Robert à Machin. But the sullen pride
Of haughty D'Arfet scorn'd all other claim
To his high heritage, save what the pomp
Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.
Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks
One loved, one honour'd object, wealth alone
He worshipp'd; and for this he could consign
His only child, his aged hope, to loathed
Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here
His hard ambition ended: for he sought
By secret whispers of conspiracies
His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift
His arm avenging, and upon a youth
Of promise close the dark forgotten gates
Of living sepulture, and in the gloom
Inhume the slowly-wasting victim.-

So

He purposed, but in vain: the ardent youth
Rescued her-her whom more than life he loved,
E'en when the horrid day of sacrifice
Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,
And while he kiss'd a stealing tear that fell
On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined
Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried,
"Be mine, be only mine; the hour invites;
Be mine, be only mine." So won, she cast
A look of last affection on the towers
Where she had pass'd her infant days, that now
Shone to the setting sun-" I follow thee,"
Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air
A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her steps
Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides
Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades,
Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot
Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,
Are lost a tear starts to her eye-she thinks
Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend,
When he speaks nothing: but be all, like death,
Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze,
And oh! that now some fairy pinnance light
Might fit along the wave, (by no seen power
Directed, save when Love, a blooming boy,
Gather'd or spread with tender hand the sail,)
That now some fairy pinnance, o'er the surge
Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft
The passengers upon the conscious flood
To scenes of undisturbed joy.

But hark!

The wind is in the shrouds-the cordage sings
With fitful violence-the blast now swells,
Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the farther wave,
Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath
The veering bowsprit.

O retire to rest,
[cheek
Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose
Turn pale to see another thus exposed :-
Hark! the deep thunder louder peals-Oh save-
The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm
Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,
Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view
Green Erin's hills aspiring!

The sad morn

Comes forth: but Terror on the sunless wave Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds

Bursts frequent, half-revealing his scathed front, Above the rocking of the waste that rolls Boundless around :

No word through the long day She spoke :-Another slowly came:-No word The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge, And cheerless rose again:-Ah, where are now Thy havens, France? But yet-resign not yetYe lost sea-farers-oh, resign not yet All hope the storm is pass'd; the drenched sail Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say, "Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers!"

And lo! scarce seen,

A distant dusky spot appears;-they reach
An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales,
And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams,
Shine forth, a Paradise, which Heaven alone,
Who saw the silent anguish of despair,
Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.-
They gain the haven-through untrodden scenes,
Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man
Since first the earth arose, they wind: The voice
Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet,
As waving woods retired, or falling streams,
Can make; most soothing to the weary heart,
Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate,
And wearied long with watchings and with grief,
Sought but a place of safety. All things here
Whisper repose and peace; the very birds,
That mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes,
The songsters of the lonely valley, sing
"Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us."-

The wild wood opens, and a shady glen
Appears, embower'd with mantling laurels high,
That sloping shade the flowery valley's side;
A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves,
Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain,
It glances light along its yellow bed.
The shaggy inmates of the forest lick
The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.-
A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade
Its trembling top; and there upon the bank
They rest them, while the heart o'erflows with joy.

Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, Came down: a softer sound the circling seas, The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, Her murmurs interposing, tenderness Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Of those who, sever'd far from human kind, Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon Arose-they saw it not-cheek was to cheek Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Witness'd how blissful was that hour, that seem'd Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss Stole on the listening silence; never yet Here heard: they trembled, e'en as if the Power That made the world, that planted the first pair In Paradise, amid the garden walk'd,This since the fairest garden that the world Has witness'd, by the fabling sons of Greece Hesperian named, who feign'd the watchful guard Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.

Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here

The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote, Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms Enfolded each the other.

Thou, dim cloud,

That from the search of men, these beauteous vales Hast closed, oh doubly veil them! But, alas, How short the dream of human transport! Here, In vain they built the leafy bower of love, Or cull'd the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit. The hours unheeded stole; but ah! not longAgain the hollow tempest of the night [sound; Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods reSlow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail Along the rocking of the windy waste Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss, Poor victims! never more shall ye behold Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child! Who, listening to the voice of love, has left Thy friends, thy country, -oh may the wan hue Of pining memory, the sunk check, the eye Where tenderness yet dwells, atone, (if love Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong Beset,) atone e'en now thy rash resolves. Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day thy bloom Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye Is dimm'd; thy form, amid creation, seems The only drooping thing.

Thy look was soft,

And yet most animated, and thy step
Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now,
Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree
That fann'd its joyous leaves above thy head,
Where love had deck'd the blooming bower, and

strew'd

The sweets of summer: Death is on thy cheek,
And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns
Of him, who, agonized and hopeless, hangs
With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the
sight,-

She faints-she dies!

He laid her in the earth, Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb, Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined, Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.

