Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Ode on a Grecian Urn. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings? Ibid. Ibid. Addressed to Haydon. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies On first looking into Chapman's Homer. To One who has been long in City pent. The poetry of earth is never dead. On the Grasshopper and Cricket. J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.1 Home, Sweet Home.2 1 "Home is home, though it be never so homely," is a proverb, and is found in the collections of the seventeenth century. 2 From the opera of Clari, the Maid of Milan. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, The Burial of Sir John Moore. But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; If I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be. Go, forget me, - why should sorrow Smile, though I shall not be near thee; though I shall never hear thee. Sing, Ibid. Ibid. To Mary. Go, forget me. RICHARD HENRY WILDE. My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, 1789-1847 My life is like the summer rose. JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866. The trivial round, the common task, Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Morning. Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die, Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh? The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity. 'T is sweet, as year by year we lose Abide with me from morn till eve, Burial of the Dead. Evening. EDWARD EVERETT. 1794-1865. When I am dead, no pageant train Nor worthless pomp of homage vain You shall not pile, with servile toil, Alaric the Visigoth. Lay down the wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was "the scourge of God." Ibid. THOMAS CARLYLE. 1795-1881. Literary men are a perpetual priesthood. State of German Literature. Edinburgh Review, 1827. Clever men are good, but they are not the best. Goethe. Ibid., 1828. We are firm believers in the maxim that, for all right judgment of any man or thing, it is useful, nay, essential, to see his good qualities before pronouncing on his bad. Ibid. How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they? Burns. Ibid., 1828. Ibid. A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility. His religion at best is an anxious wish, like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps. Ibid. We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion; or with any other feeling than regret, and hope, and brotherly commiseration. Voltaire. Foreign Review, 1829. There is no life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed. Sir Waiter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838. Silence is deep as Eternity; speech is shallow as Time. Ibid. It can be said of him, when he departed, he took a man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of time. Ibid. The eye of the intellect "sees in all objects what it brought with it the means of seeing." Varnhagen Von Ense's Memoirs. Ibid. TALFOURD. — POLLOK. 507 THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 1795-1854. So his life has flowed From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, "T is a little thing Ion. Act i. Sc. 1. To give a cup of water; yet its draught Act i. Sc. 2. ROBERT POLLOK. 1799-1827. Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. The Course of Time. Book i. Line 464. He laid his hand upon He was a man Book iv. Line 389. Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven To serve the Devil in. With one hand he put A penny in the urn of poverty, And with the other took a shilling out. Book viii. Line 616. Line 632. 1 See Byron, Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanza 184. Page 478. |
