« PreviousContinue »
to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY*.
SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe:
To waft thy waste perfume!
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death,
Come funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
A sweet decaying smell.
* The Rosemary buds in January—It is the flower commonly put
in the coffins of the dead.
Come press my lips, and lie with me
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful, and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god as he flies,
Moans hollow in the Forest-trees,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf altar of the dead;
Where as I lie by all forgot,
TO THE MORNING:
Written during illness.
BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe
I mark your traces pale.
I hail the streaks of morp divine:
That round my rural casement twine; . The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brown--it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.
The Lark has her gay song begun,
She leaves her grassy nest, And soars 'till the unrisen sun
Gleams on her speckled breast. Now, let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread.
Now thro' the custom'd wood-walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way,
Where high o'er head the wild briers bend,
"Till on the Mountain's summit grey, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.
Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale
It breathes into my breast,
Blythe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Invigorate my frame:
Beyond those clouds of flame,
Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view;
Behind the twilight's hue,
They shun the clear, blue face of Morn;
The fleecy clouds successive fly,
And hark! the Thatcher has begun
His whistle on the eaves,
Among the rustling leaves.
Mix with the morning's sounds.
Who would not rather take his seat,
Beneath these clumps of trees,
And catch the healthy breeze,
Than on the silken couch of sloth,
Luxurious to lie;
An interval of joy!
To him, who simply thus recounts
The morning's pleasures o'er,
To ope on him no more.
He'll greet thy beams awhile,
Wilt sweetly on him smile.
And the pale Glow-worm's pensive light,
An author is proof against reviewing, when, like myself, he has been reviewed above seventy times; but the opinion of a reviewer upor his first publication, bas more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry wrote to the Editor, to complain of the cruelty with which he had been treated. - This remonstrance produced the following answer in the next month.
Monthly Review, March, 1804.
ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
« In the course of our long critical labours, we have necessarily beep forced to encounter the resentment, or withstand the lamen