Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni. O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 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, Voice 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! O 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! 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, And who commanded-and the silence came- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 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, In adoration, upward from thy base, Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! But when I told the cruel scorn But sometimes from the savage den, In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, And how she wept and clasped his knees, The scorn that crazed his brain. And that she nursed him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, she stept aside; She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace, And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride! [From 'Frost at Midnight.'] Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings heard in this deep calm Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Or if the secret ministry of frost Love, Hope, and Patience in Education. Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, When overtasked at length Youth and Age. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; O! the joys that came down shower-like, Ere I was old? Ah, woful ere, Which tells me Youth's no longer here! Dewdrops are the gems of morning, That only serves to make us grieve REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 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 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 And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! Winter Evening at Home. Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December, through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light, Just glimmering bids each shadowy image fall Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night! Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze, I think around me in this twilight gloom, I but remark mortality's sad doom; Hope. As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, He the green slope and level meadow views, Or turns his ear to every random song Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal. [South American Scenery.] Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows, Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by; Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon, There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white Sun-dial in a Churchyard. So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade, Brief Time! and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade, And like a summer vapour steal away. And have not they, who here forgotten lie- Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, 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; So smiling, and so perishing the while. I heard the village-bells, with gladsome soundWhen to these scenes a stranger I drew nearProclaim the tidings of the village round, While memory wept upon the good man's bier. 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 The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O God. The Greenwich Pensioners. When evening listened to the dripping oar, By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride, Reflects that stately structure on his side, Within whose walls, as their long labours close, We wore in social ease the hours away, Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, I lingered on the river's marge alone; 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 SOUTHEY. 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 Robert Southey 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; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse night and day. 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 of his country, against which he soon arrayed 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- They entered there a large and lofty dome, |