"HUMBLER VOYAGERS ARE WE, O'ER LIFE'S DIM, UNSOUNDED SEA,-(CORNWALL)

"THE MIGHTIEST POWERS BY DEEPEST CALMS ARE FED,-(CORNWALL)

SEEKING ONLY SOME CALM CLIME: TOUCH US GENTLY, GENTLE TIME!"-CORNWALL.

THOUSAND miles from land are
we,

Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain, and they crack; and hearts like stone
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

AND SLEEP, HOW OFT, IN THINGS THAT GENTLEST BE!"-CORNWALL.

66

METHINKS, I FAIN WOULD LIE BY THE LONE SEA,-(CORNWALL)

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam
The Stormy Petrel finds a home-
A home, if such a place may be,

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeketh her rocky lair

To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the wave on their stormy wing!
O'er the deep! o'er the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep,
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain ;
For the mariner curseth the warning bird,
Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard!
-Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,

Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still!
Yet he ne'er falters :-so, Petrel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!
[From "English Songs."]

"SONG SHOULD BREATHE OF SCENTS AND FLOWERS; SONG SHOULD LIKE A RIVER FLOW;

SONG SHOULD BRING BACK SCENES AND HOURS THAT WE LOVED, AH, LONG AGO!"-CORNWALL.

FULLER'S BIRD.

"I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man; who coming to the water to drink, and finding there, by reflection, that he hath killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself."-FULLER'S Worthies.

HE wild-winged creature, clad in gore

(His bloody human meal being o'er),

Comes down to the water's brink; 'Tis the first time he there hath gazed,

And straight he shrinks-alarmed-amazed,

And dares not drink.

AND HEAR THE WATERS THEIR WHITE MUSIC WEAVE."-CORNWALL.

"SONG SHOULD OPEN THE MIND TO DUTY, NERVE THE WEAK, AND STIR THE STRONG;

46

354

WE LOVE, AND MEET THE WORLD'S SHARP SCORN ;-(CORNWALL)

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.

"Have I till now," he sadly said,

"Preyed on my brother's blood, and made

His flesh my meal to-day?"—

Once more he glances on the brook,
And once more sees his victim's look ;
Then turns away.

With such sharp pain as human hearts
May feel, the drooping thing departs

Unto the dark wild wood;

And there, where the place is thick with weeds,
He hideth his remorse, and feeds

No more on blood.

And in that weedy brake he lies,
And pines and pines, until he dies;
And, when all's o'er,-

What follows?-Nought! his brothers slake
Their thirst in blood in that same brake,
Fierce as before!

--So fable flows!-But would you find
Its moral wrought in humankind,
Its tale made worse;

Turn straight to Man, and in his fame
And forehead read the harpy's name;
But no remorse!

[From "English Songs," Moxon's edition.]

WE LOVE, TO DIE SOME COMMON MORN."-BARRY CORNWALL.

EVERY DEED OF TRUTH AND BEAUTY SHOULD BE CROWNED BY STARRY SONG!"-CORNWALL.

"WHAT DIFFERENT SPHERES TO HUMAN BLISS ASSIGNED! WHAT SLOW GRADATIONS IN THE SCALE OF MIND!-(rogers)

'SURVEY THE GLOBE, EACH UNDER-REALM EXPLORE ;-(Rogers)

[SAMUEL ROGERS was born at Stoke Newington, near London, on the 30th of July 1763. His father was a London banker; and he himself, after a complete and unusually careful education, entered the same establishment, and continued a partner up to the day of his death. Thus freed from all pecuniary anxieties, and those worldly necessities which too often cripple the poet's energies, he was able to devote his leisure to literary pursuits and artistic studies, with ample means and opportunities for the gratification of a refined taste. Hence a certain dilettantism of character, which makes itself felt in all his poems. The polish is so brilliant and the ornamentation so rich that it is sometimes difficult to tell whether it is of true metal or base that the work has been wrought.

His first production was an "Ode to Superstition, and Other Poems"a thin quarto pamphlet, published in 1786, which the public took no notice of. It was different with his "Pleasures of Memory" (1792), which at once secured the applause of the critics and the ear of the reading world, and, despite of its excessive elaboration and frigidity, has taken its place among our standard English classics. It cost the poet, as he himself has recorded, nine years of labour, and we must admit the result to be not unworthy of so protracted a conception.

In 1798 he published his "Epistle to a Friend;" in 1812, "Columbus," the least satisfactory of his works; in 1814, the tale of "Jacqueline" (in conjunction with Byron's "Lara"); in 1819, his beautiful didactic and descriptive poem of "Human Life;" and in 1822, after sixteen years' elaboration, his "Italy"—a chef-d'œuvre of faultless writing and felicitous landscape-painting. This was his last production. The centre of an admiring circle, with a world-wide reputation for a courtesy that was never failing, a wit that was frequently cynical, a taste that was exquisitely refined, and an hospitality as generous as it was unostentatious,- Rogers enjoyed a life of singular ease and contentment, stretched far beyond the Psalmist's limit of threescore years and ten. He died by slow decay, and without any suffering, December 18, 1855.]

MEMORY.

THEREAL power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight;
From whom that musing, melancholy mood
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good,

FROM REASON'S FAINTEST RAY TO NEWTON SOAR."-ROGERS.

YET MARK IN EACH THESE MYSTIC WONDERS WROUGHT; OH, MARK THE SLEEPLESS ENERGIES OF THOUGHT!"-ROGERS.

AND HENCE THE CHARM HISTORIC SCENES IMPART; HENCE TIBER AWES, AND AVON MELTS THE HEART;

356

KINDRED OBJECTS KINdred thouGHTS INSPIRE,

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Blest Memory, hail! Oh, grant the grateful Muse,
Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues,

To paint the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies.
Each, as the various avenues of sense

Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,

As judgment dictates or the scene inspires,
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play;
Man's little universe at once o'ercast,
At once illumined when the cloud is past.
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore;
From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.
What different spheres to human bliss assigned !
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
Oh, mark the sleepless energies of thought!
The adventurous boy, that asks his little share,
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer,
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy ;

And as he turns, that thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,

AS SUMMER-CLOUDS FLASH FORTH ELECTRIC FIRE:

AERIAL FORMS IN TEMPE'S CLASSIC VALE GLANCE THROUGH THE GLOOM AND WHISPER IN THE GALE."-ROGERS.