To mourn their fathers were the great and good,
And feel how sharp thy tooth, Ingratitude!

Ingratitude! Man! this mounts high! for He, Who gave thee life, gave Genius gifts for thee! How good the gift, even thus augments the crime; Hence suffer most the luckless sons of rhyme.

O Poesy! to thee of old 'twas given,
To breathe to man the Oracles of heaven-
Thy sons were vates, and prophetic power
Was shed on them, in inspiration's hour.
They sang creation! how, with word of might,
God said, Let there be Light; and there was Light!
Then Night and Day, and Land and Waters were,
Herb, fruit-tree, sun and moon, and starry sphere;
Earth, sea, and air, grew populous with life,
And Man arose the husband and the wife.
They sang Redemption, Mind regenerate,
The second birth, the spirit re-create.
-Wild o'er thy harp thy hand, Isaiah, swept,
Tears how melodious Jeremiah wept,
David in holy tenderness excelled,

And Job from sorrow into grandeur swelled—
Sublime and bold Ezekiel dashed the lyre,
And John baptized, with spirit and with fire.

Then was the roll of mighty poets sealed,
Till, Truth thy fountain was again revealed:
Then, Genius! then divinely touched again,
Thy voice was heard in thunder, not in vain-
Then Lear appealed to heaven amidst the strife-
Macbeth, Othello, Hamlet, sprang to life-
Then Satan, from the dread abyss released,

Bridged Chaos o'er, that Death might have his feast;
Poetic Rapture wed Religious Zeal,

And poets uttered what they only feel.

Wisdom divine, who lovest the holy soul!

Touch now the lips of bards with living coal!

Shrined in their hearts, O make them know that they
Are prophets, heralds of a brighter day,

An undecaying priesthood still to be,
Designed to unfold the mighty mystery,
That dread Idea, with whose sacred birth
Creation groans, in Heaven and in Earth.

O only he who hath the poet's eye,
The hallowed vision, the nice faculty,
May read the mystic legend traced in all
The forms of Nature, hear the secret call,

That fills the soul with Hope and Faith and Love, And makes harmonious all around- above!

While o'er the brow of youth the muses wreathe The glory which illumines all beneath, Ah! though the world upon his labours frown, Though care and sorrow work his spirit down,

Yet he hath joys the world can give or take
As little as it can discern or make.

This Wither felt-his spirit still was free.
Cramped in a cell, or wide at liberty-

Not Burns more joyous "on the mountain's side,
Following his plough in glory and in pride."
Death crowns most poets, and their art divine
Hath shone on others, as the sun would shine;
Him living cheered it, in his heart and home,
Blest now with joy, as well as fame to come;
Taught from each thing, however mean, he saw,
To heighten pleasure, or invention draw,
Daisy, or shady bush, or "bough rustling,"
Or the sweet murmur of a quiet spring,
Nay, even from objects of despair, delight
Extract, and comfort, by the muse's might.

Life has no fears for such-and what has death?
O Death! the Poet! crown me with thy wreath!
Sleep is a phantast, and aye holds a key,
That opes the gardens of Felicity;

But thou hast glorious visions far beyond,
Such as the soul, and quit of earthly bond,
Not Eden ere man fell had joys sublime,
Like those thou hast prepared from eldest time;
No poet yet has sung, nor sage conceived,

What treasures thou, for them who here have grieved,
Who strive for truth, nor from the right have swerved,
Hast in thy worlds of more than dreams reserved.
On these hath mused my fancy late and long-
O Death! the Poet! smile upon my song.

