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time, во full of poetical feeling, and Greek elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn :—

"Season of mists and mellow fruiifiilness—
Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun!
Conspiring with him now, to load and bless [run 1
With fruil the vines that round the thatch-eaves
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And nil all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy celle.

"Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store 1
Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad, may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor.
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half reap'd furrow sound asleep!
Drows'd with the fumes of poppies; while thy hook
Spares the next swarth, and all its twined flowers!
And sometimes like a gleaner, thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head, across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watches! the last oozings, hours by hours!

"Where are the songs of Spring Î Ay, where are


Think not of them! Thou hast thy music too;
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue!
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows; borne aloft
Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies!
And full grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft,
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gaih'nng swallows twitter in the skies!"

One of the sweetest of the smaller poems a that entitled "The Eve of St. Agnes:" though we can now afford but a scanty extract. The superstition is, that if a maiden goes to bed on that night without supper, and never looks up after saying her prayers till she falls asleep, she will see her destined husband by her bed-side the moment she opens her eyes. The fair Madeline, who was in love with the gentle Porphyro, but thwarted by an imperious guardian, resolves to try this spell :—and Porphyro, who has a suspicion of her p'urpose, naturally determines to do what he can to help it to a happy issue; and accordingly prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him to her virgin bower; «here he watches reverently, till she sinks in slumber;—and then, arranging a most elegant dessert by her couch, and gently her with a tender and favourite air. finally reveals himself, and persuades her to steal from the castle under hie protection. The opening stanza is a fair specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition.

"St. Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter cold it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was acold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock m woolly fold!
Numb were the bedesman's fingers, while he told
His rosary; and while his frosted breath,
Like pions incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death.
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayers he

But the glory and charm of the poem is in tue description of the fair maiden's antique

chamber, and of all that passes in that **?* and angel-guarded sanctuary: every part of which is touched with colours at once ricli and delicate—and the whole chastened ami harmonised, in the midst of its gorgeous distinctness, by a pervading grace and parity, that indicate not less clearly the exaltât.«} than the refinement of the author's fancy. We cannot resist adding a good part of tlu description.

"Out went the taper as she hurried in!
Its little amok« in pallid moonshine died:
The door she closed! She panted, all «kin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide!
No utter'd syllable—or woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble;
Paining with eloquence her balmy side '.

"A casement high and treple-arch'd there wis.
All garlanded with carven imageries
Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-crass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device
Innumerable, of stains and splendid ayes,
As are the tiger moth's deep-damask'd «ings'

"Full on this casement shown the wintery mcoi.
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair brea.«:.
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon'
Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest.
And on her silver cross, soft amethyst;
And on her hair, a glory like a saint!
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest
Save wings, for heaven !—Porphyro grew hat.
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortalaitt'

"Anon his heart revives! Her vespers dooe.
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she tree«;
Unclasps her tnarmrd jewels, one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees!
Half hidden, like a Mermaid in sea weed,
Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sen
In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed!
But dares not look behind, or all the charm • W

"Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lav;
Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away!
Haven'd alike from sunshine and from rain.
As though a rose should shut, and be a budifim'

"Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd,
Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,
Ana listcn'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd
To sink into a slumb'rous tenderness?
Which when he heard, that minute did he bles;.
And breath'd himself;—then from the closet c:if-,
Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness.
And over the hush'd carpet silent slept.

"Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking mwc
Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguum'd, threw ihereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet, 4c.

"And still she slept—an azure-lidded sleep!
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd;
While he, from forth the closet, brought i h«?
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gouni;
With jellies smoother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties every one,
From silken Samarcand, to cedar1 d Lebanor.

"Those délicates he heap'd with glowing had.
On golden dishes, and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver; sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume lighî.
'And now, my love! my Seraph fair! «wskf'
Op« thy sweet eye«! for dear St. Agnes ' s»k«'

It is difficult to break off in such a course of citation: But we must stop here; and «hall close our extracts with the following lively lines :—

"О sweet Fancy! let her loose!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with lasting: What do then!
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the plough-boy's heavy shoon;
When the NigTit doth meet the Noon,
In л dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.

