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With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm; It cannot be that aught will work him harm." These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might :

Again I shake your hand,-friend Charles, good night.

September, 1816.



CHATTERTON! how very sad thy


Dear child of sorrow-son of misery!

How soon the film of death obscured

that eye,

Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars

Of highest heaven: to thy rolling spheres Thou sweetest singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.


YRON! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tender.


As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,

Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou being by,

Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,

As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,

Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow. Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe


PENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,1
A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine
Some English, that might strive
thine ear to please.

But, Elfin-poet! 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill,

I am enabled by the kindness of Mr. W. A. Longmore, nephew of Mr. J. W. Reynolds, to give an exact transcript of this sonnet as written and given to his mother, by the poet, at his father's house in Little Britain. The poem is dated, in Mrs. Longmore's hand, Feb. 5th, 1818, but it seems to me impossible that it can have been other than an early production and of the especially Spenserian time.

SPENSER! a jealous honour (sic) of thine

A Forester deep in thy midmost Trees

Did last eve ask my promise to refine

Some English that might strive thine ear to please
But Elfim Poet 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill

Fire wing'd and make a morning in his mirth

It is impossible to escape from toil

O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting

The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can but (sic) forth its blossoming
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

T. K.

Fire-wing'd, and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to 'scape from toil

O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting:

The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming:

Be with me in the summer days, and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.


ANY the wonders I this day have seen :
The sun, when first he kist away the



That fill'd the eyes of Morn ;-the laurell'd peers

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;→ The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears

Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ?


ys from the darkening gloom a silver dove

Upsoars, and darts into the eastern

On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
So fled thy soul into the realms above,
Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright

Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,

O' the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air On holy message sent-What pleasure's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ?



HE church bells toll'd a melancholy round,

Calling the people to some other


Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound

This is a rare instance of any anti-religious feeling or expression, notwithstanding the poet's associations with the free thought of the


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