SURVIVING SWEETHEART -FELON'S DREAM.

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,

But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people death has made them dear!
He nam'd his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whisper'd, Thou must go to rest.'

I go!' he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and flutt'ring was the sound;
Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last
A dying look of love and all was past!

66

She plac'd a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engrav'd—an offering of her Love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance - 'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,

Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;

Then come again, and thus her hour employ,

309

While visions please her, and while woes destroy. — p. 23 — 27.

There is a passage in the same tone, in the letter on Prisons. It describes the dream of a felon under sentence of death; and though the exquisite accuracy and beauty of the landscape painting are such as must have recommended it to notice in poetry of any order, it seems to us to derive an unspeakable charm from the lowly simplicity and humble content of the characters - at least we cannot conceive any walk of ladies and gentlemen that should furnish out so sweet a picture as terminates the following extract. It is only doing Mr. Crabbe justice to present along with it a part of the dark foreground which he has drawn, in the waking existence of the poor dreamer.

310 CRABBE'S BOROUGH

BEAUTIFUL RETROSPECTIONS.

He takes his tasteless food; and, when 'tis done,
Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one:
For expectation is on Time intent,

Whether he brings us Joy or Punishment.

"Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain;
He hears the sentence, and he feels the chain;
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be!
A priest attends it seems the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight-
He sees his native village with delight;

66

The house, the chamber, where he once array'd
His youthful person; where he knelt and pray'd:
Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home,
The days of joy; the joys themselves are come;
The hours of innocence ;- the timid look
Of his lov'd maid, when first her hand he took
And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forc'd reserve, and his retreating fears.

66

Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny smile:
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield: - No! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind.
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks, and pleasure on the tongue.
Pierc'd by no crime, and urg'd by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane, then linger in the mead,
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,
And pluck the blossom where the wild-bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browzes by the linnet's bed!

Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge-and there behold the bay!
The ocean smiling to the fervid sun

The waves that faintly fall and slowly run-
The ships at distance, and the boats at hand:
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number, and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea:
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roll'd:
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,

THE WORKHOUSE.

And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,
Or lie like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glitt'ring by:
Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour fire

Tokens of bliss!".

p. 323-326.

311

If these extracts do not make the reader feel how deep and peculiar an interest may be excited by humble subjects, we should almost despair of bringing him over to our opinion, even by Mr. Crabbe's inimitable description and pathetic pleading for the parish poor. The subject is one of those, which to many will appear repulsive, and, to some fastidious natures, perhaps, disgusting. Yet, if the most admirable painting of external objects -the most minute and thorough knowledge of human character and that warm glow of active and rational benevolence which lends a guiding light to observation, and an enchanting colour to eloquence, can entitle a poet to praise, as they do entitle him to more substantial rewards, we are persuaded that the following passage will not be speedily forgotten.

with a number you

"Your plan I love not:
Have plac'd your poor, your pitiable few;
There, in one house, for all their lives to be,
The pauper-palace which they hate to see!
That giant building, that high bounding wall,
Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!
That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,
Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:
It is a prison, with a milder name,

Which few inhabit without dread or shame.".

Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell,
They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell :
They have no evil in the place to state,
And dare not say, it is the house they hate:
They own there's granted all such place can give,
But live repining,

for 'tis there they live!
"Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,
The lost lov'd daughter's infant progeny!
Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease, bereft;
Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed :
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one soft ning object for relief.

66

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?
Who learn the story current in the street?

Who to the long-known intimate impart
Facts they have learn'd, or feelings of the heart?.
They talk, indeed; but who can choose a friend,
Or seek companions, at their journey's end?"—
What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,
Is it not worse, no prospects to enjoy ?

66

'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;
Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep-
The day itself is, like the night, asleep;
Or on the sameness, if a break be made,
'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd ;
By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,
News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old!
By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,
Or justice come to see that all goes well;
Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl
On the black footway winding with the wall,
'Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.
"Here the good pauper, losing all the praise
By worthy deeds acquir'd in better days,
Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led,
Expires while strangers prattle round his bed.”-

p. 241-244. These we take to be specimens of Mr. Crabbe's best style; but he has great variety; and some readers may be better pleased with his satirical vein which is both copious and original. The Vicar is an admirable sketch of what must be very difficult to draw;-a good, easy man, with no character at all. His little, humble vanity; - his constant care to offend no one; his maw kish and feeble gallantry-indolent good nature, and love of gossiping and trifling --are all very exactly, and very pleasingly delineated.

To the character of Blaney, we have already objected, as offensive, from its extreme and impotent depravity. The first part of his history, however, is sketched with a masterly hand; and affords a good specimen of that sententious and antithetical manner by which Mr. Crabbe sometimes reminds us of the style and versification of Pope.

"Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one,

At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone :

These years with grievous crimes we need not load,
He found his ruin in the common road;

Gam'd without skill, without inquiry bought,
Lent without love, and borrow'd without thought.
But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower
Of a kind wealthy widow in his power;
Then he aspir'd to loftier flights of vice!
To singing harlots of enormous price:
And took a jockey in his gig to buy
A horse, so valued, that a duke was shy:
To gain the plaudits of the knowing few,

Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do?"

Cruel he was not. If he left his wife,

He left her to her own pursuits in life;

Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind,

Profuse, not just — and careless but not kind."-p. 193, 194. Clelia is another worthless character, drawn with infinite spirit, and a thorough knowledge of human nature. She began life as a sprightly, talking, flirting girl, who passed for a wit and a beauty in the half-bred circles of the borough; and who, in laying herself out to entrap a youth of better condition, unfortunately fell a victim to his superior art, and forfeited her place in society. She then became the smart mistress of a dashing attorney - then tried to teach a school — lived as the favourite of an innkeeper-let lodgings- wrote novels - set up a toy-shop-and, finally, was admitted into the almshouse. There is nothing very interesting perhaps in such a story; but the details of it show the wonderful accuracy of the author's observation of character; and give it, and many of his other pieces, a value of the same kind that some pictures are thought to derive from the truth and minuteness of the anatomy which they display. There is something original, too, and well