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them “fine lines, and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford.

HENRY LUTT RELL.

Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770–1851), author of Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme, 1820, and Crockford House, 1827. Mr Luttrell was a favourite in the circle of Holland House: “none of the talkers whom I meet in London society, said Rogers, “can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does. The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree:

On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, The tree will return her as good as she brings.

The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia:

[London in Autumn.]

'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat
Full on the scorching pavement beat,
As o'er it, the faint breeze, by fits
Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown
Stains every withering shrub in town.
Darkening the air, in clouds arise
Th’ Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;
At rest, in motion—forced to roam
Abroad, or to remain at home,
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions—‘Be ye hot!”
Day is intolerable—Night
As close and suffocating quite;
And still the mercury mounts higher,
Till London seems again on fire.

[The November Fog of London.]

First, at the dawn of lingering day,
It rises of an ashy gray;
Then deepening with a sordid stain
Of yellow, like a lion's mane.
Vapour importunate and dense,
It wars at once with every sense.
The ears escape not. All around
Returns a dull unwonted sound.
Loath to stand still, afraid to stir,
The chilled and puzzled passenger,
Oft blundering from the pavement, fails
To feel his way along the rails;
Or at the crossings, in the roll
Of every carriage dreads the pole.
Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun,
Blots from the face of heaven the sun.
But soon a thicker, darker cloak
Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke,
Which steam-compelling trade disgorges
From all her furnaces and forges
In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise,
Descends rejected from the skies;
Till struggling day, extinguished quite,
At noon gives place to candle-light.
0 Chemistry, attractive maid,
Descend, in pity, to our aid:
Come with thy all-pervading gases,
Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses,
Thy fearful energies and wonders,

382 Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders;

Let Carbon in thy train be seen,
Dark Azote and fair Oxygen,
And Wollaston and Davy guide
The car that bears thee at thy side.
If any power can, any how,
Abate these nuisances, ’tis thou;
And see, to aid thee in the blow,
The bill of Michael Angelo;
O join—success a thing of course is—
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces;
Make all chimneys chew the cud
Like hungry cows, as chimneys should !
And since ’tis only smoke we draw
Within our lungs at common law,
Into their thirsty tubes be sent
Fresh air, by act of parliament.

HENRY GALLY KNIGHT.

Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1787–1846). The first of these, Ilderim, a Syrian Tale, was published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale, and Alashtar, an Arabian Tale, 1817. Mr Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, Hannibal in Bithynia. Though evincing poetical taste and correctness in the delineation of Eastern mannersfor Mr Knight had travelled—these poems failed in exciting attention; and their author turned to the study of our mediaeval architecture. His Architectural Tour in Normandy, and Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century—the latter a splendidly illustrated work—are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature.

CROW E-SAYERS-H E LEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. “How little Crowe is known even to persons who are fond of poetry!’ exclaimed Samuel Rogers (Table Talk); and Wordsworth also mentions Crowe's excellent loco-descriptive poem, Lewesdon Hill, which went through three editions between 1788 and 1804. Its author, the REv. WILLIAM CRowe, was Public Orator in the university of Oxford. We subjoin one of the episodes in Lewesdon Hill, descriptive of the wreck of the Halsewell, East Indiaman, on the coast of England in 1786:

See how the sun, here clouded, afar off
Pours down the golden radiance of his light
Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship
Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
But falsely flattering, was yon surface calm,
When forth for India sailed, in evil time,
That vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,
Filled every breast with horror, and each eye
With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.
Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm
Shattered and driven along past yonder isle,
She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,
To gain the port within it, or at worst
To shun that harbourless and hollow coast
From Portland eastward to the promontory
Where still St Albans high-built chapel stands.
But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;
And there 'mong rocks and high o'erhanging cliffs
Dashed piteously, with all her precious freight

Was lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jaws
Swallowed up quick! The richliest laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that annual sent
To the Philippines o'er the southern main
From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,
Was poor to this; freighted with hopeful Youth,
And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed
By mortal terrors, and paternal Love
Strong and unconquerable even in death—
Alas, they perished all, all in one hour.

