WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's Sutton, Northamptonshire-a parish of which his father was vicar-on the 24th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The Poet received his early education at Winchester School; and he rose to be the senior boy. He was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 1792, he took his degree. On quitting the University, he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire; soon afterwards he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire; in 1803, he became a prebend of Salisbury; and Archbishop Moore presented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where he has since constantly resided,-only now and then visiting the metropolis,-enjoying the country, and its peculiar sources of profitable delight, performing with zeal and industry his parochial duties, and beloved by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of his residence.

The Sonnets of Bowles, his first publication, appeared in 1793. They were received with considerable applause; and the writer, if he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found ample recompense in the fact, that they contributed to form the taste, and call forth the genius, of Coleridge, whom they "delighted and inspired." The author of "Christabel" speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from several perilous errors "by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the sonnets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, however, satisfied with expressing, in prose, his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out his gratitude to his first master in minstrel-lore:

"My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring

Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring."

In 1805, he published the "Spirit of Discovery by Sea:" it is the longest of his productions, and is generally considered his best. The most recent of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse Book," a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by comparison with those of Dr. Watts; and which are admirably calculated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed.

Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by his controversy with Byron, on the subject of the writings of Pope. In prefacing an edition of the Works of Pope, he advanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered him "no Poet;" and that, according to the "invariable principles" of poetry, the century of fame which had been accorded to the "Essay on Man" was unmerited. Campbell opened the defence; and Byron stepped forward as a warm, and somewhat angry advocate. A sort of literary warfare followed; and a host of pamphlets on both sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, the question remains precisely where it did. Bowles, however, though he failed in obtaining a victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to his "invariable principles," manifested during the contest so much judgment and ability, that his reputation as a critic was considerably enhanced.

The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popularity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments, than for any loftiness of thought or richness of fancy. He has never dealt with themes that "stir men's minds;" but has satisfied himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has considered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, “ tender, yet manly;" and he has, undoubtedly, brought the accessories of harmonious versification and graceful language to the aid of "right thinking" and sound judgment. His poems seldom startle or astonish the reader: he does not labour to probe the heart, and depict the more violent passions of human kind; but he keeps an "even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture. The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beautiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignificant: the topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are such only as are naturally excellent.

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BOWLES.

ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT.

MOUNTAIN! no pomp of waving woods hast thou,
That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow;
No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread,-
No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed.
But thou canst boast thy beauties,-ample views
That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse:
Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas
Now glassy smooth,-now wrinkling to the breeze;
And when the drizzly winter, wrapt in sleet,
Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts beat,-
Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof,

And frowning, bleak and bare, and tempest-proof,
Look, as with awful confidence, and brave

The howling hurricane,-the dashing wave;

More graceful when the storm's dark vapours frown, Than when the summer suns in pomp go down;

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CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

Look at those sleeping children!-softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream; and come not nigh
'Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,
""Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah! they are dead!
Yet folded in each other's arms they lie—

So still-oh, look! so still and smilingly ;

So breathing and so beautiful they seem,

As if to die in youth were to dream

Of spring and flowers!-of flowers? yet nearer stand,--There is a lily in one little hand,

Broken, but not faded yet,

As if its cup with tears was wet!

So sleeps that child,—not faded, though in death;

And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,

As when she first did lay her head to rest

Gently on that sister's breast,

And kiss'd her ere she fell asleep!

Th' archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.

"Take up those flowers that fell

From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!

Your spirits rest in bliss!

Yet ere with parting prayers we say

Farewell for ever! to the insensate clay,

Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!"

Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wrought

This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,-
Thine, Chantrey, be the fame

That joins to immortality thy name.

For these sweet children that so sculptured rest,

A sister's head upon a sister's breast,

Age after age shall pass away,

Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay:
For here is no corruption,-the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form:
This smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age!
Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
Shall gaze with tears upon the monument!
And fathers sigh, with half suspended breath,
"How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!"

RESTORATION OF MALMSBURY ABBEY.

