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These are very passable lines—80 Amazed, the masses of the wild moor we let them pass. The moor has many minstrelsies, we perceive the Swift to the destined port. The busy Poet tells us, for those who trace its pier hundred brooks to their mountain Groans 'neath the giant spoil; the future

Away they go to fructify pile far-off fields

Is there, the portal vast, the column tall,

The tower, the temple, and the mighty “ Whilst thou

arch
The source of half the beauty, wearest

That yet shall span the torrent."
still
Through centuries, upon thy blasted brow, That is almost-if not quite-it is
The curse of barrenness."

poetry. Carrington goes on prophesyIn this region, now seeming as ing that the wilderness, no longer rock“ Arabian drought,” there are not strewed, shall blossom like the rose fewer than five principal rivers –

—that a thousand cots, fair-sprinkled twenty-four secondary rivers, fifteen

over the sward, shall delight the brooks, with names, and several ano

eye, where the old desert howlednymous contributors, two lakes, and high-cultured fields smile all around seven heads-or, altogether, fifty-flower-fringed streams flow with three streams! The most fertilizing

melodies-merry woodlands wake of deserts. And almost within arm's their varied lays enchantinglength there is a well-Fice's well.

" While the voice What a strange little edifice! Inte- of man is heard amid the general burst rior and sides of granite-inscription Of soul-inspiring sounds." (which must be a lie,) 1168, built doubtless in gratitude to the Naiad, This is midsummer madness. The to guard her from rape by Apollo. railway was a noble undertaking,

the total length of line being twenty“ Dartmoor silent desert!” is not five miles from King Tor to Sutton all silent.

Pool, Plymouth, and much lime, Through the rock coals, timber, &c. were at one time Of ages, hills abrupt, and caverns deep, conveyed up, (how is it now ?) and The railway leads its mazy track. The granite, &c. brought down; but Dartwill

moor is still Dartmoor, and will be Of science guides its vast meanders on, till Doomsday. From Plym's broad union with the ocean wave,

“ Shalt Thou alone! To Dartmoor's silent forest; and the

Dartmoor! in this fair land, where all depths

beside Of solitude primeval now resound

Is life and beauty, sleep the sleep of death, With the glad voice of man. The daunt- And shame the Map of England ?" of Industry assails yon mighty Tors

Perhaps it serves, as it is, the graOf the dread wilderness, and soon they Poet has already called it “the source

cious purposes of Providence. The lift Their awful heads no more.

of. half the beauty" of Devon's aussublime,

tral plains; and we see his annotaYe monuments of the past world, ye rose

tor says, and truly, “that such a suSublimely on the view, but fate has struck perabundance of water-upwards of The inexorable hour, and ye that bore,

fifty streams-arises from the moWild and unshatter'd as ye are, unmoved, rasses or bogs so extensive on the The brunts of many thousand stormy years, moor, the spongy soil of which reAnd awed the mind by your majestic

tains the rains, or rather torrents, forms,

when they fall, until gradually dealt And told strange tales of the departed out in rivulets, brooks, and rivers, to times,

the fertilization and ornament of the Must bend your hoary brows, and strew surrounding and distant country.” the hills

Drain Dartmoor, and you dry up the With venerable ruin !

Dart and the Teign, and heaven

knows how many other fair flowings, Lo ! along the iron way that now The rocks gigantic slide! The peasant views

“ Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.". VOL. XXXIII. NO, CCVII.

less grasp

Ye rose

2 Y

sive step,

Besides it would never pay. Nor is But what sees he now? Another that an unpoetical view of the mat- Tor, far off;-North-Brent Tor-not ter, for poetry can have no pleasure in far from the beautiful Tavistock, beholding human labour vainly wasted Why, we remember, many long years even to increase human happiness. ago, seeing it through a telescope All good poets are good Political seven leagues out at sea in our Economists—and they never fight schooner, with its church at the top. against nature—though they exult to And it forms, we have been told, a see her tamed from her pristine useful guide to mariners for entering wildness, and subservient, in her own Plymouth Sound. It looks like, and brighter lustre, to the necessities and we believe is, an extinct volcano. the enjoyments of man.

For its shape is conical, and the rock Why, here is expression given to is porous-used in the walls of Lidthe feeling of this still lonesomeness ford Castle. The church and suras good as our own-perhaps better. rounding yard, in which there is -and the versification is very music hardly earth sufficient for burying cal.

of the dead, nearly occupy the apex. " Devonia’s dreary Alps! and now I feel The tradition is, that a merchant, ex. The influence of that impressive calm

posed to a violent storm, vowed to That rests upon them. Nothing that has build a church to St Michael, if his life

life was spared, and this Tor having Is visible ; no solitary flock,

been the means of directing the At wide will ranging through the silent steersman into harbour, the vow was moors,

duly performed, by the erection of Breaks the deep-felt monotony, and all

this structure. ThusIs motionless, save where the giant shades

From yon plain Flung by the passing cloud, glide slowly Brent Tor uprushes. Even now, when all

o'er The grey and gloomy wild. With pen- Even now that solitary mass is dark,

Is light, and life, and joy on Tamar's bank,

Dark in the glorious sunshine. But when Delayed full oft to mark thy lovely mead,

night Northampton, I ascend the toiling hill, And now upon thy wind-swept ridge I

With raven wing broods o'er it, and the stand:

Of winter sweeps the moor, such sounds The south, the west, with all their mil

are heard lion fields,

Around that lonely rock, as village seers In sweet confusion mingled, lie below.

Almost unearthly deem. In truth it wears Above me frowns the Tor."

A joyless aspect; yet the very brow That is poetry. Nothing can be Uplifts a chapel; and Devotion breathes better than the image in italics. The Oft, in the region of the cloud, her hymn

Of touching melody. Impressive spot expression is perfect. It brings to our mind two lines of Walter Savage

For fair Religion's dome! and sure, if

aught Landor, which are wonderfully fine. Can prompt to holiest feeling, and give Speaking of the Egyptian Desert, near wings the Pyramids, he says

To disembodied thought, it is to bend " And hoofless camels, in long single line, The knee where erst tbe daring eagle Troop on, with foreheads level to the

perched ; sky,"

And while, with all its grossness, all its

care, Nor is the effect injured, but in- Earth waits, far, far below, to worship creased, by Carrington, when look- there, ing at and seeing in his solitary There, on the wild van of the wildest awe, “ Above me hangs the Tor,” he

rock asks

That Dartmoor lifts on high." « Art not thou old As the aged sun, and did not his first One ought not to be too hasty in beams

judging either of men's or moor's Glance on thy new-formed forehead; or

characters. How often do dismally art thou

dull men, as we had disposed of But born of the Deluge, mighty one? Thy them at first introduction, after fabirth

miliar intercourse, break, brighten, or Ie blended with the unfathomable past.” burst out into something absolutely

storm

little short of genius! One, who (for what else can you call him) looks was so shy and silent, that you could over your shoulder as you take away neither extract nor pump out of him all likeness from a glen,—which maa dissyllable, shews in the tail of his king a sudden wheel with all its old eye a lurking sly humour, and by woods, crowned with a castle old as and by begins to prate in an inter- themselves, and almost of the same mitting slow fever of fun that makes colour-shews you what is called we you restless till you have positively believe a Vista, that is, a long glimascertained that the man has wit. mering gloomy glory of wood, rock, The truth is, that he has been long and waterfall, as the river keeps leapknown as a geg. And much amuse- ing like a madman from mountain ment had he been giving to his own to sea, rock-bound as in chains, but choice set by his kitcats of your- free, in spite of bondage which he self spiritedly drawn, and coloured breaks, or hurries howling and roarto the life, with a certain droll kind ing on to the clank of his chains of irresistible dry humour. Another, echoing through chasms in the cliffs, who merely noddedor shook his head as if in many a mad-house replied in apparent acquiescence or dubiety, the lunatics, -he looks smilingly over while you were mouthing it away in your shoulder we say, and on your monologue, like a Lake Poet in a asking him, in all the conscious pride parlour, before the end of the week of art, “ if he does any thing in that grasps the earliest opportunity of way," replies, “ Not at all —not the getting your head into a cloven stick, least in the world”—but waiting till perhaps on the question of mediate you are done, and the vista done for, or immediate emancipation of the he slowly extracts from the inside blacks, and like a Borthwick bela- pocket of his jacket, on the left bouring a Thompson, or vice versâ, side of his breast, which seemed to with blow on blow

contain but a bandana, a “ wee bit “Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene

byuckie,” about eight inches long, Of mirth and jocund din,”