Thou hoverest o'er the works of Sculptors old,
And wrapst in wrath the aspects they unfold;
On forms divine, with youth eternal blest,
Thy clouds of melancholy darkness rest.
Less stern the Artists of more modern time,
Florid with life, if lovelier, less sublime—
Sculpture, like Painting, in luxurious art,
With flowers, leaves, fruits, embellished every part.
No more, severe, grave Reason frowned in stone,
And solemn awe in Madness reigned alone.*
Gone sweet Repose, Roubiliac's statues dance,
And Handel writhes in inspiration's trance.
Gone sober Truth, in allegory's maze
Sense wanders lost, and Wonder stands agaze.
But Poetry once more the marble wreathes,
In Bankes awakens, and in Flaxman breathes.
Flaxman! in thee the poet's soul was rife,
Blest thee in art, and blest thee in thy life-
Found in thy bosom, in thy happy home,
As much of inspiration as in Rome;

* Cibber's figures of Raving Madness, and Moody Melancholy.

For there Religion dwelt, and Truth divine
Raised o'er thy humble hearth a sacred shrine-
Religion that in cloudless Italy

Led captive sense, and awed the adoring eye.
With high endeavour beat his zealous heart,
To adorn a simpler creed, with equal art.
'Twas not enough that Homer he subdued,
Or clomb with Dante to the sculptor's mood;
With fiery Eschylus, majestic still,

In stern composure, stamped unconquered Will:
The Cross must yet its stubbornness subdue,
And in its spirit blissfully renew.

Over the fallen knight the angelic twain
Mourn for the dead; and shall they mourn in vain?
Restored to life, what fearful shapes to see!
Again the Burning Cross appears to thee.
Fear not the dart of death, the mouth of hell,
For Love celestial waits to greet thee well;
Commissioned then, a guardian spirit, thou
Brood'st o'er Creation, purging all below.

Strange work but true, yet far less strange and wild Than Blake imagined, Fancy's dreamiest child— Whom grief made thoughtful, Solitude a seer,

While Voices touched his spiritual ear

To him, superior to the world's annoy,
His love of art was a domestic joy.

And, in the orient land of Cherubim,
Taught its mysterious origin to him,

With that Outline which, though the Almighty trace, Yet demon painters glory to efface.

Happy! at evening's hour, beside the sea,
With whom sage Dante and Virgil, visibly,
Homer and Moses, friendship old renewed,

While Milton soothed with song his listening mood.
And sooth to say, who would an artist be,
Fuseli-like on visions gaze must he;
Draw shapes in air, and people vacant space
With heavenly beauty, and angelic grace.

Stern as the Sculptors old, lo, Barry's soul
Her life and love on art expended whole-
How poor, how abject, him imported not;
All, save thy pleasures, Genius! all forgot.
With nought to cheer, to comfort or to hope,
His passion strengthened and enlarged its scope-
Looked back on times and men uncivil, wild,
And marked the progress of the manners mild,
Till in Elysium's bowers, Beatitude
The Great awaits, the Pious and the Good.
Sagacious Spirit! whose poetic eye
Revelled with Fancy and with Memory,
And of the twain those gorgeous scenes arrayed
To which earth's brightest is a barren shade,

Those glorious Virtues and heroic Names,
Whereat Man trembles-Boyhood ever aims.

And he who would with Genius alway live,
And taste all pleasures that the muses give,
In man a wit, yet guileless, unbeguiled,
Must still remain, Simplicity! thy child,
And be in all as they, to whom 'tis given,
Their angels see the Father's face in heaven.*
Thus He, of whom my song shall ne'er be dumb,
Said "Unto me let little children come;

Forbid them not; of such the Kingdom is,
That wakens in a better world than this."
(To be concluded in our next.)

REMEMBRANCES OF A MONTHLY NURSE.

SECOND SERIES.

No. II. THE MARCHIONESS L -D AND LADY JANE URQUHART. I KNOW not wherefore, but I have more than once began to copy out from my note-book the following relation, and have left it unfinished. There are some of our feelings that we cannot analyse-others that we dare not again, we have some of a mixed or compound character; and I rather think the cause of my destroying these extracts arose from a double impression on my mind, either of which singly would have been sufficient to effect the conflagration of them. The only feeling that I dare to own is, that had I then, at either of those times, made this little narrative public, it might have been offensive in some degree to a great person now no more. But as that fear is now removed, and the secret, or the unacknowledged part of the business, has ceased also to operate upon me, I see no reason why I should again commit to the flames this little sketch, relative to some people of high rank and consideration in this country; taking, however, great precaution at the same time that no clue shall be afforded to enable the curious reader to point his finger at the exact individuals, or even family I allude to.

