I remember, I remember,
The roses-red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing;
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing:
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly.cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.

ODE.

OH! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, " O rus!"
Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn;
I scent no flowery gust:

But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me

dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;
The path is dry and hot!

His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,
But down a chimney's pot!

Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blythe,
Or early mower whet his scythe
The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort,-alas!

That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip-cups, but meet
With very vile rebuffs!

For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff's.

How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are strew'd!
My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign
That marks the Bell and Crown!

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing
From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep?
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my "tuneful throng."

Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,
And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains
Of calimanco-dyes.

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones:
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,
Though never "off the stones."

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?

Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
Th' Arcadian herdsman us'd to play
Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes
The rank weed" piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd
With objects hard to bear :

Shades vernal shades! where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bow'rs,
And gardens redolent of flow'rs

Wherein the zephyr wons?

Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more!
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er;

And that bare wood,-St. John's.

No pastoral scene procures me peace ;
I hold no leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees :

No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers, not with bees.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, " O rus!"
Of city pleasures sick :

My heart is all at pant to rest

In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest This endless meal of brick.

BALLAD.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses,

We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet!

Oh no,-the world was newly crowned
With flowers, when first we met.

"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,-

We plucked them as we passed!

What else could peer my glowing check
That tears began to stud?

And when I asked the like of love,
You snatched a damask bud;—

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last;

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed!

CHARLES DIBDIN, the son of a silversmith, at Southampton, was born in that town, in the year 1745. At an early age he ventured to try his fortune in the metropolis, where he at once set himself to compose songs and ballads; but was occupied chiefly in tuning piano-fortes. In 1762, he made his debût as an actor at the Rich mond theatre; and two years afterwards appeared on the London boards, as Ralph, in the "Maid of the Mill." He soon began to write for the stage; and, it is said, produced above one hundred dramas, of various degrees of merit. The "Deserter," brought out in 1772; the "Waterman," in 1774; and the "Quaker," in 1775, are still occasionally performed. Dibdin, however, did not like his profession; and took the earliest opportunity of quitting it. He opened a kind of theatre, in Leicester Square, to which he gave the title of "Sans Souci;" and had evening entertainments, at which he sung his own songs, and accompanied himself on the piano:— this simple design was amazingly successful. He is said to have written from time to time, during the period of the performances, above twelve hundred songs-to nearly all of which he composed the music. He died in indigent circumstances, in 1814.

In 1803, a pension of £200. a-year was granted to Charles Dibdin: after enjoying it for three years, a new administration, in order to display the economical principles upon which it designed to manage Great Britain, thought proper to deprive the aged vocalist of this resource. Other branches of his family have displayed talents of no common order; and have, we believe, also had to encounter adversity. As yet, we have manifested no desire to repay any portion of the large debt which is owing to him from a nation. The country has been recently called upon to grant annuities to professors of literature, whose claims are not half so urgent, or so just. We may hope that some part of the debt to Charles Dibdin will yet be discharged. In estimating his merit as a nautical song writer, we should not confine it to the mere gratification derived by the sailors themselves from singing his songs: we find in the sentiments expressive of the character of seamen, so much kindliness of feeling, and a total absence of selfishness and worldly wisdom, that has tended in no small degree to raise sailors in the esteem of the country, and to render the maritime profession popular. This consideration, during a period of protracted naval war, is essential, in order to arrive at a due estimate of the services conferred by Dibdin upon the State.

A sound critic, Mr. Hogarth, states that "Dibdin had hardly received any musical education; and his attainments in the art were so small, that he had not skill enough to put a good accompaniment to his own airs. But he possessed a gift which no education or study can bestow,-an inexhaustible vein of melody." Among the hundreds of airs which he composed, it is wonderful to observe how few are bad, or even indifferent; and how free they are from sameness and repetition: and yet, with all this variety, there is no straining after novelty. The airs flow so naturally, that they appear to have cost him no sort of effort. In their expression, too, they are not less various than in their phrases. Whether the poetry is tender, lively, or energetic, the music never fails to speak a corresponding language.

If we try the poetry of Dibdin by a severe standard, it will undoubtedly be found wanting; but if it be a triumph of genius to achieve COMPLETELY the object desired, we must allot a high station to the most popular song writer of the age. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say, that "a nation's ballads" have greater influence on its people than "a nation's laws;" and it may be safely asserted, that the co-operation of Charles Dibdin has been largely effective in giving truth to the line,

"Britannia rules the waves,"

His songs come home to the uneducated minds of seamen: they are simple in language, and homely in construction. Refined and embellished, their effect would be lost. That they have had a prodigious-almost a universal-influence over our mariners, is certain it has been as salutary as it is powerful. They teach that while courage is a noble quality, it is elevated into a virtue when exerted for our country; and that something more than brute force is necessary to make a good sailor. They not only inculcate bravery in battle, but patience under less exciting perils; and describe discipline and subordination as leading duties. They have been quoted with effect to suppress mutiny; they have, indeed, contributed largely to strengthen the great bulwarks of Britain-her" wooden walls"-to raise the character of her best defender"the British tar"-and to establish that which is a substance, and not a sound"British glory!"