ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep,
Views in his wide survey the boundless deep,
When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade,
Wave beyond wave, in serried distance fade
To the pale sky;-or views it, dimly seen,
The shifting screens of drifted mist between,
As the huge cloud dilates its sable form,
When grandly curtain'd by the approaching storm,
Who feels not his awed soul with wonder rise
To Him whose power created sea and skies,
Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight
The wonders of the day and of the night?
But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride,
Whose stately ships the restless billows ride,
While each, with lofty masts and brightening sheen
Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested queen ;—
Or rather, be some distant bark, astray,
Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way,
Holding its steady course from port and shore,
A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more,-
How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame,
Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame?
"O Thou! whose mandate dust inert obey'd,
What is this creature man whom thou hast made?"
On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand
Bore priests and nobles of the land,
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim,
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim,
And lowly maids and dames of pride,
And infants by their mother's side,-
The boldest seaman stood that e'er
Did bark or ship through tempest steer;
And wise as bold, and good as wise;
The magnet of a thousand eyes,
That, on his form and features cast,
His noble mien and simple guise,
In wonder seem'd to look their last.
A form which conscious worth is gracing,
A face where hope, the lines effacing
Of thought and care, bestow'd, in truth,
To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing,
'The look and air of youth.

Who, in his lofty gait, and high
Expression of the enlighten'd eye,
Had recognised, in that bright hour,
The disappointed suppliant of dull power,
Who had in vain of states and kings desired
The pittance for his vast emprise required ?—
The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light,
O'er chart and map spent the long silent night ?—
The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore,
Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth
adore!

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

Will guide him on his blessed way;
Brothers to join by fate divided far.
Vain thoughts! which heaven doth but ordain
In part to be, the rest, alas! how vain!

But hath there lived of mortal mould,
Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold
An even race! Earth's greatest son
That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won,
Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope,
A stinted portion of his ample hope.
With heavy sigh and look depress'd,
The greatest men will sometimes hear
The story of their acts address'd
To the young stranger's wondering ear,
And check the half-swoln tear.

Is it or modesty or pride

Which may not open praise abide ?
No; read his inward thoughts: they tell,
His deeds of fame he prizes well.
But ah! they in his fancy stand,
As relics of a blighted band,
Who, lost to man's approving sight,
Have perish'd in the gloom of night,
Ere yet the glorious light of day
Had glitter'd on their bright array.
His mightiest feat had once another,
Of high imagination born,—

A loftier and a noble brother,
From dear existence torn;

And she, for those who are not, steeps
Her soul in wo,-like Rachel, weeps.

PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.

INSENSIBLE to high heroic deeds,

Is there a spirit cloth'd in mortal weeds,
Who at the patriot's moving story,
Devoted to his country's good,

Devoted to his country's glory,

Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood,—
Listeneth not with deep heaved sigh,
Quivering nerve, and glistening eye,
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame,
That with the hero's worth may humble kindred
claim?

If such there be, still let him plod

On the dull foggy paths of care,

Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod

To view creation fair:

What boots to him the wondrous works of God? His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly lair. Oh! who so base as not to feel

The pride of freedom once enjoy'd, Though hostile gold or hostile steel Have long that bliss destroy'd?

The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt

Of independent sires, who bore
Names known to fame in days of yore,

Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt;
But recent freedom lost-what heart
Can bear the humbling thought-the quickening,
maddening smart?

FROM THE "TRAVELLER BY NIGHT."

-STILL more pleased, through murky air,
He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
And, nearer to the spot advancing,
Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
And nearer still, distinctly traces
The featured disks of happy faces,
Grinning and roaring in their glory,
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
And making murgeons to the flame,
As it were playmate in the game.
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
Such acting for the nonce engage, '
A crowded audience every night
Would press to see the jovial sight;
And this, from cost and squeezing free,
November's nightly travellers see.

Through village, lane, or hamlet going,
The light from cottage window, showing
Its inmates at their evening fare,
By rousing fire, where earthenware
With pewter trenchers, on the shelf,
Give some display of worldly pelf,
Is transient vision to the eye
Of him our hasty passer by;
Yet much of pleasing import tells,
And cherish'd in his fancy dwells,
Where simple innocence and mirth
Encircle still the cottage hearth.
Across the road a fiery glare

Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare,
Where furnace-blast, and measured din
Of heavy hammers, and within
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
Some idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye:
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er,
And rusty blades and bars between,
All momently are heard and seen.
Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;
Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train
A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burden'd spirits know.
Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,
The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone of turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

CONSTANCY.