MONASTIC and time-consecrated fane!
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august, as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The host high-raised, or fuming censer swung;
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order
go;-
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height;
As to admit heaven's pale but purer light;
Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows,
E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose
Amid the silent sanctity of death,

Like giants, seem to guard the dust beneath :
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile,---
Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?
Oh, mightiest Master! thy immortal strains
These roofs demand. Listen,-with prelude slow,
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs

blow.

And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chaunt
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?
More softly now, imploring litanies,

Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs
Of penitence, from yon high altar rise;
Again the vaulted roof "Hosannah" rings-
"Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"
Rent, but not prostrate,-stricken, yet sublime,
Reckless alike of injuries or time;

Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty,

The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy!

The temple of our Sion so shall mock

The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock, Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!

THE fame of Aytoun is derived principally from his "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers;" for, although he wrote several minor poems, he produced no work of any length; and his claim to rank among the poets of the century is founded upon a single small volume, containing altogether some fifty compositions in verse.

We are indebted to his friend Mr. John Blackwood for a memoir of Aytoun; it is brief but full of the affection the publisher had cherished for one he knew intimately, and for whom, indeed, was written much of what the poet did. He was born at Edinburgh, in June, 1813, and died in August, 1865, having barely completed his fifty-second year. He was well descended and well connected, and is said to have derived from his mother, "much of his early and enduring love for the old cause of the Cavaliers."

In 1845, he was appointed Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edinburgh--and was thus the successor of many of the most eminent men to whom Scotland has given birth, including Professor Wilson, whose daughter Jane, Mr. Aytoun married in 1849. Unhappily, she died in 1859.

In 1852, he was made sheriff of Orkney and Shetland, having been some time previously called to the Scottish bar. He was an eloquent speaker as well as a vigorous writer; and, in private life, won the esteem and regard of all with whom he came in contact: few of the men of his time had more personal friends and there are none who better earned the respect of all classes and parties.

Although his contributions in verse are not numerous, he was by no means a mere idler with the pen. Mr. Blackwood tells us he contributed (between the years 1839, when his connection with it commenced, and 1865, when he left earth) more than one hundred and twenty papers to Blackwood's Magazine. Of his prose articles, the most popular is "How we got up the Glenmutchkin Railway," a severe but useful satire, which no doubt had "marked effect, at the time, in moderating the frantic speculations of the period." The name of Aytoun is closely associated with that of another distinguished Scottish man-Theodore Martin; together they produced "The Bon Gaultier Ballads," "which now forms the best and most popular collection that exists of that kind of composition." Mr. Martin has since obtained higher fame as an author, and as a translator from the German and the Italian holds a very foremost place among the men of the century.

Aytoun died while in the zenith of his fame. The popularity of his "Lays " is evidenced by the fact that they have passed through twelve editions. They are unsurpassed by any similar productions in our language; while graceful in style they are amazingly vigorous and powerful, manifesting, indeed, a thorough outburst of heart, as if he had given his whole soul to his subject. "The Execution of Montrose" will be always read with the deepest interest; there can be no question that a huge volume of "Memoirs," written by a hand ever so friendly, could not have raised a monument to the great Cavalier so enduring as the verse of the Poet,

The arrangement of our pages does not permit us to introduce into them that glorious poem; we must content our readers with an extract, less renowned, indeed, but hardly less touching and heroic-"The Old Scottish Cavalier."

In person, Aytoun was tall, robust, and handsome; in manners gentle and conciliating, though firm and manly. He was singularly energetic when speaking, and certainly in no way contradicted the idea that had been formed of him by those who had read his "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers."

This tribute to his memory is from the pen of John Blackwood-" His domestic affections were of the warmest and most engaging kind, and the friendships he formed were equally cordial and lasting. . . . His life altogether was a successful and happy one. Its success he owed to a combination of genius, industry, and prudence; and its happiness to his bright and genial temperament and equable temper." "He was a sincere and humble Christian, and to the last he retained the full possession of his faculties, calmly contemplating, with the most pious resignation, his approaching end."

Those who knew him personally, and those who only know him by his writings, will readily indorse this testimony of his friend to his moral, social, and intellectual worth:Carried off in the prime of life, in the midst of a brilliant, useful and prosperous career, and in the enjoyment of the utmost domestic happiness, he leaves a blank which will not soon be supplied in the hearts of those who possessed his friendship."