The Pauper's Deathbed. Tread softly-bow the head- Stranger! however great, Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state: Enter no crowds attend Enter no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement damp and cold No smiling courtiers tread; No mingling voices sound- A sob suppressed-again The parting groan. Mariner's Hymn. Launch thy bark, mariner! Breakers are round thee; There swept the blast. "What of the night, watchman? What of the night?' 'Cloudy-all quiet- No land yet-all's right.' At an hour when all seemeth How! gains the leak so fast? Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island; Straight for the beacon steer, Straight for the high land; Crowd all thy canvass on, Cut through the foamChristian! cast anchor nowHeaven is thy home! ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT, a learned lady, has published Prometheus Bound, a translation from the Greek of Eschylus; and written two original works, The Seraphim and other Poems (1838), and The Romaunt of the Page (1839). Cowper's Grave. It is a place where poets crowned O pocts! from a maniac's tongue Through dimming tears his story How discord on the music fell, And darkness on the glory And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds He wore no less a loving face, He shall be strong to sanctify And bow the meckest Christian down Nor ever shall he be in praise With sadness that is calm, not gloom, On God, whose heaven hath won him. And wrought within his shattered brain As hills have language for, and stars The pulse of dew upon the grass The very world, by God's constraint, Beside him true and loving! And timid hares were drawn from woods Tc share his home-caresses, Uplooking in his human eyes, With sylvan tendernesses. But while in darkness he remained, Unconscious of the guiding, MARY HOWITT. nated,' she says, 'in a strong impression of the immense value of the human soul, and of all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part-in a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my motto. What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, This lady, the wife of William Howitt, an indus- but without sufficient grounds for their palliation trious miscellaneous writer, is distinguished for and commiseration. It is necessary, for the acquisiher happy imitations of the ancient ballad manner. tion of that charity which is the soul of Christianity, In 1823 she and her husband published a volume of for us to descend into the depths of our own nature; poems with their united names, and made the fol- to put ourselves into many imaginary and untried lowing statement in the preface: The history situations, that we may enable ourselves to form of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in some tolerable notion how we might be affected by reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been them; how far we might be tempted-how far deour youthful amusement, and our increasing daily ceived-how far we might have occasion to lament enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful the evil power of circunstances, to weep over our hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of own weakness, and pray for the pardon of our our national literature, we have revelled with grow-crimes; that, having raised up this vivid perception ing and unsatiated delight; and, at the same time, of what we might do, suffer, and become, we may living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we apply the rule to our fellows, and cease to be astohave watched the changing features of nature; we nished, in some degree, at the shapes of atrocity into have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unos- which some of them are transformed; and learn to tentatious images which she is perpetually present bear with others as brethren, who have been tried ing, and given full scope to those workings of the tenfold beyond our own experience, or perhaps our imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty strength.' and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and scenes.' A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert: Away with the pleasure that is not partaken! I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, And when, as how often, I eagerly listen To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, And feel that affection has sweetened the lay. How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth, read! Mrs Howitt has since presented several volumes in both prose and verse, chiefly designed for young people. The whole are marked by a graceful intelligence and a simple tenderness which at once charm the reader and win his affections for the author. Mountain Children. Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, No crowd impedes your way, No city wall impedes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played. The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; These are your joys! Go forth- For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, Its quiet way into your spirits finds; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth-earth and sky Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread! The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend. And where have you been, my Mary, And what did you see, my Mary, "I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 'And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?' 'I heard the drops of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.' Oh, the poor, blind old widow Though she has been blind so long, And some they brought the brown lintseed, Oh, the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright, And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin- I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And with that I could not help but laugh, And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, But, as I came down from the hill-top, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go! And I peeped into the widow's field; And down by the weaver's croft I stole, With the good news in his eye! Now, this is all I heard, mother, So, prithee, make my bed, mother, Now that posture is not right, You shall have it, pigmy brother! There the little ancient man THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845) appeared before the public chiefly as a comic poet and humorist, but several of his compositions, of a different nature, show that he was also capable of excelling in the grave, pathetic, and sentimental. He had thoughts too deep for tears,' and rich imaginative dreams and fancies, which were at