« PreviousContinue »
From the New Monthly Magazine, August 1818. First save us from the bloe fierd's realm,
Whose fogs the fainting soul o'erwhelm :
From gloomy frost our colonies
rain! That far in search of gems and flow'rs Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so;
Have stray'd from safe domestic bow'rs ; I would not give thy bosom pain.
Like the lost race which home again
Norwegia's pastor call'd in vain,
My blood runs coldly through my breast: They tempted, and returned no more.*
Alas ! thus Folly's venturers roain Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
From the calm teinperate zon of Home, And yet, methinks, a beam of peace
Orgaudy toys and plumes in quest, Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ;
Til bruer galps their speed arrest,
Aod bare and bruis'd their bark is hurl' And, for a while, my sorrows cease ·
On the cold Arctic of the world, To know that heart hath felt for mine!
To dwell houud up in icy chains, O Lady! blessed be that tear,
While Life's long polar winter reigos,
In pomp magnificently drear
Unless, like thee, some gentle star
Of kind affection gleams from far, Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm
And leads to social duty's track With every feeling soft as thine;
The long-hewilder'd wanderers back. But beauty's self has ceased to charın
Spirit of Hope ! at thy command A wretch---created to repine !
Yon scowling death-clime shall grow blandThen wilt thou weep when I am low?--
Come, and with playful meteors fill Sweet Lady! speak those words again!
Stern Winter's empire dim and chill! Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so ;
Waile icewinds breathe their cold monsoon, I would not give thy bosom pain !
Be thou th'unchanging Arctic Moon,
To some bright cove, where long unseen MS. POEM OF ROBERT BURNS.
Our kindred hearts bave shelter'il been !--
And though within the dread control
Of that dark zone that binds the pole,
e hond.oriting of The needle frein its place may turn, Burns, are copied from a Bank-note in the
he Apd loadstones pew attraction learn, possession of a Gentleman at Dumfries. The une
ics The The true heart shall not lose its skille Note is of the Bank of Scotland, and dated Home, home shall be its magnet still ! as far back as the 1st of March, 1780.
Fell source of a' my woe and grief !--- 'From the Literary Gazette, July, 1818.
From Körner.---Written when Germany was Unaided thro' thy curs'd restriction ;
under the French yoke, 1811. I've seen th' oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victims spoil:
TVENING begios---Day's voices all are For lack of thee I leave this much lov'd shore, 1
V still Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more!
Yet ruddier looks the Sun's departing
And mournful thoughts my bosom overflow.
Faithful mementos of more ancient times ! From the European Magazine.
In life's fair green your branches still arc THE
You are the same that former ages knew, ARCTIC NAVIGATOR'S PRAYER. Splendid as then appears your leafy vest. (By the author of " Legends of Lampidosa, &c.”] Time has destroy'd a thousand noble works,
And much of beauty early yields its PIRIT of Hope !---thy pinions fleet
breath,-May reach the Glacier's stormy seat! Now glimmering through your wreaths of Thou of all elements the queen,
glossy leaves, • Shalt best illume the changefal scene,
The sinking evening reddens into death. Where ice gives fiery ineteors birth, And stiffen'd Ocean vies with Earth :
• In 1406, the seventeenth bishop of a colony set
tled at East Greenland was prevented from reachBut first with bland and genial ray
ing them by a prodigious barrier of ice, and their fate Doubt's freezing barriers melt away! has never bec ascertained.
As if neglectful of your fate afone,
But hark ! while I thus musing stand, Time has not threatened yet your final Pours on the gale an airy note, hour;
And breatbing from a viewless band, You seem to say from every waving twig, Soft silvery tones around me float. • True greatness sball resist Death's mighty To
ata sagnly They cease---but still a voice I bear, power.'
A whispered voice of bope and joy--Yos have resisted long !---mid all around, Thy liour of rest approaches near, You still are dre:t in verdure fresh and Prepare thee, mortal! thou must die ! gay,
Yet start not ! on thy closing eyes
Another day shall still autold;
de A sun of milder radiance rise,
A happier age of joys unfold. And wben in Autumn your brown leaves Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight, sball fall,
The bumblest form in nature's train,
"P, 101 you wou wey Thus rise in new-born lustre bright,
And yet the emblem teach in vain ? To call a progeny successive forth, lo spring to clothe you with delightful Ab! where were once her golden eyes, shade.
