To Mary in Heaven. 209 courted his acquaintance. He was taken to Edinburgh, fêted, petted-and spoiled. Lords and ladies who had invited him to their houses soon neglected him, or, when they met him, passed over to the other side of the street. What wonder, then, that in the bitterness of disappointed hope, he should speak too freely about freedom, and be voted as one who was to be kept down! When he failed in that farm for which, by their toadyism, they unfitted him, they made him an exciseman, and told him if he would only lick-spittle their order, he might hope to rise to the rank of a supervisor. He couldn't do it; the natural dignity of his genius prevented him. Burns did not "boo and boo" himself into favour, as he might have done; his true genius soared above even this nationality, and he was given to understand that his hopes of preferment were blasted-nay, his continuance in office was made dependent on his silence. He did not survive this degradation long; he never held up his head again. He died in the summer of 1796; and then-the lion dead, uprose the chorus of repentant asses! All Scotland claimed him for her own.] THOU lingering star with lessening ray Again thou usherest in the day, My Mary from my soul was torn ! O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget ?— Those records dear of transports past! Äh! little thought we, 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? P 46. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. JOHN KEATS. [See page 167.] My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The Comet. But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? 211 47.-THE COMET. JAMES HOGG. [James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was born on the anniversary of the natal day of Robert Burns, a coincidence he was proud of referring to, January 25, 1782; fortunately for the young poet, some of his fugitive pieces, written at the age of eighteen, were submitted to Sir Walter Scott, who encouraged him to proceed. A volume of ballads, "The Forest Minstrel," was sub sequently published; but it was not until he produced his "Queen's Wake" that his fame was established. He became a contributor to "Blackwood's Magazine," and John Wilson, by introducing him frequently into the "Noctes," put the key-stone upon his popularity. Hogg wrote some magnificent songs. His taste, however, led him more to romance and legendary story: to fairy lore and the realms of fancy. These subjects he treated with the feeling of a poet and the imagination of a painter. His "Kilmeny" is a fairy tale worthy of Spenser. If he had not the strength of Burns, he was more playful and inventive, and as a master of rhythm he was unequalled. He died at Altrive Lake, on the Yarrow, November, 1835.] STRANGER of Heaven! I bid thee hail! Shred from the pall of glory riven, Broad pennon of the King of Heaven! Art thou the flag of woe and death, No, from that pure pellucid beam, Bright herald of the eternal throne! Whate'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely pale- O! on thy rapid prow to glide! To coast through fields of air with thee, To brush the embers from the sun, Where other moons and planets roll! Stranger of Heaven! O let thine eye And airy as thine ambient beam! The Ministry of May. And long, long may thy silver ray 213 48.-THE MINISTRY OF MAY. T. K. HERVEY. [Thomas Kibble Hervey was a native of Manchester, born 1804. For many years he was the editor of the Athenæum. He was a frequent contributor to the annuals, and published "Australia, and other Poems," 1824; "The Poetical Sketch Book," 1829, "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," 1832, "The English Helicon," 1841, &c. Died 1859.] THE earth is one great temple, made For worship everywhere; And its flowers are the bells, in glen and glade, That ring the heart to prayer. A solemn preacher is the breeze, For the city bell takes seven days year; A worship with the cowslip born, For March is Nature's Sabbath morn- Call Out, then, into her holy ways! The lark is far on high; Oh! let no other song than thine if beauty to the beautiful Itself be gladness, given, No happier being should move than thou With thee 'tis spring, as with the world,— And clouds that gather round the heart And in thy spirit, one by one, The flowers are gathering to the sun. Away unto the woodland paths! To hear the low, sweet oracles |