"Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, "I moved my lips-the pilot shriek'd "I took the oars: the pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while Ha! ha!' quoth he, full plain I see, "And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" Say quick,' quoth he, I bid thee say- "Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; "Since then, at an uncertain hour, And till my ghastly tale is told, "I pass, like night, from land to land; To him my tale I teach. "What loud uproar bursts from that door! "O wedding-guest! this soul hath been "O sweeter than the marriage feast, With a goodly company! "To walk together to the kirk, "He prayeth best, who loveth best The mariner, whose eye is bright, He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. LOVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Are all but ministers of love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, She leant against the armed man, Few sorrows hath she of her own The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the knight that wore I told her how he pined; and ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush, And she forgave me, that I gazed But when I told the cruel scorn THE PAINS OF SLEEP. That crazed that bold and lovely knight, And that he cross'd the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night; ERE on my bed my limbs I lay, But silently, by slow degrees, That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once There came and look'd him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land! And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vainAnd ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain; And that she nursed him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight, Her bosom heaved-she stept aside, 'T was partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My bright and beauteous bride. Only a sense of supplication; In anguish and in agony, Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me: And whom I scorn'd, those only strong! For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or wo, The third night, when my own loud scream To natures deepliest stain'd with sin,For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, And whom I love, I love indeed. CONCEALMENT. TIME, as he courses onward, still unrolls ROBERT SOUTHEY. DR. SOUTHEY was the son of a linen draper | The History of Brazil, The History of the in Bristol, where he was born on the twelfth of August, 1774. In his sixteenth year he was placed at the Westminster School, and in 1792 at Baliol College, with the design of his entering the church. His career at Oxford was a brief one; his tendency toward Socinianism made the plan marked out for ❘ of Chatterton, and The Works of Henry Kirke Peninsular War, The Book of the Church, Vindiciæ Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society, The Life of Nelson, The Life of Wesley, The Life of Cowper, editions, with memoirs of the authors, of The Pilgrim's Progress, The Works White, numerous contributions to the Quarterly Review, and that remarkable book, The Doctor. On the death of Mr. PYE, in 1813, SOUTHEY was appointed poet laureate; and in 1821 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws from the University of Oxford. In the spring of 1839 he contracted a second marriage with CAROLINE ANNE, daughter of Mr. CHARLES BOWLES, and one of the most pathetic and natural of the living writers of her sex. him disagreeable; and he returned to Bristol, where in 1794 he published, in conjunction with ROBERT LOVELL, his first collection of poems. In the autumn of the following year he was married to a sister of the wife of his friend COLERIDGE, and soon after, while he was on his way to Lisbon, appeared his Joan of Are. It was about this time that he wrote, in three days, his notable drama of Wat Tyler, which was surreptitiously printed some twenty-three years afterward. In the summer of 1796 he returned to England, removed to London, and entered Gray's Inn. A portion of the years 1800 and 1801 were passed in the Peninsula, whence he sent home his romance of Thalaba the Destroyer, which permanently established his reputation as a poet. At the end of a short residence in Dublin, as secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, he went to Keswick, where he lived the rest of his life. In 1805 he published Madoc, which had been brought to a close in 1799; in 1810 the Curse of Kehama, in 1814 Roderick the last of the Goths, in 1821 The Vision of Judgment, and in 1825 The Tale of Paraguay, the latest of his longer poems. Beside these he wrote numerous briefer pieces, all of which are included in the ten volume edition of his poetical works which appeared in London under his own supervision in 1837, and was reprinted by Appleton and Company, in New ❘sions are not instinctive or spontaneous; he does York, in 1839. In addition to his poems, Mr. SOUTHEY produced numerous prose works, of which the principal are Amadis de Gaul, from the Spanish; Palmerin of England, from the Portuguese; Letters from England, written under the fictitious name of Espriella; the Chronicle of the Cid, from the Spanish: Omniana, Intense labour in every department of literature-in poetry, philosophy, history, biography and criticism-continued for so many years, at length obscured SOUTHEY's genius, and reduced him to a state of mental darkness. For three years before his death his intellect was nearly gone, and in the last year of his life he could not recognise the dearest members of his family. He died at Keswick on the twenty-first of March, 1843, in the sixtyeighth year of his age. SOUTHEY'S prose is hardly exceeded in the English language. It is clear, vigorous, manly, and graceful, worthy of the elder and greatest writers. In his poems, especially his longer ones, we rather admire the author than the works; his energy seems rather force of character than of mind, and we are more struck by the resistless daring of his temper than the boldness of his faculties. His effu not seem to have "fed on thoughts that voluntary move harmonious numbers:" he urges his genius rather than is mastered by it. The goal perhaps is reached in good time, but it is by application of the spur. His poems unquestionably have that pulchritude which bars dispraise; the dulcia sunto which should kindle enthusiasm is lacking. Yet, after every abatement, his name will remain one of the greatest in modern poetry. To master and wield the colossal forms of oriental superstition, to animate them with human and familiar interests, to render them ductile to all the demands of art, was a task which only the extravagance of youth would have undertaken, and only the rarest and most remarkable genius could accomplish. This SOUTHEY did, and with entire success. With the exception of BECKFORD, he was the first to invade the gorgeous East: and no man has followed him in any new attempt to construct epics from materials derived only from dictionaries and bibliothéques, and to inspire modern poetry with the faith, the fears and passions of a people extinct for thousands of years. The influence of these extraordinary works upon the literature and taste of England has been much greater than is generally acknowledged. They shattered the sceptre of that bastard empire of decency and imbecility which POPE'S successors had set up. If WORDSWORTH has been called the poet of poets in respect to feeling, SOUTHEY may more truly be termed the study of artists in respect to imagination. It was a spark from SOUTHEY's ardour which kindled in Scorr the ambition to reconstruct the crumbled temple of Scottish