Heard ye the din of battle bray,1 Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius,2 London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. “Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: But oh! what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings!10 Britannia's issue hail! Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; What strings symphonious tremble in the air, confederate lords in their manifesto, by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older writers) was starved to death. The story of his assassination by Sir Piers, of Exon, is of much later date. 1 Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. 2 Henry VL, George, Duke of Clarence, Edward V., Richard, Duke of York, &c., believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar. 2 Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her crown. 4 Henry V. 5 Henry VI., very near been canonised. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the 8 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well-known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other places. It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy Land, and should return again to reign over Britain. 10 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island, which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor. 11 Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, says, And thus she, lion-like, rising, daunted the malipert orator no less with her stately port and majestical deporture, than with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes.' 12 Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth cen Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. And distant warblings3 lessen on my ear, Fond, impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care; To triumph, and to die, are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. Stoke Pogeis Church, and Tomb of Gray. tury. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in 3 The succession of poets after Milton's time. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. The Alliance between Government and Education; a Fragment. As sickly plants betray a niggard earth, And scatter with a free, though frugal hand, The spacious animated scene survey, Say, then, through ages by what fate confined, To different climes seem different souls assigned? Here measured laws and philosophic ease Fix and improve the polished arts of peace. There industry and gain their vigils keep, Command the winds, and tame the unwilling deep. Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail; There languid pleasure sighs in every gale. Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war; And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway, Their arms, their kings, their gods were rolled away. As oft have issued, host impelling host, The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast, Not but the human fabric from the birth To turn the torrent's swift-descending flood, (As lawless force from confidence will grow), · WILLIAM MASON. WILLIAM MASON, the friend and literary executor of Gray, long survived the connection which did him so much honour, but he appeared early as a poet. He was the son of the Rev. Mr Mason, vicar of St. Trinity, Yorkshire, where he was born in 1725. At Pembroke college, Cambridge, he became acquainted with Gray, who assisted him in obtaining his degree of M.A. His first literary production was an attack on the Jacobitism of Oxford, to which Thomas Warton replied in his 'Triumph of Isis.' In 1753 appeared his tragedy of Elfrida, 'written,' says Southey, on an artificial model, and in a gorgeous diction, because he thought Shakspeare had precluded all hope of excellence in any other form of drama.' The model of Mason was the Greek drama, and he introduced into his play the classic accompaniment of the chorus. A second drama, Caractacus, is of a higher cast than Elfrida:' more noble and spirited in language, and of more sustained dignity in scenes, situations, and character. Mason also wrote a series of odes on Independence, Memory, Melancholy, and The Fall of Tyranny, in which his gorgeousness of diction swells into extravagance and bombast. His other poetical works are his English Garden, a long descriptive poem in blank verse, extended over four books, and an ode on the Commemoration of the British Revolution, in which he asserts those Whig principles which he steadfastly maintained during the trying period of the American war. As in his dramas Mason had made an innovation on the established taste of the times, he ventured, with equal success, to depart from the practice of English authors, in writing the life of his friend Gray. Instead of presenting a continuous narrative, in which the biographer alone is visible, he incorporated the journals and letters of the poet in chronological order, thus making the subject of the memoir in some degree his own biographer, and enabling the reader to judge more fully and correctly of his situation, thoughts, and feelings. The plan was afterwards adopted by Boswell in his Life of Johnson, and has been sanctioned by subsequent usage, in all cases where the subject is of importance enough to demand copious information and minute personal details. The circumstances of Mason's life are soon related. After his career at college, he entered into orders, and was appointed one of the royal chaplains. He held the living of Ashton, and was precentor of York cathedral. When politics ran high, he took an active part on the side of the Whigs, but was respected by all parties. He died in 1797. Mason's poetry cannot be said to be popular, even with poetical readers. His greatest want is simplicity, yet at times his rich diction has a fine effect. In his English Garden,' though verbose and lan [From Caractacus.] Mona on Snowdon calls: Hark, she speaks from all her strings: And greet in whispers sage and slow. And burst thy base with thunder's shock: But to thee no ruder spell Shall Mona use, than those that dwell In music's secret cells, and lie Steeped in the stream of harmony. Snowdon has heard the strain: Hark, amid the wondering grove Rustling vestments brush the ground; Round and round, and round they go, Through the twilight, through the shade, And gild the tufted misletoe. Cease, ye glittering race of light, Close your wings, and check your flight; Spread your robes of saffron hue; Epitaph on Mrs Mason, in the Cathedral of Bristol. Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which heaven so lately gave: To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, And died! Does youth, does beauty, read the line? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine; Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free; As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, ('Twas even to thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.' OLIVER GOLDSMITH. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, whose writings range over every department of miscellaneous literature, challenges attention as a poet chiefly for the unaffected ease, grace, and tenderness of his descriptions of rural and domestic life, and for a certain vein of pensive philosophic reflection. His countryman Burke said of himself, that he had taken his ideas of liberty not too high, that they might last him through life. Goldsmith seems to have pitched his poetry in a subdued under tone, that he might luxuriate at will among those images of quiet beauty, comfort, benevolence, and simple pathos, that were most congenial to his own character, his hopes, or his experience. This popular poet was born at Pallas, a small village in the parish of Forney, county of Longford, Ireland, on the 10th of November 1728. He was the sixth of a family of nine children, and his father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was a poor curate, who eked out the scanty funds which he derived from his profession, by renting and cultivating some land. The poet's father afterwards succeeded to the rectory of Kilkenny West, and removed to the house and farm Ruins of the house at Lissoy, where Goldsmith spent of Lissoy, in his former parish. Here Goldsmith's youth was spent, and here he found the materials for his Deserted Village. After a good country education, Oliver was admitted a sizer of Trinity college, Dublin, June 11, 1745. The expense of his education was chiefly defrayed by his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Contarini, an excellent man, son to an Italian of the Contarini family at Venice, and a clergyman of the established church. At college, the poet was thoughtless and irregular, and always in want. His tutor was a man of fierce and brutal passions, and having struck him on one occasion before a party of friends, the poet left college, and wandered about the country for some time in the utmost poverty. His brother Henry clothed and carried him back to college, and on the 27th of February 1749, he was admitted to the degree of B.A. Goldsmith now gladly left the university, and returned to Lissoy. His father was dead, but he idled away two years How often have I led thy sportive choir, Traveller. of the day. In 1758 he presented himself at Surgeons' Hall for examination as an hospital mate, with the view of entering the army or navy; but he had the mortification of being rejected as unqualified. That he might appear before the examining surgeon suitably dressed, Goldsmith obtained a new suit of clothes, for which Griffiths, publisher of the Monthly Review, became security. The clothes were immediately to be returned when the purpose was served, or the debt was to be discharged. Poor Goldsmith, having failed in his object, and probably distressed by urgent want, pawned the clothes. The publisher threatened, and the poet replied-I know of no misery but a gaol, to which my own imprudences and your letter seem to point. I have seen it inevitable these three or four weeks, and, by heavens! request it as a favour-as a favour that may prevent somewhat more fatal. I have been some years struggling with a wretched being-with all that contempt and indigence brings with it-with all those strong passions which make contempt insupportable. What, then, has a gaol that is formidable?' Such was the almost hopeless condition, the deep despair, of this imprudent but amiable author, who has added to the delight of millions, and to the glory of English literature. Henceforward the life of Goldsmith was that of a man of letters. He lived solely by his pen. Besides numerous contributions to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, the Lady's Magazine, the British Magazine, &c., he published an Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe (1759), his admirable Chinese Letters, afterwards published with the title of The Citizen of the World, a Life of Beau Nash, and the History of England in a series of letters from a nobleman to his son. The latter was highly successful, and was popularly attributed to Lord Chesterfield. In December 1764 appeared his poem of The Traveller, the chief corner-stone of his fame, 'without one bad line,' as has been said; without one of Dryden's careless verses.' Charles Fox pronounced it one of the finest poems in the English language; and Dr Johnson (then numbered among Goldsmith's friends) said that the merit of 'The Traveller' was so well established, that Mr Fox's Scenes of this kind formed an appropriate school praise could not augment it, nor his censure diminish for the poet. He brooded with delight over these it. The periodical critics were unanimous in its pictures of humble primitive happiness, and his praise. In 1766 he published his exquisite novel, imagination loved to invest them with the charms of The Vicar of Wakefield, which had been written two poetry. Goldsmith afterwards visited Germany years before, and sold to Newberry the bookseller, and the Rhine. From Switzerland he sent the first to discharge a pressing debt. His comedy of The sketch of the 'Traveller' to his brother. The loftier Good-Natured Man was produced in 1767, his Roman charms of nature in these Alpine scenes seems to History next year, and The Deserted Village in 1770. have had no permanent effect on the character or The latter was as popular as The Traveller,' and direction of his genius. He visited Florence, Verona, speedily ran through a number of editions. In 1773, Venice, and stopped at Padua some months, where Goldsmith's comedy, She Stoops to Conquer, was he is supposed to have taken his medical degree. In brought out at Covent Garden theatre with immense 1756 the poet reached England, after two years of applause. He was now at the summit of his fame wandering, lonely, and in poverty, yet buoyed up and popularity. The march had been long and toilby dreams of hope and fame. Many a hard struggle some, and he was often nearly fainting by the way; he had yet to encounter! His biographers repre- but his success was at length complete. His name sent him as now becoming usher at Dr Milner's stood among the foremost of his contemporaries; his school, a portion of his history which we have seen works brought him in from £1000 to £1800 per anreason to place at an earlier period. However this num. Difficulty and distress, however, still clung may be, he is soon after found contributing to the to him: poetry had found him poor at first, and she Monthly Review. He was also some time assistant kept him so. From heedless profusion and extravato a chemist. A college friend, Dr Sleigh, enabled gance, chiefly in dress, and from a benevolence which him to commence practice as a humble physician knew no limit while his funds lasted, Goldsmith was in Bankside, Southwark; but his chief support scarcely ever free from debt. The gaming table also arose from contributions to the periodical literature presented irresistible attractions. He hung loosely on society, without wife or domestic tie; and his early habits and experience were ill calculated to teach him strict conscientiousness or regularity. He continued to write task-work for the booksellers, * Collections Illustrative of the Geology, History, Antiquities, and Associations of Camberwell. By Douglas Allport. Camberwell: 1841. |