Thou shall hear

Distant harvest carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn;
And, in the same moment—hark!
'Tin the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shall, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plum'd lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower

Pearled with the self-came shower;
Thou shall see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake, all winter thin,
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shall see
Hatching in theliawthorn tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When ihe bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing."

pp. 122—125.

There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled "Hyperion," on. the expulsion of Saturn and the Titanian deities by Jupiter and his younger adherents, of which we cannot advise the completion: For, though there are passages of some force and grandeur, it is sufficiently obvious, from the specimen before us, that the subject is too far removed from all the sources of human interest, to be successfully treated by any modern author. Mr. Keats has unquestionably a very beautiful imagination, a perfect ear for harmony, and a great familiarity with the finest diction of English poetry; but he must learn not to misuse or misapply these advantages ; and neither to waste the good gifts of nature and study on intractable themes, nor to luxuriate too recklessly on such as are more suitable.

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These are тегу sweet verses. They do not. indeed, stir the spirit like the strong lines 1 f Byron, nor make our hearts dance within u*, like the inspiring strains of Scott; but 'hey come over us with a bewitching softness that, in certain moods, is still more delightful—and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and elerance. They are pensive rather than pass:i>nate; and more full of wisdom and tenderness than of high flights of fancy, or over•vhelminpr bursts of emotion—while they are moulded into grace, at least as much by the etfecl of the Moral beauties they disclose, as bv the taste and judgment with which they are constructed.

The theme is Human Life !—not only "the wbject of all verse "—but the great centre and source of all interest in the works of human beings—to which both verse and prose invariably bring us back, when they succeed in rivetting our attention, or rousing our emotion?—and which turns every thing into poetry to which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested! ^et it is not by any means to that which, in ordinary language, is termed the poetry or the romance of human life, that the present work is directed. The life which it endeav"wito get before us, is not life diversified

with strange adventures, embodied in extraordinary characters, or agitated with turbulent passions—not the life of warlike paladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime ruffians—or piping shepherds or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots or preaching pedlars—or conquerors, poets, or any other species of madmen—but the ordinary, practical, and amiable life of social, intelligent, and affectionate men in the upper ranks of society—such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country—for the picture is entirely Englieh — and though not perhaps in the choice of every one, yet open to the judgment, and familiar to the sympathies, of all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual characters. It is properly and peculiarly contemplative—and consists in a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and on the marvellous, though unnoticed changes which the ordinary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculianty in this respect is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all indeed in any species of satirical or sarcastic remark. The poet looks here on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy little career, and the disappointments and weaknesses by which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which Life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled.

This, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true virtue—and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scene of human existence.—When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappointment, have been sobered down by longer experience and more extended views—when the keen contentions, and eager rivalries, which employed our riper age. have expired or been abandoned—when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostility, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave—when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to be insipia, and tne gay derision which seasoned them to appear flat and importunate—when we reflect how often we have mourned and been comforted—what opposite opinions we have successively maintained and abandoned—to what inconsistent habits we have gradually been formed—and how frequently the objects of our pride have proved the sources of our shame! we are naturally led to recur to the careless days of our childhood, and from that distant starting place, to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our contemporaries, with feelings of far greater humility and indulgence than those by which it had been actually accompanied :—to think all vain but affection and honour—the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious— and generosity of sentiment the only mental superiority which ought either to be wished for or admired.

We are aware that we have said "something too much of this ;" and that our readers would probably have been more edified, as well as more delighted, by Mr. Rogers' text, than with our preachment upon it. But we were anxious to convey to them our sense of the spirit in which this poem is written;—and conceive, indeed, that what we have now said falls more strictly within the line of our critical duty, than our general remarks can always be said to do;—because the true character and poetical effect of the work seems, in this instance, to depend much more on its moral expression, than on any of its merely literary qualities.

The author, perhaps, may not think it any compliment to be thus told, that his verses are likely to be greater favourites with the old than with the young;—and yet it is no email compliment, we think, to say. that they are likely to'be more favourites with his readers every year they live :—And it is at all event» true, whether it be a compliment

or not, that ae readers of all ages, if they aie any way worth pleasing, have little glimpses and occasional visitations of those truths which longer experience only renders more familiar, во no works ever sink so deep into amiall? minds, or recur so often to their remembrance, as those which embody simple, and solemn, and reconciling truths, in emphatic and elegant language—and anticipate, a» it were, and bring out with effect, those saintary lessons which it seems to be the frrea: end of our life to inculcate. The pictures of violent passion and terrible emotion — the breathing characters, the splendid imagery and bewitching fancy of Shakesprare himself, are less frequently recalled, thar. those great moral aphorisms in which be bat so often

Told us the fashion of our own estate
The secrets of our bosoms—

and, in spite of all that may be said by grave persons, of the frivolousness of poetry, and of its admirers, we are persuaded that the mort memorable, and the most generally admired of all its productions, are those which a» chiefly recommended by their deep practical wisdom; and their coincidence with those salutary imitations with which nature henelf seems to furnish us from the passing scene* of our existence.

The literary character of the work is akin to its moral character; and the diction is ai soft, elegant, and simple, as the sentimo::* are generous and true. The whole piece, indeed, is throughout in admirable keeping. and ils beauties, though of a delicate, rather than an obtrusive character, set off each other to an attentive observer, by the skill with which they are harmonised, and the sweetness with which they slide into each other. The outline, perhaps, is often rather timidly drawn, and there is an occasional want of force and brilliancy in the colouring; which we are rather inclined to ascribe to the refined and somewhat fastidious taste of the art!?:. than to any defect of skill or of power. We have none of the broad and blazing tints of Scott—nor the startling contrasts of Bttod— nor the anxious and endlessly repeated touch of Southey — but something which come? much nearer to the soft and tender manner of Campbell; with still more reserve and caution, perhaps, and more frequent sacrifice» of strong and popular effect, to an abhorrence of glaring beauties, and a disdain of тв^аг resources.

The work opens with a sort of epitome of its subject—and presents us with a brief abstract of man's (or at least Gentleman|e) Шеas marked by the four great eras of—hi» birth —his coming of age—his marriage—and Ы* death. This comprehensive picture, with its four compartments, is comprised in less thai: thirty lines.—We give the two latter setfw only.

"And soon again shall music swell rhe breew: Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the tnrt» Vestures of Nuptial white; and hymns b« »unj. And violeta scatier'd round; ami old and т ting,

In every cottage-porch wilh garland« green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless ihe scene'
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle Bride.

"And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower!
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard, where only joy had been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,
He rest« in holy earth, with them that went before!

"And euch is Human Life! So gliding on, Ii glimmere like a meteor, and is gone !"—pp. 8—10.

After some general and very striking reflections upon the perpetual but unperceived gradations by which this mysterious being is carried through all the stages of its fleeting existence, the picture is resumed and expanded with more touching and discriminating details. Infancy, for example, is thus finely delineated :—

"The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and


The child is born, by many a pang endetr'd.
And now ihe mother's ear has caught hie cry;
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
Hi comes !—she clasps him. To her bosom prese'd,
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

"Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows;
How »oon, by his, the glad discovery shows!
As tu her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung
(That name most dear forever on his tongue),
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if «he can, exhaust a mother's love!"

pp. 19, 20.

This ie pursued in the same strain of tendemees and beauty through all its most interesting bearings ;—and then we pass to the bolder kindlings and loftier aspirations of Yooth.

"Then is the Age of Admiration—then Hods walks the earth, or beings more than men! Ib '. then come thronging many a wild desire, Arid high imaginings and thoughts of lire! Then Irom within a voice exclaims ' Aspire!' Phantom«, that upward point, before him pass, Afin the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass," Sic.

p. 24.

tt'e cut short this tablature, however, as well as the spirited sketches of impetuous courage and devoted love that belong to the tame period, to come to the joys and duties of matnrer life; which, we think, are described with still more touching and characteristic beautiee. The Youth passes into this more tranquil and responsible state, of course, by Marriage J and we have great satisfaction in lecurring, with our uxorious poet, to his representation of that engaging ceremony, upon which his thoughts seem to dwell wilh so much fondness and complacency.

"Then are they blest indeed! and swift the hours lui her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, Kindling her beauiy—while, unseen, the least Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest,

Known by her laugh that will not be suppreas'd.
Then before All they stand! The holy vow
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,
Bind her as his! Across the threshold led.
And ev'ry tear kiss'd off as soon as shed,
His house she enters; there to be a light
Shining within, when all without is night!
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and hi« cares dividing!
How oil her eyes read his; her gentle mind,
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclin'd;
Still subject—even on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.''

pp. 32, 33.

Beautiful as this is, \ve think it much inferior to what follows; when Parental affection comes to complete the picture of Connubial bliss.

"And laughing eyes and laughing voices till

Their halls with gladness, She, when all are still,

Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie

In sleep, how beautiful! He, when the sky

Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony,

When, gathering round his bed, they climb to shara

His kisses, and with gentle violence there

Break in upon a dream not half so fair,

Up to the hill top leads their little feet;

Or by the forest-lodge; perchance to meet

The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear

The otter rustling in the sedgy mere;

Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,

That gave him back his words of pleasantry—

When the House stood, no merrier man than he!

And, as they wander with a keen delight.

If but a leveret catch their quicker sight

Down a green alley, or a squirrel then

Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again,

If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall,

He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all."

pp. 34—36.

"But Manie born to suffer. On the door Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild As of a mother singing to her child. All now in anguish from that room retire. Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, And innocence breathes contagion !—all but one, But she who gave it birth !—From her alone The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, And through the day. that with its dreary light Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Watching the changes with her anxious eye: While they without, listening below, above, (Whu but in sorrow know how much they love f) From every little noise catch hope and fear, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness! That would in vain the starling tear repress."

pp. 38, 39.

The scene, however, is not always purely domestic—though all its lasting enjoymente are of that origin, and look back to that consummation. His country requires the arm of a free man! and home and all its joys must be left, for the patriot battle. The sanguinary and tumultuous part is slightly touched; But the return is exquisite; nor do we know, any where, any verses more touching and full of heartfelt beauty, than some of those we arn about to extract.

"He goes, and Night comes as it never came!
With shrit ks of horror !—and a vault of flame!
And lu! when morning mocks the desolate.
Red runs the rivulet by ; and at the gate
Breathless a horse without his rider stands!
But hush !.. a shout from the victorious bands
And oh the smiles and tears! a sire rester'd!
One wears his helm—one buckles on nia sword.
One hange the wall with laurel-leaves, and all
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival;
While She besl-lov'd, till then forsaken never,
Clings round his neck, as she would cling for ever!

"Such golden deeds lead on to golden days,
Days of domestic peace—by him who plays
On the great stage how uneventful thought;
Vei with a thousand busy projects fraught,
A thousand incidents that stir the mind
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind!
Such as the heart delights in—and records
Within how silently—in more than words!
A Holyday—the frugal banquet spread
On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head
With quips and cranks—what time the wood-lark


Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air,
What time the king-fisher eiis perch'd below,
Where, silver-bright, the water lilies blow :—
A Wake—the booths whil'riing the village-green,
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen;
Sign beyond sign in close array unfurl'd,
Picturing at large the wonders of the world;
And far and wide, over the vicar's pale,
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale,
All, all abroad, and music in the gale :—
A Wedding-dance—a dance into ihe nighi!
On the barn-floor when maiden-feet are light;
When the young bride receives the promis'd dower,
And flowers are flung, 'herself a fairer flower :'—
A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,
(Who would he rich while One was wanting bread I)
When all are emulous to bring relief,
And tears are falling fast—but not for grief:—
A Walk in Spring—Gr'tt'n, like those with thec,
By the heath-side (who had not envied me t)
When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June,
Led us to meet beneath their houghs at noon;
And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise,
Could they but hear arid at thy bidding rise,
Thou wouldst call up and question."—pp. 42—16.

