peared in the pages of this Magazine; but the principal pieces, both as regards length and power of composition, the "Elegy," the " Ode to Fancy," "Reverie." and the translation from De La Motte Fouqué's "Pilgrimage," are new to us, and to these particu larly we would direct the attention of our readers.

The first of them is too continuous a stream of melody and sadness to be broken by mutilation-surely the heart that so young, (it was written in 1817,) could even then (like Kirke White, at a yet earlier age,) have looked back to happiness as the shadow of a substance

gone; and turned forwards sorrowfully to a world from whence had for ever fled the

"lingering hope,

That flitted fearfully, like parent bird,
Fast fluttering o'er its desolated nest—”

surely that heart must have had the
soul of Poetry breathed into it with
its first organization, and only have
been speaking its natural language,
from its lonely height such a torrent of
when in boyhood it thus poured forth
song upon the valley of the shadow of
death! But we leave this touching
poem to speak for itself:-

ELEGY.

Oh breathe not-breathe not-sure 'twas something holy-
Earth hath no sounds like these-again it passes
With a wild, low voice, that slowly rolls away,
Leaving a silence not unmusical!-

And now again the wind-harp's frame hath felt
The spirit like the organ's richest peal-
Rolls the long murmur-and again it comes,
That wild, low, wailing voice.-

These sounds to me

Bear record of strange feelings. It was evening.

In my bowered window lay this talisman,

That the sighing breezes there might visit it;-
And I was wont to leave my lonely heart,

Like this soft harp, the play-thing of each impulse,
The sport of every breath. I sate alone

Listening for many minutes-the sounds ceased,

Or, tho' unnoted by the idle ear,

Were mingling with my thoughts-I thought of one,
And she was of the dead-She stood before me,
With sweet sad smile, like the wan moon at midnight,
Smiling in silence on a world at rest.

I rushed away-I mingled with the mirth
Of the noisy many-it is strange, that night,
With a light heart, with light and lively words,

I sported hours away, and yet there came

At times wild feelings-words will not express them—
But it seemed, that a chill eye gazed upon my heart,
That a wan cheek, with sad smile, upbraided me,
I felt that mirth was but a mockery,

Yet I was mirthful.

I lay down to sleep

I did not sleep-I could not choose but listen,

For o'er the wind-harp's strings the spirit came

With that same sweet low voice. Yes! thou mayest smile,

But I must think, my friend, as then I thought,

That the voice was her's, whose early death I mourned,
That she it was, who breathed those solemn notes,
Which like a spell possessed the soul.—

"Till now I knew not Death was terrible,
For seldom did I dwell upon the thought,
And if, in some wild moment, fancy shaped
A world of the departed, 'twas a scene
Most calm and cloudless, or, if clouds at times
Stained the blue quiet of the still soft sky,
They did not dim its charm, but suited well
The stillness of the scene, like thoughts that move
Silently o'er the soul, or linger there

Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness!

"This is an idle song!-I cannot tell
What charms were her's who died-I cannot tell
What grief is their's whose spirits weep for her!—
Oh, many were the agonies of prayer,

And many were the mockeries of hope;

And many a heart, that loved the weak delusion,
Looked forward for the rosy smiles of health,
And many a rosy smile passed o'er that cheek,
Which will not smile again;-and the soft tinge,
That often flushed across that fading face,
And made the stranger sigh, with friends would wake
A momentary hope ;-even the calm tone,

With which she spoke of death, gave birth to thought
Weak, trembling thoughts, that the lip uttered not.
And when she spoke with those, whom most she mourn'd
To leave, and when thro' clear calm tears the eye
Shone with unwonted light, oh, was there not
In its rich sparkle something, that forbade
The fear of death?-and when, in life's last days,
The same gay spirit, that in happier hours
Had charactered her countenance, still gleamed
On the sunk features-when such playful words,
As once could scatter gladness on all hearts,
Still trembled from the lip, and o'er the souls
Of those who listened shed a deeper gloom-
In hours of such most mournful gaiety,
Oh, was there not even then a lingering hope,
That flitted fearfully, like parent birds,
Fast fluttering o'er their desolated nest?

