The Poets and Poetry of England: In the Nineteenth Century

The sun strikes through the farthest mist,

The city's spires to golden.

The city's golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strongest,

And now it is the kirkyard grass

We look upon the longest.

Be pitiful

Be pitiful, O God.

But soon all vision waxeth dull:

Men whisper, "He is dying!" We cry no more, "Be pitiful"

We have no strength for crying. No strength, no need! Oh, eyes of mine,

Look up, and triumph rather. So, in the depth of God's divine, The Son adjures the Father,

BE PITIFUL

BE PITIFUL, O GOD.

THE CHILD AND THE WATCHER.

SLEEP on, baby on the floor,
Tired of all the playing-
Sleep with smile the sweeter for
That you dropp'd away in;
On your curls' fair roundness stand
Golden lights serenely-
One cheek, push'd out by the hand,
Folds the dimple inly.
Little head and little foot
Heavy laid for pleasure,
Underneath the lids half-shut
Slants the shining azure-
Open-soul'd in noonday sun,
So, you lie and slumber;
Nothing evil having done,
Nothing can encumber.

I, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you?
Or sigh further to foretell
All that may undo you?
Nay, keep smiling, little child,
Ere the fate appeareth!
I smile, too! for patience mild
Pleasure's token weareth.
Nay, keep sleeping before loss!
I shall sleep, though losing!

As by cradle, so by cross,
Sweet is the reposing.

And God knows, who sees us twain,
Child at childish leisure,
I am all as tired of pain
As you are of pleasure.
Very soon, too, by His grace
Gently wrapt around me,
I shall show as calm a face,
I shall sleep as soundly!
Differing in this, that you
Clasp your playthings sleeping,
While my hand must drop the few
Given to my keeping-

Differing in this, that I
Sleeping, must be colder,
And in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder-
Differing in this beside-
(Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move, and open wide
Your great eyes toward me?)
That while I you draw withal
From this slumber solely,
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
Trumpet-tongued and holy!

CATERINA TO CAMOENS.*

On the door you will not enter,

I have gazed too long-Adieu! Hope hath lost her peradventureDeath is near me and not you! Come and cover, Poet-lover,

These faint eyelids-so, to screen "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."

All is changing! Cold and gray

Streams the sunshine through the door.
If you stood there, would you say
"Love, I love you," as before !
When death lies
On the eyes

Which you sang of that yestreen,
As the sweetest ever seen!

When I heard you hymn them so,
In my courtly days and bowers,

Others' praise-I let it go-
Only hearing that of yours;
Only saying
In heart-playing,

"Blessedest mine eyes have been, Since the sweetest his have seen!"

Now you wander far and farther,

Little guessing of my pain!

Now you think me smiling rather, And you smile me back againAy, and oft

Murmur soft,

In your revery serene-
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

And I think, were you beside them,
Near this bed I die upon;

Though the beauty you denied them,
As you stood there looking down,
You would still
Say at will,

For the love's sake found therein,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

* The lady died during the absence of her poet, and is supposed to muse thus while dying; referring to the verse in which he had recorded the sweetness of her eyes.

Love-transform'd to beauty's sheen, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

Still no step! The fountain's warble

In the courtyard sounds alone:
As the water to the marble,
So my heart falls with a moan
From love-sighing
To this dying!
Love resigns to death, I ween,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

Will you come, when I'm departed
Where all sweetnesses are hid-
Where your voice, my tender-hearted,
Will not lift up either lid-
Cry, O lover!
Love is over:

Cry beneath the cypress green,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

When the "Angelus" is ringing,
Past the convent will you go,
And remember the soft singing
Which we heard there long ago?
I walk'd onward,
Looking downward,

Till you cried, "What do you mean,
Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?"

At the tryst-place by the river,
Will you sit upon our stone,
And think how we said "for ever,"
And weep sore to be alone?
"Water-lily,

Sweet and stilly"Said I-" Ay," you murmur'd then,' "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

Underneath the palace lattice,

Will you ride as you have done!

If a face flash out there, that is
Not the true, familiar one;
For oh, truly,
(Think it duly !)

There have watch'd you, morn and e'en, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."

When the palace ladies, sitting

Round your gittern, shall have said

"Sing the lovely stanzas written
For that lady who is dead"-
Will you, trying,
Break off, sighing,

Or sing-dropping tears between-
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?"

"Sweetest eyes!" How sweet, in flowings
Of all tune, the burden is!
Though you sang a hundred poems,
Still the best one would be this.

Still I hear it "Twixt my spirit And the earth-noise intervene"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

But the priest waits for the praying, And the choir are on their knees; And the soul should pass away in

Strains more solemn-pure than these. "Miserere"

For the weary!
Now no longer for Catrine,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

Keep this riband, take and keep it,
I have loosed it from my hair,
Feeling, while you over weep it,
Not alone in your despair-
Since with saintly
Watch, unfaintly
Out of heaven, shall o'er you lean
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"
But-but, now-yet unremovéd

Up to heaven-they glisten fast-
You may cast away, belovéd,
In the future all the past!

