A casement high and triple-arched there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, As are the tiger-moth's deep damasked wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel newly drest, Save wings, for heaven; Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. [Hymn to Pan.] [From Endymion.] O thou whose mighty palace-roof doth hang Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whose solemn hours dost sit and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now, By all the trembling mazes that she ran, O thou for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: 0 thou to whom Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom Their ripened fruitage; yellow-girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn ; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completions-be quickly near, By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine! Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; O hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: winder of the horn, The many that are come to pay their vows Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen Ode to a Nightingale. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Away! away! for I will fly to thee Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the hill-stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley's glades: Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? To Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; Sonnets. [On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.] Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien. [The Human Seasons.] Four seasons fill the measure of the year; His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings [On England.] Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me; Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about their summer waters. Lines. [The poet Keats walked in the Highlands, not with the joyousness, the rapture, of the young Rousseau, but in that hallowed pleasure of the soul which, in its fulness, is akin to pain. The following extract of a poem, not published in his works, proves his intensity of feeling, even to the dread of madness. It was written while on his journey, soon after his pilgrimage to the birthplace of Burns, not for the gaze of the world, but as a record for himself of the temper of his mind at the time. It is a sure index to the more serious traits in his character; but Keats, neither in writing nor in speaking could affect a sentiment-his gentle spirit knew not how to counterfeit.'-New Monthly Magazine, 1822.] There is a charm in footing slow One hour half idiot he stands By mossy water-fall, But in the very next he reads His soul's memorial. He reads it on the mountain's height, That hill's eternal crown! Room is there for a prayer, DR REGINALD HEBER. DR REGINALD HEBER, bishop of Calcutta, was born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, where his father had a living. In his seventeenth year he was admitted of Brazen-nose College, Oxford, and soon distinguished himself by his classical attainments. In 1802 he obtained the university prize for Latin hexameters, his subject being the Carmen Seculare. Applying himself to English verse, Heber, in 1803, composed his poem of Palestine, which has been considered the best prize-poem the university has ever produced. Parts of it were set to music; and it had an extensive sale. Previous to its recitation in the theatre of the university, the young author read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford; and Scott observed, that in the verses on Solomon's Temple, one striking circumstance had escaped him—namely, that no tools were used in its construction. Reginald retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the beautiful lines No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung; His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen He has also given a striking sketch of the Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed, So when, deep sinking in the rosy main, Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, While his poem of Palestine was universally admired, and all looked forward to the maturity of a genius so rich in promise, Heber continued his studies with unabated industry. He made considerable progress in mathematics and in the higher classics. In 1805 he took his degree of B.A., and the same year gained the prize for the English essay; the subject, The Sense of Honour. He was elected to a fellowship at All Souls' College, and soon after went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea. On his return he took his degree of A.M. at Oxford. He appeared again as a poet in 1809, his subject being Europe, or Lines on the Present War. The struggle in Spain formed the predominating theme of Heber's poem. He was now presented to the living of Hodnet; and at the same time he married Amelia, daughter of Dr Shipley, dean of St Asaph. The duties of a parish pastor were discharged by Heber with unostentatious fidelity and application. He also applied his vigorous intellect to the study of divinity, and in 1815 preached the Bampton and Lecture, the subject selected by him for a course of Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, sermons being the Personality and Office of the Christian Comforter. He was an occasional contributor to the Quarterly Review; and in 1822 he wrote a copious life of Jeremy Taylor, and a review of his writings for a complete edition of Taylor's works. Contrary to the advice of prudent friends, he accepted, in 1823, the difficult task of Bishop of Calcutta, and no man could have entered on his mission with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. During the ensuing year, he was engaged in visiting the several European stations in Bengal and the upper provinces of Hindostan. In January 1825 he made a similar tour to the stations under the Bombay government, consecrating churches at various places. In May 1825 he held his episcopal visitation at Bombay. During this progress he laid the foundation of two central schools. He also visited the Deccan, Ceylon, and Madras, on his return to Bengal, performing at each station the active duties of his sacred office. His whole energies appear to have been devoted to the propagation of Christianity in the East. In 1826 the bishop made a journey to Travancore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. On the 1st of April he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on the day following. He went the next day, Monday, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native Christians in the fort, and attend divine service. He then returned to the house of a friend, Heber's Parish Church. and went into the bath preparatory to his dressing for breakfast. His servant, conceiving he remained too long, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a public man, equally beloved and venerated, was mourned by all classes, and every honour was paid to his memory. Much might have been anticipated, from the zeal and learning of Heber, in elucidation of the antiquities of India, and the moral and religious improvement of its people, had his valuable life been spared. At the time of his death he was only in his forty-third year-a period too short to have developed those talents and virtues which, as one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his course in life, from the moment that he was crowned with academical honours till the day of his death, one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of India. The widow of Dr Heber has published a Memoir of his Life, with selections from his letters; and also a Narrative of his Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay. In these works the excellent prelate is seen to great advantage, as an acute and lively observer, graphic in his descriptions both of scenery and manners, and everywhere animated with feelings of Christian zeal and benevolence. As a poet, Heber is always elegant, and often striking. His hymns are peculiarly touching and impressive, and musical in versification. The highest honours of the lyre he probably never could have attained; for he is deficient in originality, and is more rhetorical than passionate or imaginative. Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains, Their land from error's chain. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark-blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! An Evening Walk in Bengal. And, moored beneath the tamarind bough, Come, walk with me the jungle through- A truce to thought-the jackal's cry And through the trees yon failing ray 1 A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium. 2 The Mucharunga. Still as we pass, in softened hum The village song, the horn, the drum : It is it must be-Philomel! CHARLES WOLFE. The REV. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied, with considerable closeness, from a prose account of the incident which it relates. Reading in the Edinburgh Annual Register a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battle-field of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive-the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions-in-arms-and the poet himself dying when young, beloved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelley considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right beyond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Fame, like wealth, is sometimes pursued with unprincipled covetousness; but, we need hardly say, unless directed by proper motives, the chase is never honourable, and very seldom safe. The great duties of life-its moral feelings and principles-are something more important than even the brightest wreaths of fame! Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with an interesting memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell, one of his early college-friends. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, |