"Mourn not for her who died!—she lived as saints
Might pray to live-she died as Christians die ;-
There was no earthward struggle of the heart,
No shuddering terror-no reluctant sigh.
They, who beheld her dying, fear not Death!
Silently-silently the spoiler came,

As sleep steals o'er the senses, unperceived,
And the last thoughts, that soothed the waking soul,
Mingle with our sweet dreams.-Mourn not for her!

"Oh, who art thou, that, with weak words of comfort,
Would'st bid the mourner not to weep?-would'st win
The cheek of sorrow to a languid smile?
Thou dost not know with what a pious love
Grief dwells upon the dead!-thou dost not know
With what a holy zeal Grief treasures up
All that recalls the past!-when the dim eye
Rolls objectless around, thou dost not know

What forms are floating o'er the mourner's soul!-
Thou dost not know with what a soothing art
Grief, that rejects man's idle consolations,
Makes to itself companionable friends
Of all, that charmed the dead! her robin still
Seeks at the wonted pane his morning crumbs,
And, surely, not less dear for the low sigh,

"Mourners, is there not

An angel, that illumes the house of mourning?
The Spirit of the Dead-a holy image,

Shrined in the soul-for ever beautiful,

Undimmed with earth-its tears-its weaknesses-
And changeless, as within the exile's heart
The picture of his country;-there no clouds
Darken the hills-no tempest sweeps the vale,---
And the loved forms, he never more must meet,
Are with him in the vision, fair, as when,
Long years ago, they clasped his hands at parting!

This poem is a fair specimen of Dr. Anster's powers, and of the character of the volume; and yet we confess we think he is even more happy in his descriptive poetry; and two or three

passages we have met with, will probably remind the reader of some of Milton's exquisite descriptions of nature in his minor poems. Take the following specimens :

"At Spring's return the earth is glad.
And yet to me, at this lone hour,

The wood-dove's note from yonder natural bower,
Though winning sweet is sad ;—

Calmly the cool wind heaves

The elm's broad boughs, whose shadows seem
Like some deep vault below the stream:

-The melancholy beech still grieves,
As in the scattering gale are shed

Her red and wrinkled leaves :

And, from the yew, by yon forgotten grave,

Hark! the lone robin mourning o'er the dead."-pp. 69, 70.

See where, most mild, most sad,

The Goddess, on her mountain throne

Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad,
Is soothed by gurgling waters near,
Or song of sky-lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:

The scarce-heard hun of distant strife
Breaks not the consecrated rest,
The sabbath quiet of that breast,

Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life :
Awful thoughts for ever roll,

Shadowing the silent soul,

Like the twilight tall rocks throw
Far into the vale below:

Here Genius, in fantastic trance,
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with serious eye

Upon some old romance,

Till all the pomp of chivalry,

The vizor quaint of armed knight,
And stately dame, and tournay bright,
Are present to his glance."--pp. 70, 71.
VOL. IX.

2 H

And the following

SONNET.

"If I might choose, where my tired limbs shall lie
When my task here is done, the Oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave-a little mound
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery-
And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by—
In music through the long soft twilight hours ;—
And let the hand of her whom I love best,

Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest—
And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,
Pour his enchanted song-oh, softly tread,
For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the dead,
He still must love that pensive melody!”