That old phrase
May be praise
For some fairer bosom-queen,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen !"
Eyes of mine! what are ye doing ?
Faithless, faithless-praised amiss,
If one tear be of your showing,
Shed for any hope of His !

Death hath boldness
In its coldness,

If one false tear should demean
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"
I will look out to his future-
I will bless it till it shine!
Should he ever be a suitor
Unto other eyes than mine,
Sunshine gild them,
Angels shield them,

Whatsoever eyes terrene
Then be sweetest ever seen!

DESPAIR.

I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare
Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare
Of the free charter'd heavens. Be still! express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death!
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless wo,
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet!
If it could weep, it could arise and go!

She left him the riband from her hair.

THE DEPARTED.

WHEN Some belovéd voice, which was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry
Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new-
What hope, what help? What music will undo
That silence to your sense! Not friendship's sigh,
Not reason's labour'd proof, not melody
Of viols, nor the dancers footing through;
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees
To Venus' star! nor yet the spheric laws.
Self-chanted-nor the angels' sweet "all hails,"
Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!
Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.

WHAT ARE WE SET ON EARTH FOR?
WHAT are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
For all the heat o' the sun, till it declines,
And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil
To wrestle, not to reign-and he assigns
All thy tears over like pure crystallines
Unto thy fellows, working the same soil,
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand,
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all!
The least flower with a brimming cup may stand
And share its dew-drop with another near.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

THE Woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel,
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,
Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian church-that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong-
While so, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune-proving our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.

THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION.

WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
Both dream, and thought, and feeling interwound,
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height,
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground!
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air-
But if I did it as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud-my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

For a few years before his death, Mr. PRAED was in parliament, where he was considered a rising member, though his love of ease, and social propensities, prevented the proper cultivation and devotion of his powers. He died on the 15th of July, 1839.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, we believe, ❘ playful lyrics, thrown off with infinite ease was a native of London, where members of and readiness, are yet unprinted in the poshis family now reside, occupied with the busi- session of his numerous friends. ness of banking. The author of "Lillian" was placed, when very young, at Eton, where JOHN MOULTRIE, HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE, and other clever men of kindred tastes, were his associates. He was principal editor of "The Etonian," one of the most spirited and piquant under-graduate magazines ever sent from a college. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where he carried away an unprecedented number of prizes, obtained by Greek and Latin odes and epigrams and English poems. On leaving Trinity College, he settled in London, and soon after became associated with THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, and other young men who have since been distinguished at the bar or in the senate, in the conduct of "Knight's Quarterly Magazine." After the discontinuance of this miscellany, he occasionally wrote for the "New Monthly," and for the annuals; and a friend of his informs us that a large number of his ❘ with a memoir.

"Lillian," with the exception of DRAKE'S "Culprit Fay," is the most purely imaginative poem with which we are acquainted. PRAED delighted in themes of this sort, and "The Red Fisherman," the "Bridal of Belmont," and some of his other pieces, show the exceeding cleverness with which he reared upon them his fanciful creations. "The Vicar," "Josephine," and a few more of the lively and graceful compositions in this volume have been widely known in this country through the periodicals, and in the present season Mr. Langley of New York has issued a very neat edition of his poetical writings,

THE RED FISHERMAN.

THE abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donn'd his sandal shoon,
And wander'd forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought

On his wrinkled brow that night.

He gazed on the river that gurgled by,

But he thought not of the reeds:

He clasp'd his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads;

If he look'd to the heaven, 't was not to invoke

The spirit that dwelleth there;

If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke

Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious priest might the abbot seem,

He had sway'd the crosier well;

But what was the theme of the abb t's dreanı,
The abbot were loth to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,

As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,

And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!

But the abbot was thinking of scenery

About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath

Grew dark above his head;

He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near

To a pool, in whose recess

The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless;

Lightly and brightly they glide and go;
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He look'd to the left and he look'd to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him!
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double-
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,
Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw

Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago,
And the hands that work'd his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

You would have sworn, as you look'd on them, He had fish'd in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly-
It seem'd not such to the abbot's eye:
Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.

It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth-
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echo'd from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!

Cold by this was the midnight air;
But the abbot's blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal Churchman strove in vain

To mutter a Pater Noster;

For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camp'd that night on Bosworth plain-
The cruel Duke of Glou'ster!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent abbot knew full well
The swelling form, and the steaming smell;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guess'd the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.

Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a revelling company-
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork:
But, where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!

Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat;
And the priest was ready to vomit,
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,

And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew," the fisherman said,
"With cinnamon and sherry!"
And the abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The mayor of St. Edmond's Bury!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box:
It was a bundle of beautiful things-
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours roll'd,
That the abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deem'd his spirit was half-way sainted.

Sounds seem'd dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smother'd sighs,

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