Page images
PDF
EPUB

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead.
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stɔre -But left him alone with his glory.

SONG.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died.

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be!

It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,-
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,—

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire-the seat of his family, an ancient and honourable one-on the 30th of January, 1775. He was educated at Rugby. When he had reached nearly the head of the school, he was too young for the University, and was placed under the tuition of Mr. Langley, at Ashbourne in Derbyshire; but a year afterwards was entered of Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned Benwell was his private tutor. During his residence there, he is said to have manifested that independence of spirit and restlessness of controul, for which he has been since remarkable; and was rusticated for shooting across the Quadrangle at prayer-time. In 1808, on the first insurrection of Spain, he joined the Viceroy of Galicia, Blake. The Madrid Gazette of that year mentions a gift from him of 20,000 reals. On the extinction of the Constitution, he returned to Don P. Cevallos the tokens of royal approbation he had received from the government, and expressed his sentiments on the subject in no very measured terms. In 1811, Mr Landor married Julia, the daughter of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and re presentative of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles the Eighth. In the autumn of 1815, he retired to Italy: fer some years he occupied the Palazzo Medici, in Florence, and then purchased the beautiful villa of Count Gherardesca, at Fiesole, with its gardens and farms, half a mile from the ancient villa of Lorenzo de Medici. For many years afterwards his visits to England were few and brief: ultimately, however, he settled at Bath; but in 1856, having quarrelled with a lady of that city, he vented his wrath in verse, utterly indefensible: an action for defamation ensued; and the Poet suffered in purse, but infinitely more in reputation. The result was a permanent farewell to England: he died at Florence, on the 17th of September, 1864, in the 89th year of his age.

Mr. Landor afforded ample proof of a disposition exceedingly restless and excitable. He had more of the fierté of genius - less often witnessed than read of-than any writer we could name. His countenance did not, at first, convey that impression; but his passions were strong, his sensibilities keen and active, and his pride indomitable His face was remarkably fine and intellectual; and, as with many who profess extreme liberal opinions, his look and bearing were those of a man who can have no sympathies in common with the mean and vulgar.

His works have not been popular; yet we might select at random, from any one of them, a dozen pages, out of which a more skilful, a more cunning, or a more humble man might have made a reputation. They are full to overflowing; one cannot but wonder at the vast mine of thought, reason, and reflection, of which they exhibit proofs;-at the same time, it will be lamented that some peculiar notions led him to neglect the means by which his strong natural powers might have been made universally beneficial. It is obvious that he laboured to attain a dislike of, and a contempt for, human kind; in all his writings there is a singular and striking mixture of the generous with the disdainful -tenderness with wrath, strong affections with antipathies quite as strong. His "Imaginary Conversations" will endure with the language in which they are written; and if they do not find readers in the multitude, they will be always appreciated by those whose judgment is valuable and whose praise is reward. His latest work in prose," Pericles and Aspasia," might justify even a warmer eulogy.

Mr. Landor published but one volume of Poetry,-"Geber, Count Julian, and other Poems;" but several of his most powerful and beautiful compositions will be found scattered through his prose works. Our readers will find in our selections ample to sustain a high reputation. They are polished to a degree, yet full of fine thoughts and rich fancies. To a glowing imagination, and a mind remarkably vigorous, he added the advantages of extensive learning, and a matured knowledge of human kind. His indifference to public opinion-arising, no doubt, from a taste highly cultivated, and a refined appreciation of excellence-unhappily induced him to withhold too much of the intellectual wealth he possessed, and even to mix with "baser matter" that which he has given us. If he had been born a poor man, he would have been, at least in the estimation of the world, a much greater man than he was. If, however, the fame of Walter Savage Landor be not widely spread, it cannot fail to be enduring. Among the rarest and most excellent of British Poets he will always be classed.

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

CLIFTON, in vain thy varied scenes invite-
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height;
The sheep, that starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant churches' mellow chime :
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar;
The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.

Now the last lonely solace must it be

To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea, Then join my friends, and let those friends believe My cheeks are moistened by the dews of evc.

THE DRAGON-FLY.

LIFE (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.

Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and meshy wing,
Who, with indifference, givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine:
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

TO IANTHE.

WHILE the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,

The ripening harvest and the hoary sands:
Alone, and destitute of every page

That fires the poet, or informs the sage,

Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove,

Rest upon past or cherish promised love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,

Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain.
Fancy, that shows her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.
Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour,
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour;
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

« PreviousContinue »