He placed the rude inscription on her stone, Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk-yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke; "If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil days, Again the convent's vesper bells, O think Of me! and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far-removed spot, Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chant duly o'er our gravePeace, peace." His arm upon the mournful stone He dropp'd-his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turn'd to the name till he could see no more"ANNA." His pale survivors, earth to earth, Weeping consign'd his poor remains, and placed Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid:Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods,

They sought their country o'er the waves, and left
The scenes again to deepest solitude.

The beauteous Ponciana hung its head
O'er the gray stone; but never human eye
Had mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the grave
Of the unfortunate, but for the voice
Of Enterprise, that spoke, from Sagre's tower,
"Through ocean's perils, storms, and unknown

wastes,

Speed we to Asia !"

DREAMS OF YOUTH.

BEREAVE me not of these delightful dreams
Which charm'd my youth; or mid her gay career
Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear
Sat sad on memory's cheek! though loftier themes
Await the awaken'd mind, to the high prize
Of wisdom hardly earn'd with toil and pain,
Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain

Cast friendless, where unheard some sufferer cries
Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,
'T were not a crime, should we awhile delay
Amid the sunny field; and happier they,
Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song
To cheer their path, till they forget to weep;
And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep.

ΤΟ ΤΙΜΕ.

O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away :
On thee I rest my only hopes at last;

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile.
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,
Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure.

RETROSPECTION.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tower that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest;
Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep,
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre
Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.
FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,*
AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

THE castle clock had toll'd midnight-
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,
His corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name, that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secret should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

"Peace to the dead" no children sung,
Slow pacing up the nave;
No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.
We only heard the winter's wind,

In many a sullen gust,
As o'er the open grave inclined,
We murmur'd, "Dust to dust!"
A moonbeam, from the arches' height,
Stream'd, as we placed the stone;
The long aisles started into light,
And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then,
That shook along the walls,
While the sad shades of mailed men,
Were gazing from the stalls.
'Tis gone! again, on tombs defaced,
Sits darkness more profound,
And only, by the torch, we traced
Our shadows on the ground.
And now the chilly, freezing air,
Without, blew long and loud;
Upon our knees we breathed one prayer
Where he slept in his shroud.
We laid the broken marble floor-

No name, no trace appears-
And when we closed the sounding door
We thought of him with tears.

REMEMBRANCE.

I SHALL look back, when on the main,Back to my native isle,

And almost think I hear again

Thy voice, and view thy smile.

But many days may pass away
Ere I again shall see

Amid the young, the fair, the gay,-
One who resembles thee.

Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell
On some ideal maid,
Whom fancy's pencil pictured well,
And touch'd with softest shade:

The imaged form I shall survey,
And, pausing at the view,
Recall thy gentle smile, and say,
"Oh, such a maid I knew!"

ON THE RHINE.

'T WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine,) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling

Rhine

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

WRITTEN AT OSTEND.

How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel !
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,

And now along the white and level tide
They fling their melancholy music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought recall

Of summer days, and those delightful years, When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime

First waked my wondering childhood into tears; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more.

MATILDA.

Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led,
His bosom glowing from romantic views,
The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
'Tis poor Matilda!--to the cloister'd scene

A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene

As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend:

And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where hush'd to long repose the wretched rest.

MR. ROGERS was born in London in 1762. On the completion of his university education, he resided a considerable period on the continent, but nearly all his life has been passed in his native city. He is a banker, and a man of liberal fortune; and among those who know him he is scarcely more distinguished as a poet than for the elegance and amenity of his manners, his knowledge of literature and the arts, and his brilliant conversation. In his youth he was the companion of WYNDHAM, Fox, and SHERIDAN, and in later years he has enjoyed the friendship of BYRON, MOORE, SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, and nearly all the great authors and other eminent persons who have been his contemporaries in England.

Mr. ROGERS commenced his career as an author with an Ode to Superstition, which was written in his twenty-fifth year. This was succeeded, in 1792, by The Pleasures of Memory, which was received with extraordinary favour by the critics. It had been kept the Horatian period, and revised and rewritten until it could receive no further advantage from labour, guided by the nicest taste and judgment. In 1778 he published An Epistle to a Friend and other Poems, in 1812 The Voyage of Columbus, in 1814 Jaqueline, in 1819 Human Life, and in 1822 the last, longest, and best of his productions, Italy.

