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Hail, Virgin-born! transcendent child!
THE REV. W. L. BOWLES
Is a very amiable, but not a very powerful writer; he is tender, easy, and graceful; he always pleases but never astonishes; and he addresses the affections rather than the passions of his readers. In private life he is worthy of the highest praise for the zeal and fidelity with which he discharges the arduous duties of a Christian minister.
I CLIMB the highest cliff: I hear the sound
Thou sun that beamest bright, beneath whose eye
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,
Ah me! till sunk by sorrow I shall dwell
Would I had perished ere that hapless day,
More mournful, then, each falling surge I heard;
Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice:
The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud,
SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCH-YARD. So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,
Brief time! and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer-vapour steal away. And have not they, who here forgotten lie
(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past), Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
Nor thought it fled-how certain, and how fast? Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
Noting each hour o'er mouldering stones beneath; The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
And “dust to dust” proclaimed the stride of death. Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,
Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
So smiling and so perishing the while.
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near) Proclaim the tidings to the village round,
While memory wept upon the good man's bier. Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone; While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
And strangers guze upon my humble stone ! Enough, if we may wait in calm content
The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent,
And leave the issue to Thy will, O God.
THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS. When evening listened to the dripping oar, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride, Reflects that stately structure on his side, Within whose walls, as their long labours close, The wanderers of the ocean find repose, We wore in social ease the hours away, The passing visit of a summer's day. Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, I lingered on the river's marge alone, Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, And watched the last bright sunshine steal away. As thus I mused amidst the various train Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main, Two sailors-well I marked them (as the beam Of parting day yet lingered on the stream And the sun sunk behind the shady reach), Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach. The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight; Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight For ever! As I drew more anxious near, I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear! But neither said a word! He who was blind Stood as to feel the comfortable wind That gently lifted his gray hair: his face Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace. The other fixed his gaze upon the light Parting; and when the sun had vanished quite Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless, Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek! And then as meek and silent as before, Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shore. As they departed through the unheeding crowd, A caged bird sung from the casement loud: And then I heard alone that blind man say, “ The music of the bird is sweet to-day !” I said, “ O Heavenly Father! none may know The cause these have for silence or for woe!” Here they appear heart-stricken or resigned, Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.
There is a world, a pure, unclouded clime,
Was born in London, October 29, 1796, and at an early age exhibited considerable poetic power. His first productions were, however, treated with such severe criticism that his spirits were broken; the sensitiveness of his feelings worked fatally on his feeble body, and he died prematurely at Rome, in the beginning of 1821.
Keats' poems contain the germs of excellence, rather than finished beauties; they lead us rather to regret the loss of wbat he might have done, than to admire what we possess.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
And purpled-stained mouth;
And with thee fade away into the forest dim;