"Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book, That thing by me abhorred, and with address Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, 'What is this story all thine own invention?' Then, as advancing through this mortal span, Our intercourse with the mixed world began; Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesyA truth that from my youthful vanity Lay not concealed-did for the sisters twain, Where'er we went, the greater favour gain; While, but for thee, vexed with its tossing tide, I from the busy world had shrunk aside. And now, in later years, with better grace, Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neighbourhood have made The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. The change of good and evil to abide, As partners linked, long have we, side by side, Our earthly journey held; and who can say How near the end of our united way? By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft Will she remain-the lonely pilgrim left. If thou art taken first, who can to me Like sister, friend, and home-companion be? Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn, Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn? And if I should be fated first to leave This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve, And he above them all, so truly proved A friend and brother, long and justly loved, There is no living wight, of woman born, Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn. Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caringAccept, dear Agnes, on thy natal-day, An unadorned, but not a careless lay. Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid From tardy love proceeds, though long delayed. Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed, The latest spoken still are deemed the best: Few are the measured rhymes I now may write; These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite. WILLIAM KNOX-THOMAS PRINGLE. WILLIAM KNOx, a young poet of considerable talent, who died in Edinburgh in 1825, aged thirtysix, was author of The Lonely Hearth, Songs of Israel, The Harp of Zion, &c. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions Knox in his diary: His father was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then shewed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry.' Knox thus concludes his Songs of Israel: My song hath closed, the holy dream To look and long, and sigh in vain For friends I ne'er shall meet again. And yet the earth is green and gay; Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight: For weak is now the tenderest tongue That might my simple songs have sung. And like to Gilead's drops of balm, They for a moment soothed my breast; But earth hath not a power to calm My spirit in forgetful rest, Until I lay me side by side With those that loved me, and have died. They died-and this a world of woe, I wander onward to the tomb, With scarce a hope to linger here: But with a prospect to rejoin The friends beloved, that once were mine. THOMAS PRINGLE was born in Roxburghshire in 1788. He was concerned in the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, and was author of Scenes of Teviotdale, Ephemerides, and other poems, all of which display fine feeling and a cultivated taste. Although, from lameness, ill fitted for a life of roughness or hardship, Mr Pringle, with his father, and several brothers, emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope in the year 1820, and there established a little township or settlement named Glen Lynden. The poet afterwards removed to Cape Town, the capital; but, wearied with his Caffreland exile, and disagreeing with the governor, he returned to England, and subsisted by his pen. He was some time editor of the literary annual, entitled Friendship's Offering. His services were also engaged by the African Society, as secretary to that body, a situation which he continued to hold until within a few months of his death. In the discharge of its duties he evinced a spirit of active humanity, and an ardent love of the cause to which he was devoted. His last work was a series of African Sketches, containing an interesting personal narrative, interspersed with verse. Mr Pringle died on the 5th of December 1834. The following piece was much admired by Coleridge: Afar in the Desert. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: The home of my childhood-the haunts of my prime; With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, Afar in the Desert I love to ride, There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; By the wild-deer's haunt, and the buffalo's glen; Afar in the Desert I love to ride, Afar in the Desert I love to ride, Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And here while the night-winds round me sigh, ROBERT MONTGOMERY. The REV. ROBERT MONTGOMERY obtained a numerous circle of readers and admirers, although his poetry was stilted and artificial, and was severely criticised by Macaulay and others. The glitter of his ornate style, and the religious nature of his subjects, kept up his productions (with the aid of incessant puffing) for several years, but