chivalry; and he led BYRON and MOORE to the orient. While the languid tints of HAYLEY and DARWIN and BEATTIE were gathering in the evening of its glory over the once splendid sky of British literature, his spirit suddenly arose above the horizon, and streamed over the scene like "a thunderstorm against the wind." From that time the aspect and the elements of English poetry were changed. We should feel that a man wanted something to a complete insight into the character of modern art who had not read Thalaba and Kehama. When we look at the great poets who commonly appear about the time that a nation is passing from the dominion of sense to that of reason, to HOMER, DANTE, SPENSER,-we find them in possession of all the faculties of art, invention, construction, decoration, passion, sentiment, moral sense. Their successors, severally, have some one or two of these, in exclusion of the rest; and the popularity of any poet will depend upon which quality he possesses. But it by no means follows that this popularity will be a test of the value and dignity of the order of the gift which the poet has; for some of the rarest and highest capacities of the artist are those which are not the most highly appreciated by the multitude. SOUTHEY had, in an eminent degree, a power which, with the exception of Scott, almost all his contemporaries wanted, construction, the power of giving form to a work, the architectural faculty of the mind. This is the most uncommon of the poet's powers, and is in itself a great merit, without which there is no art. It is almost the only faculty which JONSON had; and while the lower benches of critics have held JONSON cheap, those in the highest seats have always deemed that his title to a place among the great authors of his country was unquestionable. SOUTHEY's smaller poems, written generally at a later period of life, are very different from the longer ones; and the difference is characteristic of the great and singular change which took place in him in his progress from youth to age. In them he delights chiefly to illustrate and beautify the domestic affections. The spirit that once soared almost beyond following, here loves to nestle in the very bosom of social feeling. Humanity in its genuine sympathies, in its truest and most native interests, in its most sincere and deepborn sentiments, is the sphere around which his fancy makes its willing yet controlled and gentle circuit. Those subjects which most other writers have felt as a dead weight upon their powers, as duty, piety, temperance, and fidelity, seemed to inspire him. To the last his genius always warmed into the beauty of its youthful ardour whenever a good affection was to be expressed, a friend to be commemorated, or a virtue to be praised. These poems, indeed, possess a charm beyond the scope of criticism. They belong to the now justifiedexcellence of one of the loveliest characters of which literary history bears record. They show us the heart of one of the best men that modern England has contained. il 1, ODE, WRITTEN DURING THE NEGOTIATIONS WITH BONA PARTE, IN JANUARY, 1814. WHO counsels peace at this momentous hour, When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd, And to the injured power? Who counsels peace, when vengeance, like a flood, Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd; When innocent blood From the four corners of the world cries out For justice upon one accursed head; When freedom hath her holy banners spread Over all nations, now in one just cause United; when, with one sublime accord, Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd, And loyalty, and faith, and ancient laws Follow the avenging sword! Wo, wo to England! wo and endless shame, False to her feelings and unspotted fame, Be suffer'd still to stand! For by what name shall right and wrong be known, What new and courtly phrases must we feign For falsehood, murder, and all monstrous crimes, If that perfidious Corsican maintain Still his detested reign, And France, who yearns even now to break her chain, Beneath his iron rule be left to groan? No! by the innumerable dead, Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed, Death only can for his foul deeds atone; That peace which death and judgment can bestow, That peace be Bonaparte's, that alone! For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, Or from the leopard shall her spots depart, Than this man change his old, flagitious heart. Have ye not seen him in the balance weigh'd, And there found wanting? On the stage of blood Foremost the resolute adventurer stood; And when, by many a battle won, He placed upon his brow the crown, Curbing delirious France beneath his sway, Then, like Octavius in old time, Fair name might he have handed down, Effacing many a stain of former crime. Fool! should he cast away that bright renown! Fool! the redemption proffer'd should he lose! When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the way To good and evil lay Before him, which to choose. But evil was his good, For all too long in blood had he been nursed, And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant cursed. Bold man and bad, Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, And black with murders and with perjuries, Himself in hell's whole panoply he clad; No law but his own headstrong will he knew, No counsellor but his own wicked heart. From evil thus portentous strength he drew, And trampled under foot all human ties, All holy laws, all natural charities. O France! beneath this fierce barbarian's sway Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times; Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way, All loathsome, all unutterable crimes. A curse is on thee, France! from far and wide It hath gone up to heaven. All lands have cried For vengeance upon thy detested head! All nations curse thee, France! for wheresoe'er, In peace or war, thy banner hath been spread, All forms of human woe have follow'd there. The living and the dead Cry out alike against thee! They who bear, Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke, Join in the bitterness of secret prayer The voice of that innumerable throng, Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke The everlasting Judge of right and wrong, How long, O Lord! Holy and Just, how long! A merciless oppressor hast thou been, Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime; Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, And rivet faster round thyself the chain. Oh! blind to honour, and to interest blind, When thus in abject servitude resign'd To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave God's justice, and the heart of human-kind! Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world, Thyself the while a miserable slave. Behold, the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd! The dreadful armies of the North advance; While England, Portugal, and Spain combined, Give their triumphant banners to the wind, And stand victorious in the fields of France. One man hath been for ten long, wretched years For now whole Europe comes against thee bent; Even yet, O France! averts thy punishment. Open thine eyes!-too long hast thou been blind; Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind! France! if thou lovest thine ancient fame, Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame! By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's beach; By the blood which on Domingo's shore Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore; By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain, Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain Of frozen Moscovy; |