Thy peopled scenes before
spread!

him

Then, Fancy, bid my page to gleam
With some faint colouring from thy beam;
To thee the Poet's hopes belong,
Bid then thy light illume my song!
I call thee by thy Collins' rage,
By thy Warton's Gothic page,
By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers,
By thy Shakspeare's witching numbers;-
Or, Spirit, if with partial ear,
A later name thou lovest to hear,
Then be the spell thy Southey's lay ;-
Shed, Fancy, shed thy solemn ray!
Oh, move me far from Mirth's vain
folly,

To the haunts of Melancholy,

gour, would bid fair to rival the best lyrics in our language. It is remarkable for its originality of thought, and musical flow :_

Where echoes, at the close of day,
Oft talk of empires passed away;—
Come, like the maid that loves to weep
On lone Parnassus' misty steep,

When, in the silent time of night,
She hovers o'er the Poet's sleep,
And mingles with his slumbers deep
Dreams of indefinite delight,
That float with morning's gale along,
Or live but in the breath of song!
-Then shall I view the air around,

Haunted by many a spectral form,
Shall hear the boding Spirit sound,

Amid the howlings of the storm:
Shall tremble at the night-bird's cry,
Dear prophetess of destiny;
And, as the meteor's beams appal,
Behold the coming funeral,

Or view the ancient chieftain's lance
With momentary lustre glance,
As sitting in his cloudy car
He thinks upon his days of war!"
-pp. 66, 67.

The Allegory, "Mirth and Grief," we give entire:

64

MIRTH AND GRIEF.

AN ALLEGORY.

-

In vain-ah me!-in vain, with murmured charm
Of love-inwoven sounds, would I recall

The long-forgotten art-in vain implore
At noon the colouring of the morning heavens !
Glad WORDS, that once as with a robe of light
Would meet the coming FANCIES, where are they?
And where, oh where are they, the angel guests?
Why have they gone, or wherefore did they come ?
And yet, methinks, they are not far remote,
But that mine eye is dim and sees them not
But that mine heart is dead and does not feel;-
Where is the music of the spirit gone?

Where now the heart that never knew a care—

-

That saw, in all things round, Love, only Love?
-Gone with the hues of morning-with the hopes
Of boyhood-with the glories of the spring;-
Gone with the dead-the unreturning dead!

“In vain—in vain-the Spirit will not come!
Yet I have watched each stirring of the heart,
Till Sorrow, self-amused, smiles playfully,
Till Fancies vague seem gifted with strange life,
Surprise the ear with voices of their own,
And shine distinct, and fair, and shadowless,
Self-radiant, on a self-illumined stage,

Pure Forms, whose Being is the magic light
In which they move-all beauty! How it hangs
Enamoured round them! In what tender folds
The thin veil, flowing with the sportive breeze
Of dallying thought, returns, and fondly stirs
The amber ringlets o'er each little brow,
Fans softly the blue veins and lingering lies
Trembling and happy on the kindred cheek!

"In vain in vain! They are not what they were!
The lights are dim,-the pageant fades away,
Lost on the disenchanted heart and eye;
Cold, icy cold, they glimmer-idle play
With languid feelings-feeble are the hues,
And faint the failing hand, that fears to trace
Forms seldom seen-seen only in still hours,
When dreams are passing into dream-like thought,
And, for a little moment, sleep the cares

That vex with pain, and each day grieve and wound
The God within, disquieting man's heart!

"Lady, forgive these broken images,

Forgive the wiles of Grief, that fain would smile,
And so she plays with her dead brother's toys,
The cheerful boy who died in infancy;

Or wilt thou smile with me, and gaze with me
-As in the peaceful twilight of a dream

That mingles death and life,-on Mirth and Grief?

"One happy human bosom was their home,
And Mirth, with rosy lips and bold bright eyes,
That rolled, and laughed, and knew not where to rest,
Kissed off the tears from his pale sister's face;
'Twas sweet to see her smiling playfully,
While he, a masquer blythe, in tragic weeds
Robed his light limbs, and hid his laughing face,
And moved with pensive mien and solemn pomp
Of measured gesture;-'twas a part played well,
Yet half betrayed by the capricious voice,
That could not long uphold the lofty tone;
And by the glances of the conscious eye,
Where tell-tale smiles would slily still peep out;
While, half deluded by his own quaint humour,
And vain withal, no doubt, the lively elf

Looked round for praise ;—but then he felt the tear
Come sudden to disturb the quivering eye,

And fall in fire upon the burning cheek!