Her glittring wings of purple pride!
Conceal'd beneath a rude disguise ! Fine image of Germania's ancient worth,
A shapeless mass to earth allied. As once to past, and better days 'twas known,
Like thee, the helpless repsile lived, When her brave sons, supportiug well her Like thee, she toiled, like thee slie spun; cause,
Like thine, ber closing hour arrived, Died to uphold their monarch and bis lier labours ceased, her web was done. throne! --
And shalt thou, number'd with the dead, Ah! what avails it to recall my grief,
No happier state of being kuow? That grief is known throughout my native And shail no future sorrow shed, land!
On thiee a beam of brighter glow ?
Is this the bourd of Power Divine,
Tu animate an insect frame?
Or shall not he who mouited thine,
Wake at his will the vital faine ?
Go, mortal! in thy reptile state, TAE BIRTH OF THE BUTTERFLY.
Enough to know to thee is given ;
Ge, and the joyful truth relate,
Fiaii child of earth, bright heir of heaven!
[Taylor's Anec. of Insects WVHEN, bursting forth to life and light.
V The offspring of enraptured May, Toe butterfly, on pinioas bright,
THE INDIAN CIRCEAN. Launched in full splendor on the day.
A Picture at the Somerset House Exhibition, Unconscious of a mother's care,
by T. Stewardson. No infant wretchedness it knew; Bot, as she felt the vernal air,
From the Literary Gazette, June, 1818. At once to full perfectiou grew.
M HE bower is of the Indian drapery Her slender form, etherial light,
I That weaves its living woof of flowers Her velvet textured wings unfold,
and fruits, With all the rainbow's colours bright,
Red with the kisses of the amorous Sun. And dropt with spots of burnieli'd gold.
The roof is canopied crimsop of the rose
That weeps the altar, clustering thro' the vine Treibbling awbile with joy she stood,
That with its slight stems pillars the greea And felt the sun's enlivening ray,
wall. Drank from the skies tbe vital flood,
The floor is violet-bedded, here and there And wondered at her plumage gay.
Tiuged with some rose fres! salien froin the And balanc'd oft her broidered wings,
Orinlaid with rich burls that force their way, Thro' fields of air prepared to sail ; Then on ber ventrous journey springs,
Veining the blur', like gold in lazoli,
Or the Suu's sweetstuins on the western wave. And floats along the rising gale.
A form is in that hower that might be thought Go, child of pleasure, range the fields--
Placed there for mon to worship, or of those Taste all the joys that spring can give.-
That sit on thrones o' the cloud, and wreathe Partake what bounteons summer yields,
their wings And live while yet 'tis thine to live.
With pearlsplich'd from the gates ofparadise.
Yet she is human,---and the slivery shawi, . Gosip the rose's fragrant dew--
That like a holy circle o'er a saini, The lily's honied cup explore--
Crowns her pale beauty, finds a weary brow, From power to flower the search renew, Besieged with memories that do nake it paie.
And rifle all the woodbine's store. And let me trace thy vagrant flight,
She sits upon the ground, and one hand lists Thy moments, too, of short repose :
A durc, that presses on her :oft lip sound's And mark thee when, with fresh delight, Like the wipe's u moing of the mone---and one Thy golden pinions ope and close.
Hold, a bright serpeli in a silken bild;
Her eye is on him, and his eye on her, For Memory's prism loves to strew
A lustre lovelier than their owu !
day, The heart's quick tribute to times past and In manhood's sterner sorrows melt away ; gone.
They are but shadows to the weight of woe And suuh wild sportings as he can he tries, That life's maturer years are doom'd to Before her powerful eye, and suils bis dance know ; Swifter or slower to her wandering song. Childhood's light griefs soon vanish from the He shouts along the violet floor, and lies
mind. Straight as a fallen column, and as still But all its sun-bright hours remain behind ! As its pale marble, then sweeps up his coil Surge upon surge, and lays his gorgeous head With its fixed,sleeplesseye, i'the centre riog,
From the New Monthly Magazine, August 1818.
