Withheld their moisture, till by art provoked Had mixed the blood, and rank with fetid streams: Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign. To drive the venom out. And here the fates To heaven, with suppliant rites they sent their prayers; Heaven heard them not. Of every hope deprived, WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. An admirable translation of The Lusiad' of Camoens, the most distinguished poet of Portugal, was executed by WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE, himself a poet of taste and fancy, but of no great originality or energy. Mickle was son of the minister of Langholm, in Dumfriesshire, where he was born in 1734. He was engaged in trade in Edinburgh as conductor, and afterwards partner, of a brewery; but he failed in business, and in 1764 went to London, desirous of literary distinction. Lord Lyttelton noticed and encouraged his poetical efforts, and Mickle was buoyed up with dreams of patronage and celebrity. Two years of increasing destitution dispelled this vision, and the poet was glad to accept the situation of corrector of the Clarendon press at Oxford. Here he published Pollio, an elegy, and The Concubine, a moral poem in the manner of Spenser, which he afterwards reprinted with the title of Syr Martyn. Mickle adopted the obsolete phraseology of Spenser, which was too antiquated even for the age of the 'Faery Queen,' and which Thomson had almost wholly discarded in his 'Castle of Indolence.' The first stanza of this poem has been quoted by Sir Walter Scott (divested of its antique spelling) in illustration of a remark made by him, that Mickle, 'with a vein of great facility, united a power of verbal melody, which might have been envied by bards of much greater renown:' Awake, ye west winds, through the lonely dale, Even now, with balmly sweetness, breathes the gale, Dimpling with downy wing the stilly lake; Through the pale willows faltering whispers wake, And Evening comes with locks bedropped with dew; On Desmond's mouldering turrets slowly shake The withered rye-grass and the harebell blue, And ever and anon sweet Mulla's plaints renew. Sir Walter adds, that Mickle, 'being a printer by profession, frequently put his lines into types without taking the trouble previously to put them into writing.' This is mentioned by none of the poet's biographers, and is improbable. The office of a corrector of the press is quite separate from the mechanical operations of the printer. Mickle's poem was highly successful (not the less, perhaps, because it was printed anonymously, and was ascribed to different authors), and it went through three editions. In 1771 he published the first canto of his great translation, which was completed in 1775; and being supported by a long list of subscribers, was highly advantageous both to his fame and fortune. In 1779 he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnston, and was received with much distinction in Lisbon by the countrymen of Camoens. On the return of the expedition, Mickle was appointed joint agent for the distribution of the prizes. His own share was considerable; and having received some money by his marriage with a lady whom he had known in his obscure sojourn at Oxford, the latter days of the poet were spent in ease and leisure. He died at Forest Hill, near Oxford, in 1788. The most popular of Mickle's original poems is his ballad of Cumnor Hall, which has attained additional celebrity by its having suggested to Sir Walter Scott the groundwork of his romance of Kenilworth.* The plot is interesting, and the versification easy and musical. Mickle assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads (in which Cumnor Hall' and other pieces of his first appeared); and though in this style of composition he did not copy the direct simplicity and unsophisticated ardour of the real old ballads, he had much of their tenderness and pathos. A still stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish song, the author of which was long unknown, but which seems clearly to have been written by Mickle. An imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among his manuscripts after his death; and his widow being applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words. It is the fairest flower in his poetical chaplet. The delineation of humble matrimonial happiness and affection which the song presents, is almost unequalled- Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His very foot has music in't *Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuaded by Mr Constable, his publisher, to adopt the title of Kenilworth. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy with the thought, Then there are the two lines-a happy Epicurean fancy, but elevated by the situation and the faithful love of the speaker-which Burns says 'are worthy of the first poet'— The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. These brief felicities of natural expression and feeling, so infinitely superior to the stock images of poetry, show that Mickle could have excelled in the Scottish dialect, and in portraying Scottish life, had he truly known his own strength, and trusted to the impulses of his heart instead of his ambition. Cumnor Hall. The dews of summer night did fall, The moon (sweet regent of the sky) Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. That issued from that lonely pile. Immured in shameful privity? No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear stern Earl's the same to thee. Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal. I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the live-long day. If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was, you oft would say! And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. Yes! now neglected and despised, The rose is pale, the lily's dead; But he that once their charms so prized, Is sure the cause those charms are fled. For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay: What floweret can endure the storm? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, Where every lady's passing rare, That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, Are not so glowing, not so fair. Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by? 'Mong rural beauties I was one; Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. (The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the live-long day? The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go: Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have wo. The simple nymphs! they little know To be content, than to be great. Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; Save Philomel on yonder thorn. Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a body seems to say, "Countess, prepare-thy end is near." Thus sore and sad that lady grieved In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 71 The Mariner's Wife. But are ye sure the news is true? Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck about the house, Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak-I'll to the key, Rise up and make a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat. And mak their shoon as black as slaes, There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair, Mak haste and thraw their necks about, My Turkey slippers I'll put on, Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; His very fit has music in't, As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: [The Spirit of the Cape.] Now prosperous gales the bending canvass swelled; Unearthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread, By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired, And all the storms that own my sovereign sway, Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane, Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew, DR JOHN LANGHORNE. DR JOHN LANGHORNE, an amiable and excellent clergyman, has long lost the popularity which he possessed in his own day as a poet; but his name nevertheless claims a place in the history of English literature. He was born at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland, in 1735, and held the curacy and lectureship of St John's, Clerkenwell, in London. He afterwards obtained a prebend's stall in Wells cathedral, and was much admired as a preacher. He died in 1779. Langhorne wrote various prose works, the most successful of which was his Letters of Theodosius and Constantia; and, in conjunction with his brother, he published a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which still maintains its ground as the best English version of the ancient author. His poetical works were chiefly slight effusions, dictated by the passion or impulse of the moment; but he made an abortive attempt to repel the coarse satire of Churchill, and to walk in the magic circle of the drama. His ballad, Owen of Carron, founded on the old Scottish tale of Gil Morrice, is smoothly versified, but in poetical merit is inferior to the original. The only poem of Langhorne's which has a cast of originality is his Country Justice. Here he seems to have anticipated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true colours. His picture of the gipsies, and his sketches of venal clerks and rapacious overseers, are genuine likenesses. He has not the raciness or the distinctness of Crabbe, but is equally faithful, and as sincerely a friend to humanity. He pleads warmly for the poor vagrant tribe : Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; This allusion to the dead soldier and his widow on the field of battle was made the subject of a print by Bunbury, under which were engraved the pathetic lines of Langhorne. Sir Walter Scott has mentioned, that the only time he saw Burns, the Scottish poet, this picture was in the room. Burns shed tears over it; and Scott, then a lad of fifteen, was the only person present who could tell him where the lines were to be found. The passage is beautiful in itself, but this incident will embalm and preserve it for ever. When the poor hind, with length of years decayed, If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, But, hapless! oft through fear of future wo, Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher ? To something more than magistrate aspire! And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind! The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu! And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side, Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride, As meet no more the wintry blast to bear, And all the wild hostilities of air. That roof have I remembered many a year; It once gave refuge to a hunted deerHere, in those days, we found an aged pair; But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there? 'Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed of naked fern, two human creatures dead! Embracing as alive!-ah, no !—no life! Cold, breathless!' 'Tis the shepherd and his wife. [Appeal to Country Justices in Behalf of the Rural I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold Poor.] Let age no longer toil with feeble strife, Nor leave the head, that time hath whitened, bare O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend! Nor leave thy venal clerk empowered to hear; But chief thy notice shall one monster claim; What speaks more strongly than the story toldThey died through want By every power I swear, If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, Through whose default of duty, or design, These victims fell, he dies.' [An Advice to the Married.] Should erring nature casual faults disclose, Love, like the flower that courts the sun's kind ray, Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys, The Dead. Of them, who wrapt in earth are cold, No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told, For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time, Through Death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long asserted spoil, And lead Oblivion into day? 'Tis nature prompts by toil or fear, Unmoved to range through Death's domain; The tender parent loves to hear Her children's story told again! Eternal Providence. Light of the world, Immortal Mind; And still this poor contracted span, Affliction flies, and Hope returns; [A Farewell Hymn to the Valley of Irwan.] Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale, My infant years where Fancy led, The primrose on the valley's side, The wilding's blossom blushing red; How oft, within yon vacant shade, And watched the wave that wandered by ; Yet still, within yon vacant grove, And watch the wave that winds away; SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. Few votaries of the muses have had the resolution to abandon their early worship, or to cast off the Dalilahs of the imagination,' when embarked on more gainful callings. An example of this, however, is afforded by the case of SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE (born in London in 1723, died 1780), who, having made choice of the law for his profession, and entered himself a student of the Middle Temple, took formal leave of poetry in a copy of natural and pleasing verses, published in Dodsley's Miscellany. Blackstone rose to rank and fame as a lawyer, wrote a series of masterly commentaries on the laws of England, was knighted, and died a judge in the court of common pleas. From some critical notes on Shakspeare by Sir William, published by Stevens, it would appear that, though he had forsaken his muse, he still (like Charles Lamb, when he had given up the use of the great plant,' tobacco) 'loved to live in the suburbs of her graces.' The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse. |