they will rather be approved, we think, than admired or delighted in. We are not much taken either with "The Birth of Flattery." With many nervous lines and ingenious allusions, it has something of the languor which seems inseparable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram.

"Sir Eustace Grey" is quite unlike any of the preceding compositions. It is written in a sort of lyric measure; and is intended to represent the perturbed fancies of the most terrible insanity settling by degrees

292

CRABBE SIR EUSTACE GREY.

into a sort of devotional enthusiasm. The opening stanza, spoken by a visitor in the madhouse, is very striking.

There is great force both of language and conception, in the wild narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy; though we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate, and too much worked up, in the picture. We give only one image, which we think is original. He supposed himself hurried along by two tormenting demons.

"Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew,
And halted on a boundless plain ;
Where nothing fed, nor breath'd, nor grew,
But silence ruled the still domain.

"Upon that boundless plain, below,
The setting sun's last rays were shed,
And gave a mild and sober glow,

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Where all were still, asleep, or dead;
Vast ruins in the midst were spread,
Pillars and pediments sublime,
Where the grey moss had form'd a bed,
And clothed the crumbling spoils of Time.

There was I fix'd, I know not how,

Condemn'd for untold years to stay;

Yet years were not;-one dreadful now,
Endur'd no change of night or day;
The same mild evening's sleeping ray
Shone softly-solemn and serene,

And all that time I gazed away,

The setting sun's sad rays were seen.'

p. 226.

"The Hall of Justice," or the story of the Gipsy Convict, is another experiment of Mr. Crabbe's.

It is

very nervous—very shocking and very powerfully

HIS GIPSY CONVICT.

293

represented. The woman is accused of stealing, and tells her story in impetuous and lofty language.

46

His looks would all his soul declare,
His piercing eyes were deep and small,
And strongly curl'd his raven hair.

Yes, Aaron had each manly charm,

All in the May of youthful pride;
He scarcely fear'd his father's arm,
And every other arm defied.-
Oft when they grew in anger warm,
(Whom will not love and power divide ?)

I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,

Not yet in sinful combat tried."-p. 240-242.

The father felon falls in love with the betrothed of his son, whom he despatches on some distant errand. The consummation of his horrid passion is told in these powerful stanzas:

"The night was dark, the lanes were deep,

And one by one they took their way;

He bade me lay me down and sleep!
I only wept, and wish'd for day.