they have now sunk into neglect. His principal works are, The Omnipresence of the Deity, Satan, Luther, Messiah, and Orford. He wrote also various religious prose works, and was highly popular with many persons as a divine. He was preacher at Percy Chapel, Charlotte Street, Bedford Square, London, and died in 1855, aged forty-seven. [Description of a Maniac.] Down yon romantic dale, where hamlets few Arrest the summer pilgrim's pensive viewThe village wonder, and the widow's joy— Dwells the poor mindless, pale-faced maniac boy: He lives and breathes, and rolls his vacant eye, To greet the glowing fancies of the sky; But on his cheek unmeaning shades of woe Reveal the withered thoughts that sleep below! A soulless thing, a spirit of the woods, He loves to commune with the fields and floods: Sometimes along the woodland's winding glade, He starts, and smiles upon his pallid shade; Or scolds with idiot threat the roaming wind, But rebel music to the ruined mind! Or on the shell-strewn beach delighted strays, Playing his fingers in the noontide rays: And when the sea-waves swell their hollow roar, He counts the billows plunging to the shore; And oft beneath the glimmer of the moon, He chants some wild and melancholy tune; Till o'er his softening features seems to play A shadowy gleam of mind's reluctant sway. Thus, like a living dream, apart from men, From morn to eve he haunts the wood and glen; But round him, near him, wheresoe'er he rove, A guardian-angel tracks him from above! Nor harm from flood or fen shall e'er destroy The mazy wanderings of the maniac boy. [The Starry Heavens.] Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright, The lulled winds, too, are sleeping in their caves, And moonlight loveliness hath veiled the land, And king and kingdom from their pride are hurled, WILLIAM HERBERT. The HON. and REV. WILLIAM HERBERT published in 1806 a series of translations from the Norse, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. Those from the Norse, or Icelandic tongue, were generally admired, and the author was induced to venture on an original poem founded on Scandinavian history and manners. The work was entitled Helga, and was published in 1815. We extract a few lines descriptive of a northern spring, bursting out at once into verdure: Yestreen the mountain's rugged brow A veil o'er heaven's blue arch had cast; That wakes the spring of northern land! The heathcock claps his wings and crows. After a long interval of silence, Mr Herbert came forward in 1838 with an epic poem, entitled Attila, founded on the establishment of Christianity by the discomfiture of the mighty attempt of the Gothic king to establish a new antichristian dynasty upon the wreck of the temporal power of Rome at the end of the term of 1200 years, to which its duration had been limited by the forebodings of the heathens. He published also an able historical treatise on Attila and his Predecessors (1838). Mr Herbert wrote some tales, a volume of sermons, and various treatises on botany and other branches of natural history. His select works were published in two volumes in 1842. Few writers have been so various and so profound. He originally studied law, and was for some time a member of the House of Commons, where he was likely to rise into Where are ye gone, And shall we wake from the long sleep of death, To know each other, conscious of the ties That linked our souls together, and draw down The secret dew-drop on my cheek, whene'er I turn unto the past? or will the change That comes to all renew the altered spirit To other thoughts, making the strife or love Of short mortality a shadow past, Equal illusion? Father, whose strong mind Was my support, whose kindness as the spring Which never tarries! Mother, of all forms That smiled upon my budding thoughts, most dear! Brothers! and thou, mine only sister! gone To the still grave, making the memory Of all my earliest time a thing wiped out, Save from the glowing spot, which lives as fresh In my heart's core as when we last in joy Were gathered round the blithe paternal board! Where are ye? Must your kindred spirits sleep For many a thousand years, till by the trump Roused to new being? Will old affections then Burn inwardly, or all our loves gone by Seem but a speck upon the roll of time, Unworthy our regard? This is too hard For mortals to unravel, nor has He Vouchsafed a clue to man, who bade us trust To Him our weakness, and we shall wake up After His likeness, and be satisfied. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. EBENEZER ELLIOTT, sprung from the manufacturing classes of England, and completely identified with them in feelings and opinions, was born at Masborough, in Yorkshire, March 7, 1781. His father was an iron-founder, and he himself wrought at this business for many years. He followed Crabbe in depicting the condition of the poor as miserable and oppressed, tracing most of the evils he deplores to the social and political institutions of his country. The laws relating to the importation of corn were denounced by Elliott as specially oppressive, and he inveighed against them with a fervour of manner and a harshness of phraseology, which ordinary minds feel as repulsive, even while acknowledged as flowing from the offended benevolence of the poet. His vigorous and exciting political verses helped, in no small degree, to swell the cry which at length compelled the legislature to abolish all restrictions on the importation of corn. For thee, my country, thee, do I perform, Heedless, though ass, and wolf, and venomous worm, Shake ears and fangs, with brandished bray, at me. Fortunately, the genius of Elliott redeemed his errors of taste: his delineation of humble virtue and affection, and his descriptions of English scenery, are excellent. He wrote from genuine feelings and impulses, and often rose into pure sentiment and eloquence. Ebenezer Elliott. The Corn-law Rhymer, as he was popularly termed, appeared as a poet in 1823, but it was at a later period-from 1830 to 1836-that he produced his Corn-law Rhymes and other works, which stamped him as a true genius, and rendered his name famous. He was honoured with critical notices from Southey, Bulwer, and Wilson, and became, as has justly been remarked, as truly and popularly the poet of Yorkshire-its heights, dales, and broad towns'-as Scott was the poet of Tweedside, or Wordsworth of the Lakes. His career was manly and honourable, and latterly he enjoyed comparatively easy circumstances, free from manual toil. He died at his house near Barnsley on the 1st of December 1849. Shortly after his death, two volumes of prose and verse were published from his papers. To the Bramble Flower. Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So put thou forth thy small white rose; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needst not be ashamed to shew Thy satin-threaded flowers; For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them; While silent showers are falling slow, And 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead; The violet by the mossed gray stone Hath laid her weary head; But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, The Excursion. Bone-weary, many-childed, trouble-tried! Mother of nine that live, and two that died! This day, drink health from nature's mountain-bowl; Nay, why lament the doom which mocks control? The buried are not lost, but gone before. Then dry thy tears, and see the river roll O'er rocks, that crowned yon time-dark heights of yore, Now, tyrant like, dethroned, to crush the weak no more, The young are with us yet, and we with them: Dear children! when the flowers are full of bees; 'Tis passing sweet to wander, free as air, O Night's long-courted slumbers! bring no rest God! would they handcuff thee? and, if they could Of the rich sky! Their gods are bonds and blows, They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome me, Blue Eyebright!* loveliest flower of all that grow gaze Is like an infant's! What heart doth not know Awake, blue Eyebright, while the singing wave [Pictures of Native Genius.] O faithful love, by poverty embraced! And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm, Yet while in gloom your freezing day declines, Stretch to the winds in sport their stalwart length, And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble too! While round your hearth the woe-nursed virtues move, * The Geornander Speedwell. Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood-notes wild, Northumbrian vales! ye saw, in silent pride, When, poor, yet learned, he wandered young and free, And felt within the strong divinity. Scenes of his youth, where first he wooed the Nine, His spirit still is with you, vales of Tyne! As when he breathed, your blue-belled paths along, The soul of Plato into British song. Born in a lowly hut an infant slept, Dreamful in sleep, and, sleeping, smiled or wept : Silent the youth-the man was grave and shy: His parents loved to watch his wondering eye: And lo he waved a prophet's hand, and gave, Where the winds soar, a pathway to the wave! From hill to hill bade air-hung rivers stride, And flow through mountains with a conqueror's pride: O'er grazing herds, lo! ships suspended sail, And Brindley's praise hath wings in every gale! The worm came up to drink the welcome shower; The redbreast quaffed the raindrop in the bower; The flaskering duck through freshened lilies swam; The bright roach took the fly below the dam; Ramped the glad colt, and cropped the pensile spray; No more in dust uprose the sultry way; The lark was in the cloud; the woodbine hung More sweetly o'er the chaffinch while he sung; And the wild rose, from every dripping bush, Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirrored blush; When calmly seated on his panniered ass, Where travellers hear the steel hiss as they pass, A milk-boy, sheltering from the transient storm, Chalked, on the grinder's wall, an infant's form; Young Chantrey smiled; no critic praised or blamed; And golden promise smiled, and thus exclaimed: 'Go, child of genius! rich be thine increase; Go-be the Phidias of the second Greece !' [Apostrophe to Futurity.] Ye rocks! ye elements! thou shoreless main, Thoughts that with terror and with sorrow wring And as when Horror lays his finger cold |