It is of little consequence who engaged me, but I found myself, after the adjustment of preliminaries, in one of the most magnificent mansions I ever set my foot in. Whether it was in town or country, I shall not say like the oracles at Delphos, there shall rest a veil of obscurity and mystery over this narrative; nothing shall be in bold relief. Much will be left to the imagination; and yet, much will there be told; better still, there shall not be an ounce of fiction throughout the whole of it; no, not so much as would outweigh a tom-tit's egg, blown hollow, and strung upon a silken thread.

I am naturally fond of magnificence; most women are ;-so having nothing to do for a long while after my arrival at the mansion in question, I amused myself with looking at, and admiring all the fine

* Matt. xxvii. 10.

things that lay in heaps around me. I walked from room to room perfectly at my ease; lounged in the picture gallery, gazing at portraits of a long line of ancestry, painted, some by Lely, some by Vandyke, up to those of Sir Joshua and Lawrence. Then the library! what stores of learning and amusement were ranged upon those decorated shelves!-then to look through the windows!-But if I say another word, I shall betray the locale of the splendid house I then inhabited, waiting, pleasantly enough, until the mistress of this noble residence, and all the wealth appertaining to it, should please to want me.

I think it always a bad sign when any person is exceedingly civil to me, whilst we are mere strangers to each other. It seems unnaturala moral profligacy, to squander away more than courtesy and politeness upon those we know so little about: instead of feeling such extreme civility as a compliment, it makes me ever suspicious and watchful; there must be some design, I ever imagine, under such sudden and unaccountable attentions to one who has not merited them. The manners of the Marchioness Ld, my present distinguished hostess, were of this description towards myself, and there was a peculiar look about her eye that I did not half like. Yet the eye itself was fascinating in the highest degree. It was only in its absence that I could reflect on its character, and seek to penetrate into its meaning. She was altogether a most glorious creature; nature never made a woman in a finer mould. Ah, wherefore was she not left to the care of her who formed her? Why did art come in to sully the masterpiece of the divine Isis? Lady Ld was about five-and-twenty, but looked much younger from her extreme fairness, and the youthful manner in which she wore her hair, namely, curling in ringlets of great length and brightness around her shoulders, merely parting it from her fine arched forehead by two combs of slight filigree gold of Venetian workmanship, connected together by a few delicate chains of the same material and make; her cheek was perfectly colourless, yet so finely moulded that no one could have wished it otherwise than what it was. I have made another observation in my passage through life, that pale persons have more of passion and of thought than those who boast of the tints of morning painted by Nature's cunning hand upon their cheeks. All heroines, I should conceive, ought to look like alabaster, warmed into life; and thus looked the fair Marchioness: but she destroyed my theory.

The Marquis L- ―d was then, at the time I speak of, ambassador at the court of but on account of the delicacy of his lady's situation, she had not accompanied him; he was expected home every day, having been recalled by a change in the administration. I gathered that he was some few years the senior of his lady, and that he looked forward with infinite delight to the time when he should be made a father; especially as the next heir, should the Marquis have no children, was a profligate young man, who had rendered himself most obnoxious to his uncle, by his dissipated life and radical principles, as well as his personal rudeness repeatedly, both to his beautiful aunt and her lord. It was even rumoured by some young ladies, then staying in the house, who loved to hear their own tongues coin strange sayings, that this dissolute young relative, disappointed it was presumed at his uncle's marriage, had, on the introduction of the fair bride to the presence of royalty, publicly insulted them both, by hinting in an audible whisper