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GEORGE CRABBE.-Born, 1754; Died, 1832.
George Crabbe was the son of a man in humble life at Aldborough, in Suffolk. Receiving a good education, he went to London to seek a living by his pen, but failed, and was rescued from great distress by Burke, to whom he made his case known. Entering Holy Orders, he was finally appointed rector of Trowbridge, Wilts. His poems, “ The Borough,”
,"" The Parish Register," &c., are all drawn from real life, and show marvellous truthfulness of description, and not seldom a tender pathos and quiet humour that lend them a great charm.
AN ENGLISH PEASANT.
From “ The Parish Register."
To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
allowance where he needed none;
? contemning, despising.
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
3 stoic pride. The self-restraint and uppitying pride of the Stoic philosophers
Compelled to kneel, and tremble at the sight,
W, BLAKE.-Born, 1757; Died, 1828.
William Blake was a celebrated engraver, but, also, a poet of no ordinary merit. His designs as an artist were as full of genius as his verses, but he never rose, during his life, above comparative poverty and obscurity.
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
“Awake, awake, my little boy !
_66 what land is the Land of Dreams ?
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight:
-“6 Dear child! I, also, by pleasant streams
-“ Father, O Father! what do we here,
The son of a Scottish ploughman, and himself bred to the same humble calling, Robert Burns showed himself a poet of amazing genius. To estimate its strength his disadvantages must be remembered. As a song writer he is, perhaps, unequalled, and while humour marks some of his pieces; exquisite sensibility to natural beauty others; a large-hearted humanity not a few; there can be no question of the tender depth of feeling and delicate purity of expression in those given here.
TO MARYI IN HEAVEN.
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
My Mary from my soul was torn.
Where is thy place of peaceful rest?
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?
2 the morning star.
1 Mary Campbell, an early love of
Burns, who died in her youth.
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick’ning green;
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
3 Ayr, a streamlet in Ayrshire,
* efface, wear away.