Lord BACON describes poetry as "having something of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things." This is perhaps the most philosophical description that has been given of true poetry. There have been some poets, as CRABBE and ELLIOTT, whose verse has reflected actual life; but they only who have conformed "the shows of things to the desires of the mind," can look with much confidence for immortality. It is a long time since ROGERS made his first appearance before the world as an author, yet his reputation has probably suffered less decay than that of any of his contemporaries. This is not because he possesses the higher qualities of the poet in a

more eminent degree than they, but because he is more than any other the poet of taste, and is guided by the sense of beauty rather than by the convictions of reason. Poetry is in some sort an art, though VIDA was forced to admit the inefficiency of all rules if the ingenia were wanting. If a man be by nature a poet, he must still have much cultivation before he will be able to fulfil his mission. There has never yet been an "uneducated" verse-maker whose works were worth reading a second time. But mere education, or education joined with a philosophic mind and some degree of taste, cannot make a great poet, as one illustrious example in our times will show. ROGERS has not much imagination, not much of the creative faculty, and he lacks sometimes energy and sometimes tenderness, yet he has taste and genuine simplicity: not the caricature of it for which the present laureate is distinguished, but such simplicity as COWPER had, and BURNS. His subjects are all happily chosen; and a true poet proves the possession of the divine faculty almost as much in the selection of his themes as in their treatment. His poetry is always pleasing; its freedom and harmony, its refined sentiment, its purity, charm us before we are aware, and we involuntarily place it among our treasures.

Though less read than The Pleasures of Memory, Italy is the best poem Mr. ROGERS has produced. It was published anonymously, and was so different from his previous works that its authorship was an enigma to the critics. The several cantos are descriptive of particular scenes and events which interest a traveller over the Alps and through the northern parts of Italy. Some of these cantos are remarkably spirited and beautiful, as one may see by the extracts in this volume, entitled Venice, Ginevra, and Don Garzia.

Within a few years Mr. ROGERS has published in two volumes, illustrated in the most beautiful manner by some of the first artists of England, his Complete Poetical Works. He is now in the eighty-third year of his age, and the oldest of the living poets of his country.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

WHEN, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind
Has class'd the insect tribes of human kind,
Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing,
Its subtle web-work, or its venom'd sting;
Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours,
Point the green lane that leads thro' fern and flowers;
The shelter'd gate that opens to my field,
And the white front through mingling elms reveal'd.

In vain, alas, a village friend invites
To simple comforts, and domestic rites,
When the gay months of Carnival resume
Their annual round of glitter and perfume;
When London hails thee to its splendid mart,
Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art;
And, lo! majestic as thy manly song,
Flows the full tide of human life along.

Still must my partial pencil love to dwell
On the home prospects of my hermit cell;
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green,
Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen ;
And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow,
Sinks, and is lost among the trees below,
Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive)
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live.
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass-
Browsing the hedge by fits, the pannier'd ass;
The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight,
Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight;
And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid,
With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade.
Far to the south a mountain vale retires,
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires;
Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung,
Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung:
And through the various year, the various day,
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away!

When April verdure springsin Grosvenor-square, And the furr'd beauty comes to winter there, She bids old Nature mar the plan no more; Yet still the seasons circle as before. Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; As soon the skylark pours his matin song, Though evening lingers at the mask so long.

There let her strike with momentary ray,

As tapers shine their little lives away;
There let her practise from herself to steal,
And look the happiness she does not feel;
The ready smile and bidden blush employ
At Faro-routs, that dazzle to destroy;
Fan with affected ease the essenced air,
And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare.
Be thine to meditate an humbler flight,
When morning fills the fields with rosy light;
Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim,
Repose with dignity, with quiet fame.

Here no state-chambers in long line unfold,
Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold;
Yet modest ornament, with use combined,
Attracts the eye to exercise the mind.
[quires,
Small change of scene, small space his home re-
Who leads a life of satisfied desires.

What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows,

From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls! Soon as the morning dream my pillow flies, To waking sense what brighter visions rise! Oh mark! again the coursers of the sun, At Guido's call, their round of glory run! Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, Obscured and lost in floods of golden light!

But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings; And still the few best loved and most revered Rise round the board their social smile endear'd.

Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers! There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams; And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. -Ah, most that art my grateful rapture calls, Which breathes a soul into the silent walls; Which gathers round the wise of every tongue, All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; Guides in the world, companions in retreat!

Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of life! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with attic art, The strength and beauty that its waves impart. Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. There, Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, As her fair self, reflected, seems to rise!

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife,
And all the dull impertinence of life,"
These eyelids open to the rising ray,
And close, when Nature bids, at close of day.
Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows;
There noonday levees call from faint repose.
Here the flush'd wave flings back the parting light;
There glimmering lamps anticipate the night.
When from his classic dreams the student steals,
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels,
To muse unnoticed-while around him press
The meteor-forms of equipage and dress;
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand
A very stranger in his native land!

And (though perchance of current coin possest,
And modern phrase by living lips exprest)
Like those blest youths, forgive the fabling page,
Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age,