The stars, in their nocturnal vigils, rest Like signal-fires on its illumined crest;
The gliding moon around the ramparts wheels, And all its magic lights and shades reveals; Beneath, the tide with equal fury raves,
To undermine it through a thousand caves;
Rent from its roof, though thundering fragments oft Plunge to the gulf, immovable aloft,
From age to age, in air, o'er sea, on land, Its turrets heighten and its piers expand.
Hark! through the calm and silence of the scene, Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between, Celestial music swells along the air!
No! 'tis the evening-hymn of praise and prayer From yonder deck, where, on the stern retired, Three humble voyagers, with looks inspired, And hearts enkindled with a holier flame Than ever lit to empire or to fame, Devoutly stand: their choral accents rise On wings of harmony beyond the skies;
And, 'midst the songs that seraph-minstrels sing, Day without night, to their immortal king, These simple strains, which erst Bohemian hills Echoed to pathless woods and desert rills,
Now heard from Shetland's azure bound-are known In heaven; and He who sits upon the throne In human form, with mediatorial power, Remembers Calvary, and hails the hour When, by the Almighty Father's high decree, The utmost north to him shall bow the knee, And, won by love, an untamed rebel-race Kiss the victorious sceptre of his grace.
Then to his eye, whose instant glance pervades
Heaven's heights, earth's circle, hell's profoundest
Is there a group more lovely than those three Night-watching pilgrims on the lonely sea? Or to his ear, that gathers, in one sound, The voices of adoring worlds around, Comes there a breath of more delightful praise Than the faint notes his poor disciples raise, Ere on the treacherous main they sink to rest, Secure as leaning on their Master's breast?
They sleep; but memory wakes; and dreams array Night in a lively masquerade of day;
The land they seek, the land they leave behind, Meet on mid-ocean in the plastic mind; One brings forsaken home and friends so nigh, That tears in slumber swell the unconscious eye : The other opens, with prophetic view, Perils which e'en their fathers never knew (Though schooled by suffering, long inured to toil, Outcasts and exiles from their natal soil);
Strange scenes, strange men; untold, untried distress; Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness, Diseases; death in every hideous form,
On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm; Wild beasts, and wilder men-unmoved with fear, Health, comfort, safety, life, they count not dear, May they but hope a Saviour's love to shew, And warn one spirit from eternal woe : Nor will they faint, nor can they strive in vain, Since thus to live is Christ, to die is gain.
'Tis morn: the bathing moon her lustre shrouds ; Wide o'er the east impends an arch of clouds That spans the ocean; while the infant dawn Peeps through the portal o'er the liquid lawn, That ruffled by an April gale appears, Between the gloom and splendour of the spheres, Dark-purple as the moorland heath, when rain Hangs in low vapours over the autumnal plain : Till the full sun, resurgent from the flood, Looks on the waves, and turns them into blood; But quickly kindling, as his beams aspire, The lambent billows play in forms of fire.
1 The first Christian missionaries to Greenland.
Where is the vessel? Shining through the light, Like the white sea-fowl's horizontal flight, Yonder she wings, and skims, and cleaves her way Through refluent foam and iridescent spray.
Night is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose,
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang or heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young like things on earth!
Night is the time to watch; Ön ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.
Night is the time to think;
Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole, Discerns beyond the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God.
Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends-such death be mine!
Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, Keel-upward from the deep emerged a shell, Shaped like the moon ere half her horn is filled; Fraught with young life, it righted as it rose,
And moved at will along the yielding water. The native pilot of this little bark Put out a tier of oars on either side, Spread to the wafting breeze a twofold sail, And mounted up and glided down the billow In happy freedom, pleased to feel the air, And wander in the luxury of light. Worth all the dead creation, in that hour, To me appeared this lonely Nautilus, My fellow-being, like myself alive.
Entranced in contemplation, vague yet sweet, I watched its vagrant course and rippling wake, Till I forgot the sun amidst the heavens.
It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing; While the last bubble crowned the dimpling eddy, Through which mine eye still giddily pursued it, A joyous creature vaulted through the air- The aspiring fish that fain would be a bird, On long, light wings, that flung a diamond-shower Of dew-drops round its evanescent form, Sprang into light, and instantly descended. Ere I could greet the stranger as a friend, Or mourn his quick departure, on the surge A shoal of dolphins, tumbling in wild glee,
Glowed with such orient tints, they might have been The rainbow's offspring, when it met the ocean In that resplendent vision I had seen. While yet in ecstasy I hung o'er these, With every motion pouring out fresh beauties, As though the conscious colours came and went At pleasure, glorying in their subtle changes- Enormous o'er the flood, Leviathan
Looked forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent Two fountains to the sky, then plunged amain In headlong pastime through the closing gulf.
A fountain issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw To heaven its column, pure and bright, Returning thence in showers of dew; But soon a humbler course it took, And glid away a nameless brook.
Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface played, Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows strayed; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest.
'Twas beautiful to stand and watch The fountain's crystal turn to gems, And from the sky such colours catch As if 'twere raining diadems; Yet all was cold and curious art,
That charmed the eye, but missed the heart.
Dearer to me the little stream
Whose unimprisoned waters run, Wild as the changes of a dream,
By rock and glen, through shade and sun; Its lovely links had power to bind In welcome chains my wandering mind. So thought I when I saw the face
By happy portraiture revealed, Of one adorned with every grace,
Her name and date from me concealed, But not her story; she had been The pride of many a splendid scene.
She cast her glory round a court, And frolicked in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport Like sparkling fireflies on the wing;
But thence, when love had touched her soul, To nature and to truth she stole.
From din, and pageantry, and strife,
'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life,
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,
No fountain scattering diamond-showers, But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.
Aspirations of Youth.
Higher, higher, will we climb,
Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls!
Deeper, deeper, let us toil
In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil,
Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems. Onward, onward, will we press Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty. Minds are of supernal birth, Let us make a heaven of earth. Closer, closer, then we knit Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit,
In the wildest weather;
Oh, they wander wide who roam, For the joys of life, from home.
Nearer, dearer bands of love
Draw our souls in union, To our Father's house above, To the saints' communion; Thither every hope ascend, There may all our labours end.
The Common Lot.
Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man: and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth, This truth survives alone:
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear! Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
He suffered-but his pangs are o'er; Enjoyed-but his delights are fled; Had friends-his friends are now no more; And foes-his foes are dead.
He loved-but whom he loved the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: Oh, she was fair! but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encountered all that troubles thee: He was-whatever thou hast been; He is what thou shalt be.
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire Uttered or unexpressed; The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death: He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, 'Behold, he prays!' The saints in prayer appear as one In word, and deed, and mind, When with the Father and his Son Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way, The path of prayer thyself hast trod : Lord, teach us how to pray!
There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man ?—a patriot ?—look around; Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.
The HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER (17701834) published occasional poems of that description named vers de société, whose highest object is to gild the social hour. They were exaggerated in compliment and adulation, and wittily parodied in the Rejected Addresses. As a companion, Mr Spencer was much prized by the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but, if we may credit an anecdote told by Rogers, he must have been heartless and artificial. Moore wished that Spencer should bail him when he was in custody after the affair of the duel with Jeffrey. 'Spencer did not seem much inclined to do so, remarking that he could not well go out, for it was already twelve o'clock, and he had to be dressed by four. Spencer, falling into pecuniary difficulties, removed to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and published in 1835. Mr Spencer translated the Leonora of Bürger with great success, and in a vein of similar excellence composed some original ballads, one of which, marked by simplicity and pathos, we subjoin :
Beth Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer: 'Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last Llewelyn's horn to hear.
'Oh, where doth faithful Gêlert roam, The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave-a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?'
'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gêlert fed ;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentinelled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gêlert could be found, And all the chase rode on.
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells The many-mingled cries!
That day Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gêlert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gained his castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, And on went Gêlert too; And still, where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, With blood-stained covert rent ; And all around, the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.
He called his child-no voice replied- He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child.
'Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,' The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gêlert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, No pity could impart ; But still his Gêlert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell To hear his infant's cry!
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, But, the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe; 'Best of thy kind, adieu ! The frantic blow which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue.'
And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
There, never could the spearman pass, Or forester unmoved; There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear, And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold The name of 'Gêlert's Grave.'
Too late I stayed-forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of Time, That only treads on flowers!
What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of the glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass !
Oh, who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings!
When midnight o'er the moonless skies Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, And nought is wakeful but the dead: No bloodless shape my way pursues, No sheeted ghost my couch annoys; Visions more sad my fancy views,
Visions of long-departed joys!
The shade of youthful hope is there, That lingered long, and latest died; Ambition all dissolved to air,
With phantom honours by his side. What empty shadows glimmer nigh?
They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love! Oh, die to thought, to memory die,
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!
These last two verses, Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes in his diary, terming them 'fine lines,' and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford.
Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770-1851), author of Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme, 1820, and Crockford House, 1827. Mr Luttrell was a favourite in the circle of Holland House: 'none of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does.' The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree:
On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, The tree will return her as good as she brings. Luttrell sat in the Irish parliament before the Union. He is said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton. The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia:
London in Autumn.
'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat Full on the scorching pavement beat. As o'er it the faint breeze, by fits Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown Stains every withering shrub in town. Darkening the air, in clouds arise Th' Egyptian plagues of dust and flies; At rest, in motion-forced to roam Abroad, or to remain at home, Nature proclaims one common lot For all conditions- Be ye hot!' Day is intolerable-Night
As close and suffocating quite ; And still the mercury mounts higher, Till London seems again on fire.
The November Fog of London.
First, at the dawn of lingering day, It rises of an ashy gray;
Then deepening with a sordid stain Of yellow, like a lion's mane. Vapour importunate and dense, It wars at once with every sense. The ears escape not. All around Returns a dull unwonted sound. Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, The chilled and puzzled passenger, Oft blundering from the pavement, fails To feel his way along the rails;
Or at the crossings, in the roll
Of every carriage dreads the pole. Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun, Blots from the face of heaven the sun. But soon a thicker, darker cloak Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke, Which steam-compelling trade disgorges From all her furnaces and forges In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise, Descends rejected from the skies; Till struggling day, extinguished quite, At noon gives place to candle-light. O Chemistry, attractive maid, Descend, in pity, to our aid: Come with thy all-pervading gases, Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses, Thy fearful energies and wonders, Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders; Let Carbon in thy train be seen, Dark Azote and fair Oxygen, And Wollaston and Davy guide The car that bears thee, at thy side. If any power can, any how, Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou; And see, to aid thee, in the blow, The bill of Michael Angelo ; Oh join-success a thing of course is- Thy heavenly to his mortal forces; Make all chimneys chew the cud Like hungry cows, as chimneys should! And since 'tis only smoke we draw Within our lungs at common law, Into their thirsty tubes be sent Fresh air, by act of parliament.
Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1786-1846). The first of these, Ilderim, a Syrian Tale, was published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale, and Alashtar, an Arabian Tale, 1817. Mr Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, Hannibal in Bithynia. Though evincing poetical taste and correctness in the delineation of Eastern manners-for Mr Knight had travelledthese poems failed in exciting attention; and their
author turned to the study of our mediæval architecture. His Architectural Tour in Normandy, and Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century—the latter a splendidly illustrated work-are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature.
SAYERS-HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.
Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. DR FRANK SAYERS of Norwich (1763-1817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was 'out of date.' The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology, 1790; Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary, 1793; Nuga Poetica, 1803; Miscellanies, 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823.
HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of Letters from France, Travels in Switzerland, Narrative of Events in France, Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations, &c. In 1823 she collected and republished her poems. To one of the pieces in this edition she subjoins the following note: 'I commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason it is that of Mr Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.'
Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart; Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye, Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian; but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the American war, he espoused the British interest with so much warmth, that he had to leave the new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He took orders in the Church of England, and was
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