times embodied in continuous strains of pure and exquisite poetry, but more frequently thrown in, like momentary shadows, among his light and fantastic effusions. His wit and sarcasm were always genial and well applied. This ingenious and gifted man was a native of London, son of one of the partners in the bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe. He was educated for the counting-house, and at an early age was placed under the charge of a city merchant. His health, however, was found unequal to the close confinement and application required at the merchant's desk, and he was sent to reside with some relatives in Dundee, of which town his father was a native. While resident there, Mr Hood evinced his taste for literature. He contributed to the local newspapers, and also to the Dundee Magazine, a periodical of considerable merit. On the re-establishment of his health, he returned to London, and was put apprentice to a relation, an engraver. At this employment he remained just long enough to acquire a taste for drawing, which was afterwards of essential service to him in illustrating his poetical productions. About the year 1821 he had adopted literature as a profession, and was installed as regular assistant to the London Magazine, which at that time was left without its founder and ornament, Mr John Scott, who was unhappily killed in a duel. On the cessation of this work, Mr Hood wrote for various periodicals. He was some time editor of the New Monthly Magazine, and also of a magazine which bore his own name. His life was one of incessant exertion, embittered by ill health and all the disquiets and uncertainties incidental to authorship. When almost prostrated by disease, the government stept in to relieve him with a small pension; and after his premature death in May 1845, his literary friends contributed liberally towards the support of his widow and family. Mr Hood's productions are in various styles and forms. His first work, Whims and Oddities, attained to great popularity. Their most original feature was the use which the author made of puns-a figure generally too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. He afterwards (1827) tried a series of National Tales, but his prose was less attractive than his verse. A regular novel, Tylney Hall, was a more decided failure. In poetry he made a great advance. The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies is a rich imaginative work, superior to his other productions. As editor of the Comic Annual, and also of some of the literary annuals, Mr Hood increased his reputation for sportive humour and poetical fancy; and he continued the same vein in his Up the Rhine-a satire on the absurdities of English travellers. In 1843 he issued two volumes of Whimsicalities, a Periodical Gathering, collected chiefly from the New Monthly Magazine. His last production of any importance was the Song of the Shirt, which first appeared in Punch, and was as admirable in spirit as in composition. This striking picture of the miseries of the poor London sempstresses struck home to the heart, and aroused the benevolent feelings of the public. In most of Hood's works, even in his puns and levities, there is a 'spirit of good' directed to some kindly or philanthropic object. He had serious and mournful jests, which were the more effective from their strange and unexpected combinations. Those who came to laugh at folly, remained to sympathise with want and suffering. Of Hood's graceful and poetical puns, it would be easy to give abundant specimens. The following stanzas form part of an inimitable burlesque, Lament for the Decline of Chivalry :— Well hast thou said, departed Burke, Is ended now and past! Is now all over-cast. Ay! where are those heroic knights The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow! Where are those old and feudal clans, In cavils when will cavaliers No iron-crackling now is scored Though certain doctors still pretend, Awhile, before they kill a friend, To labour through his case! Farewell then, ancient men of might! Crusader, errant-squire, and knight! Our coats and customs soften; To rise would only make you weep; Sleep on in rusty iron sleep, As in a safety-coffin ! The grave, lofty, and sustained style of Hood is much more rare than this punning vein; but a few verses will show how truly poetical at times was his imagination-how rapt his fancy. The diction of the subjoined stanzas is rich and musical, and may recall some of the finest flights of the Elizabethan poets. We quote from an Ode to the Moon. Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Of that fair presence, and a thousand wrought, Upon the silver light, Tracing fresh figures with the artist thought. Clustered by all thy family of stars, Till in some Latinian cave I see thee creep, O thou art beautiful, howe'er it be! Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; I will be grateful for that simple boon, In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet. In the Gem, a literary annual for 1829, Mr Hood published a ballad entitled The Dream of Eugene Aram, which is also remarkable for its exhibition of the secrets of the human heart, and its deep and powerful moral feeling. It is perhaps to be regretted that an author, who had undoubted command of the higher passions and emotions, should so seldom have frequented this sacred ground, but have preferred the gaieties of mirth and fancy. He probably saw that his originality was more apparent in the latter, and that popularity was in this way more easily attained. Immediate success was of importance to him; and until the position of literary men be rendered more secure and unassailable, we must often be content to lose works which can only be the 'ripened fruits of wise delay.' The following is one of Hood's most popular effusions in that style which the public identified as peculiarly his own : A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) With antic toys so funnily bestuck, In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best!) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, Ì cannot write, unless he's sent above!) ALFRED TENNYSON. ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published a volume of poetry in 1830, while still a very young man. It met with rather severe treatment from one or more of the most influential reviews. Four years later, he issued another volume, which met a reception as unfavourable. For ten years after this he ceased to publish; his name did not appear in magazines or annuals as a contributor, neither was he mentioned in anyway in the catalogues of 72 |