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Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, Woice of sweet song! awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! 0 struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink! Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ! wake, 0 wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam : And who commanded—and the silence cameHere let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainTorrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts | Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm :
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds !
Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing
peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— Thou too, again, stupendous mountain thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base, Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise; Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love,
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!
She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve :
She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story
An old rude song that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land.
I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
She listened with a flitting blush,
Too fondly on her face. 301
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Love, Hope, and Patience in Education.
O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule,
Youth and Age.
Werse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
The REv. WILLIAM LISLE BowLEs enjoys the distinction of having ‘delighted and inspired’ the genius of Coleridge. His first publication was a small volume of sonnets published in 1789, to which additions were made from time to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a ninth edition. Various other poetical works proceeded from the pen of Mr Bowles: Coombe Ellen and St Michael's Mount, 1798; Battle of the Nile, 1799; Sorrows of Switzerland, 1801; Spirit of Discovery, 1805; The Missionary of the Andes, 1815; Days Departed, 1828; St John in Patmos, 1833; &c. None of these works can be said to have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse. Mr Bowles had the true poetical feeling and imagination, refined by classical taste and acquirements. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most devoted admirers. A volume of Mr Bowles's sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic young poet, converted him from some ‘perilous errors’ to the love of a style of poetry at once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. Mr Bowles, in 1806, edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy, in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; “every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety. Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope occupied a middle position, inclining to the artificial side of life. Mr
Bowles was born at King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire, in the year 1762, and was educated first at Winchester school, under Joseph Warton, and subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of
Bremhill Rectory, in Wiltshire.
which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his death in 1850, he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral.
Sonnets. To Time.
O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Winter Evening at Home.
Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
[South American Scenery.]
Beneath ačrial cliffs and glittering snows,
Sun-dial in a Churchyard.
So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And have not they, who here forgotten lie–
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power; £miling and so perishing the while.
I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound—
Proclaim the tidings of the village round,
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 gaze upon my humble stone !
Enough, if we may wait in calm content
Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent,
The Greenwich Pensioners.
When evening listened to the dripping oar,
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
As thus I mused amidst the various train
The other fixed his gaze upon the light
As they departed through the unheeding crowd,
There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,
ROBERT So U THEY.
One of the most voluminous and learned authors of this period was RoBERT SouTHEY, LL.D., the poet-laureate. A poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, and historian, Mr Southey wrote more than even Scott, and he is said to have burned more verses
between his twentieth and thirtieth year than he published during his whole life. His time was entirely devoted to literature. Every day and hour had its appropriate and select task; his library was his world within which he was content to range, and his books were his most cherished and constant companions. In one of his poems, he says:
My days among the dead are passed;
It is melancholy to reflect, that for nearly three years preceding his death, Mr Southey sat among his books in hopeless vacuity of mind, the victim of disease. This distinguished author was a native of Bristol, the son of a respectable linen-draper of the same name, and was born on the 12th of August 1774. He was indebted to a maternal uncle for most of his education. In his fourteenth year he was placed at Westminster School, where he remained between three and four years, but having in conjunction with several of his school-associates set on foot a periodical entitled The Flagellant, in which a sarcastic article on corporal punishment appeared, the head-master, Dr Vincent, commenced a prosecution against the publisher, and Southey was compelled to leave the school. This harsh exercise of authority probably had considerable effect in disgusting the young enthusiast with the institutions this country, against which he soon arrayed 7
himself. In November 1792 he was entered of Baliol College, Oxford. He had then distinguished himself by poetical productions, and had formed literary plans enough for many years or many lives. In political opinions he was a democrat; in religious, a Unitarian; consequently he could not take orders in the church, or look for any official appointment. He fell in with Coleridge, as already related, and joined in the plan of emigration. His academic career was abruptly closed in 1794. The same year, he published a volume of poems in conjunction with Mr Robert Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion. About the same time he composed his poem of Wat Tyler, a revolutionary brochure, which was long afterwards published surreptitiously by a knavish bookseller to annoy its author. “In my youth, he says, “when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history, as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education; when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue's end, I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and following those opinions with ardour wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for their root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote Wat Tyler, as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen, and it was treated, as might be expected, by a youth of twenty in such times, who regarded only one side of the question. The poem, indeed, is a miserable production, and was harmless from its very inanity. Full of the same political sentiments and ardour, Southey, in 1793, had composed his Joan of Arc, an epic poem, displaying fertility of language and boldness of imagination, but at the same time diffuse in style, and in many parts wild and incoherent. In imitation of Dante, the young poet conducted his heroine in a dream to the abodes of departed spirits, and dealt very freely with the ‘murderers of mankind, from Nimrod the mighty hunter, down to the hero conqueror of Agincourt:
A huge and massy pile
Massy it seemed, and yet in every blast
They entered there a large and lofty dome,