WITH the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow,
Every thing of moving kind
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

After fretted, pouting sorrow,
Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow;
Changing still, each passing thing
Fairest is upon the wing:
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

Song of love, and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty;
Every mood and every lay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

SONG.

THE morning air plays on my face,
And through the gray mist peering
The soften'd sun I sweetly trace,
Wood, muir, and mountain cheering.
Larks aloft are singing,
Hares from covert springing,
And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood
Their early way are winging.

Bright every dewy hawthorn shines,
Sweet every herb is growing,
To him whose willing heart inclines
The way that he is going.

Clearly do I see now

What will shortly be now; I'm patting at her door poor Tray,

Who fawns and welcomes me now.

How slowly moves the rising latch!

How quick my heart is beating! That worldly dame is on the watch To frown upon our meeting.

Fly! why should I mind her, See who stands behind her, Whose eye upon her traveller looks The sweeter and the kinder.

Oh every bounding step I take,

Each hour the clock is telling,
Bears me o'er mountain, bourn, and brake
Still nearer to her dwelling.
Day is shining brighter,
Limbs are moving lighter,

While every thought to Nora's love,
But binds my love the tighter.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD was born of parents in humble circumstances, at Honington, in Suffolk, on the third of December, 1766. His mother, being left a widow, became the village school-mistress, and gave him the only instruction he ever received. At an early age he was sent to London to learn of an elder brother the business of shoe-making. In his eighteenth year he made his first essay in poetry. It was in a garret, amid the hammering of some half dozen fellow-workmen, that he composed The Farmer's Boy, which, for minute and graphic description, has scarcely been surpassed by any poet who has written in the English language. It was shown to several literary men, but the rude handwriting, and the personal appearance of the author, probably prevented its being properly examined, until it was sent to CAPEL LOFFT, who read it, and by his recommendation in

THE BIRD-BOY.

FAR weightier cares and wider scenes expand; What devastation marks the new-sown land! "From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard The rising wheat; insure its great reward: A future sustenance, a summer's pride, Demand thy vigilance: then be it tried: Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun: Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun." Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends; The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. Oh for a hovel, e'er so small or low, Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes! No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, Sod for its walls, and straw in burdens bound: Dried fuel hoarded in his richest store, And circling smoke obscures his little door, Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. On whitethorns towering, and the leafless rose, A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows: Where clustering sloes in glossy order rise, He crops the loaded branch; a cumbrous prize; And o'er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests; His guests by promise; playmates young and gay; But ah! fresh pastimes lure their steps away! He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, Till feeling disappointment's cruel pain,

duced Messrs. Verner and Hood to publish it. Its success was immediate and very great, nearly forty thousand copies having been sold during the lifetime of the author. After the appearance of The Farmer's Boy, BLOOMFIELD devoted much of his time to literature, and published several volumes of poems, none of which, however, equalled his first production. The idea of The Farmer's Boy was probably derived from THOMSON'S Seasons, though, as Mr. LoFFT remarks, "There is no other affinity between the two than flowing numbers, feeling piety, poetic imagery and animation, and a true sense of the natural and pathetic.' Mr. BLOOMFIELD was of a generous and affectionate nature, and, notwithstanding the profits from his poems, he was always poor. He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, in August, 1823, in the fifty-seventh year of his

age.

[ocr errors]

His fairy revels are exchanged for rage,
His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage.
The field becomes his prison, till on high
Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly.
Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?
If fields are prisons, where is liberty?
Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll;
But disappointed hope untunes the soul;
Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow,
When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow.
Look, then, from trivial up to greater woes;
From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes,
To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh;
Where not one cheering sunbeam meets his eye.
Though ineffectual pity thine may be,
No wealth, no power, to set the captive free;
Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given
The radiant path that Howard trod to Heaven;
Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn,
And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn.
Say not, I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell
With news of dearest friends; how good, how well:
I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:"
Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part,
To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim,
And waste the precious hour that's due to him.
In mercy spare the base, unmanly blow:
Where can he turn, to whom complain of you?
Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray,
Trace and retrace the beaten, worn-out way,
The rankling injury will pierce his breast,
And curses on thee break his midnight rest.

ADDRESS TO HIS NATIVE VALE.

Os thy calm joys with what delight I dream Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Fancy o'er thee still waves the enchanting wand, And every nook of thine is fairy land,

And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In gain's rude service, and in pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way;
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation, call'd "Reform."
No army pass'd that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a schoolboy, screen'd my
head:

I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.
"Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free?
They strip thy shades,-thy shades so dear to me!

HARVEST-HOME.