six broad, and one thick, page

after page rich with the magic he does so bother your brains, that you powers of pen and pencil, containing begin to doubt your personalidentity, within those brass clasps seemingly and to believe yourself some block- all that is worth looking at in Scothead half-beaten to death in Black- land,—and ere you have recovered wood's Magazine. A third, who has from your astonishment and shame, night after nightnotonly seconded the he outs carelessly with another duomotion made by the lady of the house, decimo delineating half of the North for a song from you, the mellifluous, of Italy and all Switzerland. the melodious, and the harmonious, We apply our illustration to Dartbut likened you at the fall of “ The moor. We abused it in good set Storm” to Incledon, confessing to a terms a little ago, for being barren; good ear and a passion for music, nor could we believe that “ yon but denying all voice, like a martyr was a bee. But Carrington corrects at the stake, some evening, when the us; and looking about, we see many drawing-room is full of the flowers of bees, and some birds, and birds too the field and the forest and the square of the right sort, and butterflies too, and the court, the moment after you likewise, and also, not in mere ones have, in your usual style, murdered or twos, or threes, but of the smaller Auld Robin Gray, volunteers-or and smallest size, in numbers withperhaps 'tis at a beck from Beckie- out number numberless—call them an air! And to your discomfiture mid-day moths if you choose-and and despair, to a man of your sensi- of the larger, if not the largest size, bility a thousand degrees worse than as many as can reasonably be exdeath, while the audience are hush- pected, and more in a moor-and ed in admiration and delight, he confound us if that one be not very keeps warbling one of Scotia's most like the Emperor of Morocco. heavenly melodies, as if he were a We give our palinode in the words linnet, a lark, a mavis, and a nightc of the poet. ingale all in one, or almost a Thomas “ There Spring leaves not M'Gill, who certainly is the sweetest Her emerald mantle on the vales, her singer in Scotland. A fourth impostor

breath

owns

inoor

Upon the breeze, but all the seasons pass Or wantoning in flight from bough to
In sad procession o'er the changeless earth; bough,
The hills arise monotonous ; from one From field to field; ah! who would bless
Dark hue, one dreary hue is on them all; thee, June,
And through the faithless dark morass If silent, songless, were the groves, un-
below

heard The sluggish waters creep. Yet even here The lark in heaven? And he who meets The voice of joy resounds. The moorland the bee lark,

Rifling the bloom, and listless hears his Sole bird that breaks the unnatural repose, hum, Springs from the heathery wilds and Incessant singing through the glowing pours a song

day; Inspiring; and though o'er his breeze- Or loves not the gay butterfly which swept nest

swims There bends no cheerful grass, nor in the Before him in the ardent noon, arrayed gale

In crimson, azure, emerald, and gold ; Of Summer strips the golden corn, he With more magnificence upon his wing,

His little wing, than ever graced the robe The influence of the vernal hour, and Gorgeous of royalty; like the kine makes

That wanders 'mid the flowers which gem Heaven's concave echo with a lovelier our meads, song

Unconscious of their beauty." Tban swells above the flowery mcad. Be- There is much beauty here; and hold

we begin to wish we had a cottage How swiftly up the aerial way he climbs,

in this very Dartmoor Forest. Dark Nor intermits his strains, but sings and

as it is, it has many a dell green mounts,

enough “in the season of the year;" Untired, till love recall him to the breast

and we dare say flowers are to be Of the dark moor. O dear to him that

had for the seeking—“sweet flowers Beyond the most luxuriant spot which

whose home is everywhere,”—and

we might even try a few exoticsearth Boasts in her ample round; for there his

in rivalry with the natives of the

wild. At our time of life, we could mate, Listening his lay, expectant sits, and there,

not hope to walk; but we might hope From morn to eve incessant, claiming

to sit, or, at the least, to lie under food,

trees of our own planting-say a few In mossy circles swathed, his nurslings pines. We know there are here and rest.