Other cares and trials and triumphs await him. He fights the good fight of freedom in the senate, as he had done before in the field— and with greater peril. The heavy hand of power weighs upon him, and he is arraigned of crimes against the State.

"Like Harnpden struggling in his country's cause,
The first, the foremost to obey the laws,
The last to brook oppression! On he moves,
Careless of blame while his own heart approves,
Careless of ruin—(" For the general gooa
'Tis not the first lime I shall shed niv blood.")
On through that gate misnamed,* through which


Went Sidney, Rüssel, Raleigh. Cranmer, More!
On into twilight within walls of stone,
Then to the place of trial ; and alone,
Alone before his judges in array
Stands for his life! there, on that awful day,
Counsel of friends—all human help denied—-
All but from her who sits the pen to guide.
Like that sweet saint who sat by Rüssel's sidet
Under the judgment-seat !—But guilty men
Triumph not always. To his hearth again,

* Traitor's Gate, in the Tower.

t We know of nothing at once so pathetic and so sublime, as the few simple sentences here alluded to, in the account of Lord Russel's trial.

Lord Rastel. May I have somebody write to help my memory?

Mr. Attorney General. Yes, a Servant.

/x>rd Chief Juftire. Any of your Servants shall assist you in writing any thing you please for you.

Lord Rüssel. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do it Î

When we recollect who Ruesel and his wife

were, and what a destiny was then impending, this one trait makes the heart swell, almost to bursting.

Again with honour to his hearth resior'd,
Lo, in the accustom'd chair and at the board.
Thrice greeting those that most withdraw toij


(The humblest servant calling by his name),
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,
All met as at a holy festival!
—On (he day destin d for his funeral!
Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where be li»,
Breaih'd in his drowsy ear ' Away, away '.
Take thou my cloak—Nay, start not, but obey—
Take it and leave me.' And the blushing Maid,
Who through the streets as through a desert »<n»'¿.
And, when her dear, dear Father pass'd aluns.
Would not be held; but, bursting through the ;Ь:з-;
Halberd and battle-axe—kissed him o'er and o'er:
Then iurn'd and went—then sought him as befan,
Believing she should see his face no more '."

pp. 4Й—a«.

What follows is sacred to Mill higher remembrances.

"And now once more where most he lov'd to bt
In his own fields—breathing tranquillity—
We hail him—not less happy, Fox, than thee'.
Thee at St. Anne's, so soon of Care beguil'd,
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child '.
Thee, who wouldst waich a bird's nest on the sprat.
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.
How olt from grove to grove, from seat to sei:,
With thee conversing in thy lov'd retreat.
I saw the sun go down !—Ah, then 'twas thine
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine, [¿it-it
Shakespeare s or Dryden's—thro' the cheqaera
Borne in ihy hand behind thee as we stray'd;
And where we sate (and many a halt we madt:
To read there with a fervour all thy own,
And in thy grand and melancholy tone,
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown.
Fit theme for long discourse.—Thy beil baa tolTd!
—But in thy place among us we behold
One that resembles thee."—pp. 52, 53.

The scene of closing Age is not less beautiful and attractive—nor less true and exemplary.

"'Tie the sixth hour.

The village-clock strikes from the distant tower.
The ploughman leaves the field ; the traveller heirs.
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears
Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest.

"And such, his labour done, the calm He knowi. Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round his


An atmosphere that brightens to the lam;
The light, that shines, reflected from the Past.
—And from the Future too! Active in Thourhi
Among old books, old friends; and not unsought
By the wise stranger. In his morning-hours.
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flower!,
He muses, turning up the idle weed;
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead
Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough.
Culls the delicious fruit that hang« in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

"At night, when all, assembling round the fire.
Closer and closer draw till they retire,
A tale is told of India or Japan,
Of merchants from Golcond or Astracán,
What time wild Nature revell'd unrestrain'd,
And Sinbad voyag'd and the Caliphs reign M ;—
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in the shrouds and beats the iron sail,
Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas
Immoveable—for ever there to freeze!
Or some great Caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell," &C.

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