THE MOSSY SEAT.
M HE landscape bath not lost its look ; Must be outdone, and he's as lithe and curl'd,
T Seill rushes on the sparkling river; And glistens thro' the leaves as proud a green. Nor hath the gloominess forsook But now the song grows loftier, and his pomp Must all be worn to please his Indian queeo. Sull hangs around the shadowy wood,
"P These granite crags that frown for ever; He rises from his train, Ibat on the grouud
Whose sounds but murmur solitude !
The setting sun is brightly shining,
It is not meet, it is not fit,
Though Fortune all' our hopes hath Or sheets it in one emerald, or the flame
thwarted, Of rubies, or the orient sapphire's blue. Whilst on the very stone I sit, His head is crested carbuncle, that spheres Wheve first we met and last we parted, An eye as glittering as a summer star, That absent from my soul should be Yet tix'd in all its shootings on one form, The thought that loves and looks to thee ! That thanks its duty with a faint, fond smile. So stands and shines he, tillthe cbarm is done, Each happy hour that we have proved, And that sweet sound and sweeter smile have Wbilst love's delicious converse blended ; sunk
As'neath the twilight star we roved, In silence and ju shade.
Unconscious where our progress tended,
And bids it love the “joys of grief !”
What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token, LINES FROM ASTARTE, A NEW POEM, That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest---but now is broken! By the Author of " Melancholy Hours." I cannot --Oh ! hast thou forgot
Our early loves ?---this hallowed spot?
I almost think I see thee stand :
I almost dream I hear thee speaking ;
I feel the pressure of thy haud : A Heaven of deeper, purer dye,
Thy liviug glacce in fondoess seeking. Ne'er met the gazing sage's eye,
Here, all apart---by all uuseen, And trees and flowers of lovelier hue
Thy form upon my arm to lean ! On earth's green surface never grew, Than tbose that bloom in shadowy pride Though beauty bless the landscape still--Within the clear anruffled tide!
Though woods surround,and waters leave it,
My heart feels not the vivid thrill No charm is lost that Nature gave,
Which long ago thy presence gave it : But softer yoiles the fairy scene,
Mirth---music---friendship have no tone Thus blushing through the azure wave, Like that which with thy voice hath flown)
That spreads its vesi ot light between, So to the Mourner's eyes grown dim with And memory only now remains tears,
"To whisper things that once delighted : Joys that are past assuine a lovelier light, Still, still I love to tread these plains... As gazing back thro' the dark mist of years, To seek this sacred haupt benighted, The scenes of other days appear more And feel a something sadly sweet bright;
lu resting on this moʻSY SEAT !
From the Literary Panorama, August, 1818. IT cannot be denied that the habit assemblages, we shall act with cruelty
I which living Poets cultivate, of deal- towards poetical inspiration. We ing only in those impressions which therefore think Mr. Coleridge should have affected them most strongly as be allowed to introduce his owls, and individuals, contributes much to the mastiff, in his old Christabel without warmth, intensity and enthusiasm of molestation. their compositions. A Poet, in the Since the reign of Lord Byron comabstract sense of the term, is a person menced, sentiment has become the staple who seeks for imposing and joteresting article. Creativeness of imagination, conceptions wherever they are to be which is quite a different thing, seems found, and who has do preference for at present to be more rare, and indeed one set of ideas more than another, ex- is very rare at all times, since we do not cept in so far as they are calculated to find a remarkable instance of it once in stir, excite, and gratify the human mind, a century. Poetical sentiment is merely This would be the character of one the strength of the moral affections who estimated the value of poetical sublimed by enthusiasm. Repeated materials philosophically. But it bas instances have proved that it is comgenerally been found, that Poetry can- patible with a very limited range of not be composed by setting so coolly ideas, nay, that it is even an exclusive to work; and that, when the reasoning principle, and likes a limited range, faculties are too watchful, there is gen- because varied ideas are apt to disturb erally a dispersion of those fine feelings it—but imagination is an universal love which serve as a sort of key-note for of conceptions, images, and pictures of calling together poetical thoughts. all kinds, for their own sake, and reJudgment is quite unable to detect the joices in producing them ad infinitum, relations wbich bind ideas together into for the sole pleasure of viewing the Poetry. Feeling alone can do it ; but pageant. Darwin is an example of a feeling is so much modified by circum- vivid imagination existing quite sepastances and associations, that we seldom rately from poetical sentiment or moral find it operating in any individual with enthusiasm. abstract propriety; and if we turn loose For strength of stimulus, the Poetry our metaphysical judgment upon its of sentiment is certainly preserable to
G ATHENBOM. Vol. 4.