there pretty little gardens round

about, or before or behind the cots Bird, bee, and butterfly, the fairest three of the moor-men-and ours should That meet us ever on the Summer path! soon be the prettiest of them all, And what, with all their forms and hues with its bee-hives murmuring in divine,

the honey-sun-in the honey-moon Could Summer be without them? Though silent_and sugar-fed after the death the skies

of the heather-bells. We shall bring Were blue, and blue the streams, and a large wicker-cage to Tor-cot, with fresh the fields,

a blackbird and a mavis, who will And beautiful, as now, the waving woods, hop in and out at their “own sweet And exquisite the flowers ; and though will,” nor ever wish to venture away the sun

into the wilds. The site of our pigmy Roamed from his cloudless throne from

palace shall be among the deepest day to day,

heatherAnd, with the haze and shower, more Joveliness

For though the upsparing cultivator's Shed o'er this lovely world; yet all would

hand want

Crushes the lowly flowerets of the moor, A charm, if those sweet denizens of earth There many a vagrant wing light waves And air, made not the great creation teem

around With beauty, grace, and motion ! Who

Thy purple bells, Erica! 'Tis from thee would bless

The hermit-birds, that love the desert, The landscape, if upon his morning walk,

find He greeted not the feathery nations, Shelter and food.” perched

Rover and Fang must be inmates ; For love or song amid the dancing leaves; and they may go by themselves after

eye

seems

the flappers on the plashy moors, or By war's resistless bolts. The mouldering flash a stray woodcock in the half arch, dead “ Wood of Wistman.”

The long-withdrawing aisle, the shat

ter'd shrine, “ How heavily

The altar gray with age, the sainted Tbat old wood sleeps in the sunshine ;

niche, not a leaf

The choir, breeze swept, where once the Is twinkling, not a wing is seen to move

solemn hymn Within it; but below, a mountain stream, Upswellid, the tottering column, pile on Conflicting with the rocks, is ever heard, pile Cheering the drowsy noon. Thy guardian Fantastic, the imagination shapes oaks,

Around their breasts enormous. But My country, are thy boast,--a giant race,

'tis o'erAnd undegenerate still; but of this grove, The dream is o'er, and reason dissipates The pigmy grove, not one has climb'd The fair illusions. Yet in truth ye wear, the air

Rocks of the desert, forms that on the So emulously that its loftiest branch May reach the hawthorn's brow. The In column and mysterious grandeur rise ! twisted roots

And even now, though near the mountain Have clasp'd, in want of nourishment, the rocks,

Strew'd with innumerous fragments, as And straggled wide, and pierced the stony

when fate soil

Mysterious, in some unexpected hour, In vain ; denied maternal summer, bere Inexorably cast, at one fell blow, A dwarfish race has risen. Round the Fenced cities into ruinous heap. O'er boughs

all, Hoary and feeble, and around the trunks, The rude but many - colour'd lichen With grasp destructive, feeding on the life creeps; That lingers yet, the ivy winds, and moss And on the airy summit of yon hill, Of growth enormous. E'en the dark vile Clasping the Tor's majestic brow, is seen weed

The dark funereal ivy, cheerless plant! Has fix'd itself upon the very crown

While Death and Desolation breathe Of many an ancient oak; and thus, re

around fused

Their haggard brows for ever." By kindly nature's aid, dishonoured, old, And we must take with us to TorDreary in aspect, silently decays

Cot a wife-for here in winter the The lonely Wood of Wistman.

nights will be bitter cold-and no

additional number of blankets will Tor-Cot must command such a

ever be found of themselves to proview as we see here, poring on this page ; as we see there, gazing

on the duce the desired effect as long as original of the poetic picture,

you continue a chaste bachelor. Why,

here in our breeches' pocket is an “ How strangely on yon silent slopes the

“ Essay on Woman, in three parts, rocks

by Nicholas Michell, author of the Are piled; and as I musing stray, they Siege of Constantinople.”. Perhaps take

it may assist us in our choice of a Successive forms deceptive. Sun and couch-companion for life. We are shower,

a bold man on so vital an affair to And breeze, and storm, and haply an- consult Old Nick. cient thrones

Hail, Woman ! bane and blessing Of this our mother earth have moulded here below! them

From thee what ills, what streams of rapTo shapes of beauty and of grandeur;

ture, flow! thus,

Virtue and love, in lands where Man is And fancy, all creative, musters up

free, Apt semblances. Upon the very edge Form the fair throne of thy ascendency. Of yonder cliff, seem frowning o'er the O'er strength prevails each finer mental vale,

charm, Time-ballow'd battlements with rugged Thy smile can win, thy sorrow can dis

chasms Fearfully yawning; and upon the brow Thy warm caress bids Man's cold reason Of yonder dreary hill are towers sublime, yield, Lifted as by the lightning stroke, or And e'en thy weakness guards thee like a struck

shield."

arm;

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