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TO MRS. DRAKE.
"HOPE comes to all :" so sang the bard sublime, * In strains that glow with fire, and breathe of heaven;
And lo! athwart the shades that changeful Time
Hath o'er our fields of sun-shine darkly driven, Steals from her laughing eye yon beams of light; Yes, in kind mercy to our prayers are given These cherubs sweet, and these, ere sinks our night, Shall soften and shall cheer the gloom of even:
These, when the stream of years hath lapsed away, Dimm'd the shrunk eye, and turn'd our tresses gray, Shall many a blessing round our dwelling shed; These, where the pale moon gleams our reliques nigh,
Trace our past love with many a deep-drawn sigh, And bathe with frequent tears our lonely bed.
September 8. 1818.
FROM YORK A PROFILE OF MY MOTHER, IN THE 91ST YEAR OF HER age.
YES, these are features which I must revere And love, whilst life shall last, and thought shall flow;
Features which bid in their prime freshness glow Scenes of my youthful home, that now appear, Through the long vista of each distant year,
Fair as the hues which live in yon bright bow Spanning the arch of heaven! Features that bestow
Thoughts of parental love, how fond, how dear!
My mother! Time hath blanch'd thy tresses gray, Nor with its wonted lustre gleams thine eye; But spared, in mercy spar'd, thy mental day,
Nor touch'd one chord that bids the heart reply; Dear God! how shall I with due fervor pay
Thanks meet for this great boon, ere yet I die!
Of the following stanzas I have only to observe, that they are the productions of a very young friend, in whose welfare I feel deeply in
They would not, however, have been inserted in these pages, had I not thought them possessed of some claim to approbation totally independent of any bias in their favour which, from relationship or personal affection, I might be conceived to entertain for them.
NATHAN DRAKE, M.D.,
ON READING HIS NARRATIVE ENTITLED THE VALLEY OF THE RYE."
O! THAT Once more, sweet Rivaulx! I could view Thy ruin'd abbey venerably gray,
Just as the setting sun, with fond adieu, Flung o'er thine ivy'd walls his parting ray; That, gazing on the spot, I then might say, "Beneath this sacred turf there lie interr'd "The bones of many, mightiest in their day:" And musing thus, methought the scene recurr'd, And pensive strains arose, more sad than night's sweet bird.
They ceased, and all was still, except the breeze That swept o'er moss-grown tower and mould'ring stone,
And whistled thro' some hollow leafless trees That grew alike forsaken and alone : And now and then, by fits, a sullen moan Would seem to issue from the cavern'd ground Where rest the dead; and oft, in gentlest tone, Responsive echoed that worn pile around, Of falling waters near, a soft and gurgling sound.
But hark! the same melodious notes once more
"O ever shall this spot be held most dear,
"And loved Lluellyn's lay still lingers on mine ear."
Of anger shall remain ; but peace assured
No time was lost on the part of Shakspeare in carrying his plan into execution.* The next morning saw him on his way to London, having previously requested of Montchensey, that Helen, for reasons similar to those which had influenced him with regard to Hubert, might not be acquainted with the purport of his journey. He passed through Stratford, and Mrs. Hall, to whom, as being greatly attached to Helen, he communicated his views and wishes, accom
* That Shakspeare's influence with his noble friends Southampton and Pembroke, and through them with the ministers of the day, was adequate to effecting what I have attributed to his interference, I have not the smallest doubt; especially when it is considered, that James himself was, at this period, proud of being thought the friend and patron of the poet of Macbeth.