that composed of mere pictures and the novelist and the satirist, and even to images like Darwin's, or that of ob- the painter of moral energies and affecservation and reflection like Pope's, tions, where like Crabbe, he takes them But as the understanding of the reader with such compounds as occur in real is entirely passive in perusing Poetry of life, without attempting to abstract them sentiment, the means of excitement are into the sublime. soon expended. Poetry, consisting So completely does the ideal beautipartly of reflection and observation, ful appear to be exhausted, that Poets, like that of Pope's, awakens the mind for some years back, have been obliged into a state of pleasing activity, which to represent their heroes as villadous may be sustained for almost any length and immoral, retaining, of course, the of time, without any feeling of weari- staple article of strength of mind. There ness or monotony, since the interest of is no doubt a charm about the idea of it is derived from the contrasts and great mental energy; but moral amiablecomparisons of dissimilar and distant ness would still have been retained as ideas, collected from a wide field, and an ingredient in the picture, if it had not from the aggregation of a great not become trite and threadbare. The many homogeneous ideas brought to case is the same on the stage. Sir bear on one point.
Giles Overreach, Bertram, and Richard The range of human thoughts is not the Third, proclaim aloud their wickedunlimited, and a considerable part of Dess to an applauding audience, and it has already been exhausted. In so are answered from the closet by Confar as Poetry consists in selecting the rad, Lara, Bertram, the Buccaneer, ideal beauties, either of human nature Childe Harold, and Meg Merilees, or of the external world, or in describ- whose respective confessions make the ing situations of imaginary felicity, we hair of ordinary Christians stand on can hardly now expect Poets to dis- end. · Manfred retorts again from the cover any unanticipated conceptions on Alps, and is like to have the Bible these subjects. Virtue and perfection thrown in his face by Jobn Balfour of are not susceptible of many different Burley, for pretending to be worse aspects, because their real elements than himself; while Mokapna, with his must always be the same. David silver veil, hopes to transcend the whole, Hume observes, that truth is one thing, by adding ugliness to a bad heart. while falsehood is unlimited in its varie- Since mankind must be furnished ties. The same thing may be said of with something to stir their sluggish the ideal beauties, both of mind and bosoms, it is very fair that Poets should matter. It is probable that the ancients employ whatever means are left for pro. would perceive a cloying similarity in ducing the effect wanted. The public, the lineaments and proportions of their for its own sake, must sometimes overbest statues because no artist could look the oddness of the expedients used; diverse very far from a certain standard and if modern Poetry does not exhibit without forsaking his object. The so extensive a range of ideas as could contention and emulation of sculptors be wished, it is rather to be ascribed to would draw them closer and closer to the love of intense effect, than to the a centre. The conceptions of a Phidias want of invention. Observation is the are circumscribed within a certain nat- source from whence every thing like ural boundary; but there is no boun- real opulence of conceptions must be dary to the variety of the conceptions of derived, since imagination only reproa Hogarth, because he does not aim at duces what has been observed in a drawing perfection, but at characterising form fit for poetry : and the great fault peculiarity and imperfection, which are of modern Poets seems to be, that they infinite. In the same manner, although have exerted themselves too little to heroie Poetry may be considered as furnish their minds with materials Dearly exhausted, the world will for whereupon to operate. ever continue to supply materials to