Page images
PDF
EPUB

Steadfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,
She gazed upon the bosom

And fair brow of her sleeping son;-
"O merciful Heaven! when I am gone,
Thine is this earthly blossom!"

While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke
Into the room;-the babe awoke,
And from his cradle smiled!

Ah me! what kindling smiles met there,
I know not whether was more fair
The mother or her child:

With joy fresh sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,
And to her bosom leapt;

All tears at once were swept away,
And, said a face as bright as day,
"Forgive me—that I wept!"

Sufferings there are from Nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor Poet's tongue

May venture to declare;

But this as Holy Writ is sure,

"The grief she bids us here endure, She can herself repair!"

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

WITH laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heartfelt revelry!

And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright

That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,-
Thy image such, in former time,
When thou, just entering on thy prime,
And woman's sense in thee combined
Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
First taught'st my sighing soul to move
With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace ;-
Though happy still-yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness !

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own.
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary time!
For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from wo;

The holy pride of high intent,
The glory of a life well spent.

When earth's affections nearly o'er
With Peace behind, and Faith before,
Thou render'st up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul,-then harp and hymn,
From bands of sister seraphim,
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality!

GEORGE CRABBE was born on the 24th of December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his father was an officer of the customs. He was originally apprenticed to a surgeon-apothecary; but disliking the profession, and encouraged by the praise accorded to some early attempts at composition, he ventured to London, and had the good fortune to meet a friend in the illustrious Edmund Burke; under whose auspices, in 1781, "the Library" was published. "The Village" soon followed; and both received the praise of Dr. Johnson. The Poet, however, had no ambition to become an author by profession: he took holy orders, and obtained the rectory of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire; here-away from the busy world-in calm and contented tranquillity, the remainder of his long life was passed. In 1807, he published a collection of "Poems;" in 1810, "the Borough ;" in 1812, the "Tales ;" and in 1819, the "Tales of the Hall." The whole of his works have been recently collected, with the addition of several posthumous poems, and published by his son.*

The character of Mr. Crabbe forms a singular contrast to his writings he was amiable, benevolent, and conciliatory to a degree. All who knew him loved him;

"In every family

Alike, in every generation dear,

The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend,
Tried, trusted, and beloved."

"To him it was recommendation enough to be poor and wretched." We quote this passage from the "Life," by his son, which preface the edition of his works. It is a gracefully and sensibly written biography; and altogether worthy of the memory of the admirable Poet and estimable man. His conversation was easy, fluent, and abundant in correct information; but distinguished chiefly by good sense and good feeling. "Kindness, meekness, and comfort were in his tongue." He died on the 3d of February, 1832. Mr. Lockhart thus describes his person :-" His noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without any thing of old age about it-though he was

*The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe; 6 vols. London. Murray.

then, I presume, above seventy-his sweet, and, I would say, innocent, smile, and the calm, mellow tones of his voice,—all are reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry." A high contemporary authority characterizes Crabbe as

"Nature's sternest painter-yet the best."

It is certain that those who read his poems derive from them greater pain than pleasure; and while admitting the general truth of his pictures, and the accuracy of his portraits, turn from them with a feeling of dissatisfaction approaching to disgust. It may be that "The fault was not in him-but in mankind;"

there can be, however, no doubt that the Poet wilfully exaggerated in his descriptions of human vice, and details of human suffering; and that he himself neither believed nor imagined his fellowbeings so odious and depraved as he describes them. His desire to be original led him into this large error,-to reject the garb in which poetry had for ages been wont to array the works of the creation; and to clothe them in a dress quite as unnatural and equally opposed to reality. The rustic population of our country are neither so wretched nor so degraded as they are, with few exceptions, made to appear. The poor, as well as the rich, have their vices-but their virtues also. It is not only while writing of men and women that Crabbe "looks askance :" he can perceive in the people who surround him little that is good, and less that is gracious; but he has neither eye nor ear for the beautiful sights and delicious sounds of inanimate nature. To him, the breeze is ever harsh and unmusical,-seldom moving except to produce wrecks; and hill, and stream, and valley, are barren, muddy, and unprofitable. He contemplates all things, animate and inanimate, 'through a glass, darkly." The consequence has naturally been, that Crabbe never was a popular Poet. Yet the rough energy of his descriptions, the vigorous and manly style of his versification, the deep though oppressive interest of his stories, and his stern maxims of morality,-with a little more of a kindly leaning towards humanity-must have secured for him universal admiration.

66

« PreviousContinue »