DR FRANK SAYERs of Norwich (1763–1817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was “out of date. The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology, 1790; Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary, 1793; Nuga Poeticae, 1803; £ 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMs (1762–1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of Letters from France, Travels in Switzerland, Narrative of Events in France, Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations, &c. In 1823 she collected and republished her poems. To one of the pieces in this edition, she subjoins the following note: “I commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proudreason: it is that of Mr Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.”

Sonnet to Hope.

0 ever skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye,
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Wisions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest !

LEIGh HUNT.

LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian; but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the American war, he espoused the British interest with so much warmth, that he had to leave the new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He took orders in the Church of England, and was some time tutor to the nephew of Lord Chandos, near Southgate. His son—who was named after his father's pupil, Mr Leigh—was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he continued till his fifteenth year. “I was then, he says, “first deputy Grecian; and had the honour of going out of the school in the same rank, at the same age, and for the same reason

as my friend Charles Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my speech. It was understood that a Grecian was bound to deliver a public speech before he left school, and to go into the church afterwards; and as I could do neither of these things, a Grecian I could not be.” Leigh was then a poet, and his

Leigh Hunt.

father collected his verses, and published them with a large list of subscribers. He has himself described this volume as a heap of imitations, some of them clever enough for a youth of sixteen, but absolutely worthless in every other respect. In 1805, Mr Hunt's brother set up a paper called The News, and the poet went to live with him, and write the theatrical criticisms in it. Three years afterwards, they established, in joint-partnership, The Examiner, a weekly journal still conducted with distinguished ability. The poet was more literary than political in his tastes and lucubrations; but unfortunately, he ventured some strictures on the prince-regent, which were construed into a libel, and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. The poet's captivity was not without its bright side. He had much of the public sympathy, and his friends —Byron and Moore being of the number—were attentive in their visits. One of his two rooms on the “ground-floor he converted into a picturesque and poetical study: “I papered the walls with a trellis of roses; I had the ceiling coloured with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with Venetian blinds; and when my bookcases were set up, with their busts and flowers, and a pianoforte made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side the water. I took a pleasure, when a stranger knocked at the door, to see him come in and stare about him. The surprise on issuing from the borough, and passing through the avenues of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb declared there was no other such room except in a fairy tale. But I had another surprise, which was a garden. There was a little yard outside railed off from another belonging to the neighbouring ward. This yard I shut in with green palings, adorned it with a trellis, bordered it with a thick bed of earth from a nursery, and even contrived to have #" plot. The earth I filled with flowers and young trees. There was an apple-tree from which we managed to get a pudding the second year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be perfect. A poet from Derbyshire (Mr Moore) told me he had seen no such heart's-ease. I bought the Parnaso Italiano while in prison, and used often to think of a passage in it, while looking at this miniature piece of horticulture:

[graphic]

Mio picciol orto, A me sei vigna, e campo, e silva, e prato-Baldi.

My little garden, To me thou’rt vineyard, field, and wood, and meadow.

Here I wrote and read in fine weather, sometimes under an awning. In autumn, my trellises were hung with scarlet runners, which added to the flowery investment. I used to shut my eyes in my arm-chair, and affect to think myself hundreds of miles off. But my triumph was in issuing forth of a morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the large one belonging to the prison. The latter was only for vegetables, but it contained a cherry-tree, which I twice saw in blossom.”

This is so interesting a little picture, and so fine an example of making the most of adverse circumstances, that it should not be omitted in any life of Hunt. The poet, however, was not so well fitted to battle with the world, and apply himself steadily to worldly business, as he was to dress his garden and nurse his poetical fancies. He fell into difficulties, and has been contending with them ever since. On leaving prison, he published his Story of Rimini, an Italian tale in verse, containing some exquisite lines and passages. He set up also a small weekly paper, called The Indicator, on the plan of the periodical essayists, which was well received. He also gave to the world two small volumes of poetry, Foliage, and The Feast of the Poets. In 1822, Mr Hunt went to Italy to reside with Lord Byron, and to establish The Liberal, a crude and violent melange of poetry and politics, both in the extreme of liberalism. This connection was productive of mutual disappointment and disgust. The Liberal did not sell; Byron's titled and aristocratic friends cried out against so plebeian a partnership; and Hunt found that the noble poet, to whom he was indebted in a pecuniary sense, was cold, sarcastic, and worldly minded. Still more unfortunate was it that Hunt should afterwards have written the work, Lord Byron. and Some of his Contemporaries, in which his disappointed feelings found vent, and their expression was construed into ingratitude. His life has been spent in struggling with influences contrary to his nature and poetical temperament. The spirit of the poet, however, is still active and cheerful. In 1835, he produced Captain Sword and Captain Pen—a poetical denunciation of war. In 1840, he greeted the birth of the Princess-royal with a copy of verses, from which we extract some pleasing lines:

Behold where thou dost lie,
Heeding naught, remote or nigh!
Naught of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Naught of planet's love nor people's;
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Caroling of thee and thine,
As if heaven had rained them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,

* *: Byron and Some of his Contemporaries, vol. ii. p. 258.

Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost thou know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind eyes pursue it;
Nor the arms that draw thee to it;
Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee!

In the same year Mr Hunt brought out a drama, A Legend of Florence, and in 1842 a narrative poem, The Palfrey. His poetry, generally, is marked by a profusion of imagery, of sprightly fancy, and animated description. Some quaintness and affectation in his style and manner fixed upon him the name of a Cockney poet; but his studies have lain chiefly in the elder writers, and he has imitated with success the lighter and more picturesque parts of Chaucer and Spenser. Boccaccio, and the gay Italian authors, appear also to have been among his favourites. His prose essays have been collected and published under the title of The Indicator and the Companion, a Miscellany for the Fields and the Fireside. They are deservedly popular—full of literary anecdote, poetical feeling, and fine sketches both of town and country life. Other prose works, original and selected, have been published by Mr Hunt, as Sir Ralph Esher, a novel; The Town, its Memorable Characters and Events; The Old Court Suburb; lives of Wycherley, Congreve, and Farquhar, &c. These are all pleasant, readable works. In 1858, he produced a dramatic piece which was successful on the stage. The egotism of the author is undisguised; but in all Hunt's writings, his peculiar tastes and romantic fancy, his talk of books and flowers, and his love of the domestic virtues and charities—though he has too much imagination for his judgment in the serious matters of life— impart a particular interest and pleasure to his personal disclosures. In 1847, the crown bestowed a pension of £200 a year on the veteran poet.

[May Morning at Ravenna.] [From Rimini.]

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay.
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there’s a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;
And all the scene, in short—sky, earth, and sea,
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out
openly.
'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,

Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, Sorrows I’ve had severe ones,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. I will not think of now;
Already in the streets the stir grows loud, And calmly 'midst my dear ones,
Of expectation and a bustling crowd. Have wasted with dry brow;
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, But when thy fingers press
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends; And pat my stooping head,
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite, I cannot bear the gentleness—
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight; The tears are in their bed.
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday, Ah! first-born of thy mother,
And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run, When life and hope were new,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun. Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too;
My light, where'er I go,
[Funeral of the Lovers in “Rimini.'] My bird, when prison bound,
The days were then at close of autumn still, *: #1

A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill;
There was a fitful moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks now thronged to sight, in dark varieties.
The people, who from reverence kept at home,
Listened till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman or the wind that stirred,
Till towards the vesper-hour; and then 'twas said
Some heard a voice, which seemed as if it read;
And others said that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still, nothing came—till on a sudden, just
As the wind opened in a rising gust,
A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turned aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled.
But of the older people, few could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching slow and steadily,
On which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who but a few short months—it seemed a day—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind,
In sunny manhood he—she first of womankind.
They say that when Duke Guido saw them come,
He clasped his hands, and looking round the room,
Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow
None saw him after. But no more of sorrow.
On that same night those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave under a tree;
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground: and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.

To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think

Of all thy winning ways:

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,

Thy heart in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

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Blessed is the turf, serenely blessed,
Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,
Where life's long journey turns to sleep,
Nor ever pilgrim wakes to weep.
A little sod, a few sad flowers,
A tear for long-departed hours,
Is all that feeling hearts request
To hush their weary thoughts to rest.
There shall no vain ambition come
To lure them from their quiet home;
Nor sorrow lift, with heart-strings riven,
The meek imploring eye to heaven;
Nor sad remembrance stoop to shed
His wrinkles on the slumberer's head;
And never, never love repair
To breathe his idle whispers there !

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song-
Indoors and out, summer and winter, mirth.

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