Now, ere sweet summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long-accustom'd feast of harvest-home.
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;

No triumph please while rage and death destroy;
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?
The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But free and pure the grateful current flows.
Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame
And generous host invite their friends around,
While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground,
Are guests by right of custom:-old and young;
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,
With artisans that lent their dexterous aid,
When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd.

Yet plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard,
Though not one jelly trembles on the board,
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;
With all that made our great forefathers brave,
Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had nature's judgment set aside.
With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er;
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound
As quick the frothing horn performs its round;
Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.

Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, And crackling music, with the frequent song, Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.

Here once a year distinction lowers its crest, The master, servant, and the merry guest, Are equal all; and round the happy ring The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling, And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place, With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face, Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][ocr errors]

THE Right Honourable JOHN HOOKHAM | thorship.* The work from which the extracts FRERE, of Roydon Hall in Norfolk, was born in this collection are made, may be regarded on the twenty-fourth of May, 1769. He is a as the immediate original of "Don Juan." brother of Sergeant FRERE, and of BARTHO- BYRON, however, was anxious to have it LOMEW FRERE, sometime minister in Spain thought that he had derived his models from and at Constantinople. He was Under-secre- a remoter source; and translated the "Mortary of State for Foreign Affairs in 1799; En- gante Maggiore" chiefly, it would seem, for voy at Lisbon in 1800, and at Madrid in 1802. the purpose of telling the world that FRERE He was minister to Spain in 1808, and in the as well as himself was but a reviver of the following year, the Castilian title of Marques old manner of BERNI and PULCI. BYRON says de la Union was conferred on him by the of PULCI, in the preface to that translation, "He Junta, which the Prince Regent permitted is no less the founder of a new style of poetry him to accept. During his residence in Spain, very lately sprung up in England; I allude his rash and arrogant interference with the to that of the ingenious WHISTLECRAFT." English generals greatly injured his reputa- But the merits of the two moderns are quite tion. His dictation to Sir JOHN MOORE was distinct. FRERE'S excellence consists, almost profoundly absurd; and Sir ARTHUR WEL- exclusively, in manner; which presents such LESLEY found him so impracticable that he a combination of oddity with grace, of affecrequested he might be recalled. In 1816 tation with perfect good taste, as makes a Mr. FRERE married the Dowager Countess of very curious and agreeable study for the culErrol. For some years past he has resided in tivated reader. BYRON could not maintain Malta. the tone of this delicate and peculiar style; instead of interfusing the grave with the humorous, or keeping skilfully upon the boundary line between them, his method consists rather in rapid transitions from the extremes of either. But the praise of this mere artistmerit may well be foregone, in view of the rare material, the fancy, thought, passion, pathos, and all that can glorify poetry, with which BYRON's pieces are crowded.

In literature, Mr. FRERE's name is associated with some of the most brilliant and successful works of his times. He was a contributor to the "Etonian;" he assisted in the composition of some of the most admirable pieces in the "Anti-Jacobin;" and was one of the founders of the "Quarterly Review." But for a long time, he seems to have valued the pleasures of study beyond the praise of au

PROSPECTUS AND SPECIMEN

OF AN INTENDED NATIONAL WORK, BY WILLIAM
AND ROBERT WHISTLECRAFT, OF STOW-MARKET,
IN SUFFOLK, HARNESS AND COLLAR-MAKERS:
INTENDED TO COMPRISE THE MOST INTERESTING
PARTICULARS RELATING TO KING ARTHUR AND
HIS ROUND TABLE.

THE PROEM.

I'VE often wish'd that I could write a book,
Such as all English people might peruse;
I never should regret the pains it took,

That's just the sort of fame that I should chuse :
To sail about the world like Captain Cook,
I'd sling a cot up for my favourite Muse,
And we'd take verses out to Demarara,
To New South Wales, and up to Niagara.

Poets consume exciseable commodities,

They raise the nation's spirit when victorious,
They drive an export trade in whims and oddities,
Making our commerce and revenue glorious;
As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis
That poets should be reckon'd meritorious;
And therefore I submissively propose
To erect one board for verse and one for prose.

* When very young FRERE translated the old Saxon poem on the victory of Athelstan at Brunnanburgh. Sir James Mackintosh thus alludes to it: "A translation, made by a school-boy in the eighteenth century, of this Saxon poem of the tenth century, into the English of the fourteenth century, is a double imitation, unmatched, perhaps, in literary history, in which the writer gave an earnest of that faculty of catching the peculiar genius and preserving the characteristic manner of his original, which, though the specimens of it be too few, places him alone among English translators.”—Mackintosh's England, vol. i. p. 52.

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »