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A Poet's Prayer.
Almighty Father! let thy lowly child,
THOMAS HAYNES BAY LY.
MR BAYLY was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age, and he composed a surprising number of light dramas, some of which shew a likelihood of maintaining their ground on the stage. He was born in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but could not settle to so sober a profession, and ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife:
Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
My heart were truly desolate
But thou hast suffered for my sake, Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take The poison from a wound.
My fond affection thou hast seen,
To think more happy thou hadst been
And has that thought been shared by thee?
Proves more unchanging love for me
But there are true hearts which the sight
Though known in days of past delight,
How unlike some who have professed So much in friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best They may evade her claim.
But ah! from them to thee I turn,
Far better lessons I may learn
The love that gives a charm to home, I feel they cannot take:
We'll pray for happier years to come, For one another's sake,
This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His ":ntain the pathos of a section of our social
In 1827 appeared a volume of sacred poctry, entitled The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays Throughout the Year. The work had extraordinary success: the fifty-first edition (1857) is now before us. The object of the author was to bring the thoughts and feelings of his readers into more entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the English Prayer-Book, and some of his little poems have great tenderness, beauty, and pure devotional feeling. Thus, on the text: ‘So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city’ (Genesis, xi. 8), we have this descriptive passage:
Since all that is not Heaven must fade,
Far opening down some woodland deep
Another text (Proverbs, xiv. 10) suggests a train of touching sentiment:
Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die,
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow—
The following is one of the poems entire:
Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity. The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it
shall speak, and not lie : though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.—Habakkuk, ii. 3.
The morning mist is cleared away, Yet still the face of Heaven is gray, Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirred the grove, Faded yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The redbreast warbles round this leafy cove.
Sweet messenger of “calm decay,’ Saluting sorrow as you may, As one still bent to find or make the best, In thee, and in this quiet mead, The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resigned than blest.
'Tis a low chant, according well With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave beloved we turn, Or by some holy death-bed dear, Most welcome to the chastened ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.
O cheerful tender strain the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, And on the world's autumnal time, "Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast:
That is the heart for thoughtful seer, Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear,” Th' appalling Future as it nearer draws: His spirit calmed the storm to meet, Feeling the rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.
That is the heart for watchmen true Waiting to see what GoD will do, As o'er the Church the gathering twilight falls: No more he strains his wistful eye, If chance the golden hours be nigh, By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls.
Forced from his shadowy paradise, His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise: There seek his answer when the world reproves: Contented in his darkling round, If only he be faithful found, When from the east th' eternal morning moves.
The author of The Christian Year is the REv. JoHN KEBLE, vicar of Hursley, near Winchester. He studied and took his degree of M.A. at Oriel College, and was some time Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. He is author also of Lyra Innocentium: Thoughts in Verse on the Ways of Providence towards Little Children; The Child's Christian Year; &c., published in 1846. He edited an edition of Hooker's works, Oxford, 1836.
No E L T Ho MAS CA R RINGTON.
A Devonshire poet, MR CARRINGTON (1777–1830), has celebrated some of the scenery and traditions of his native district in pleasing verse. His works have been collected into two volumes, and consist of The Banks of Tamar, 1820; Dartmoor (his best poem), 1826; My Native Village; and miscellaneous pieces.
The Pixies of Devon.
[The age of pixies, like that of chivalry, is gone. There is, perhaps, at present, scarcely a house which they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes which they formerly frequented seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard; and they appear to have forgotten to attend their ancient midnight dance.-Drew's Cornwall.]
They are flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove In Superstition's web when Time was young,
* It shall come to pass in that day, that the light shall not be clear, nor dark.-Zechariah, xiv. 6.
And fondly loved and cherished: they are flown
Brightened with visitings of these so sweet
And by gifted eyes were seen
The seasons came
In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
FITZ GREENE HAL LECK.
Without attempting, in our confined limits, to range over the fields of American literature, now rapidly extending, and cultivated with ardour and success, we have pleasure in including some emiment transatlantic names in our list of popular authors. MR HALLEck became generally known in this country in 1827 by the publication of a volume of Poems, the result partly of a visit to England. In this volume are some fine ve: On Burns, on Alnwick Castle, &c., and it includes the most elevated of his strains, the martial lyric, Marco Bozzaris. Our poet-laureate, Mr Tennyson, has described the poetical character:
The poet in a golden clime was born,
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
He saw through life and death, through good and ill,
Halleck, in his beautiful verses, To a Rose brought from near Alloway Kirk in Autumn 1822, had previously identified, as it were, this conception of the laureate's with the history of the Scottish poet:
Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,
A love of right, a scorn of wrong,
A kind true heart, a spirit high,
Were written in his manly eye,
Praise to the bard | His words are driven
Where'er beneath the sky of heaven
Mr Halleck is a native of Guildford, Connecticut, born in 1795. He resided some time in New York, following mercantile pursuits. In 1821 he published Fanny, a satirical poem in the style of Don Juan. Next appeared his volume of poems, as already stated, to which additions were made in subsequent republications. His works are included in one volume, and it is to be regretted that his muse has not been more prolific.
... [The Epaminondas of modern Greece. He fell in a nightattack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Plataea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: ‘To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.’]
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
At midnight, in the forest shades,
An hour passed on, the Turk awoke; .." bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek:
They fought, like brave men, long and well,
Come to the bridal-chamber, Death !
But to the hero, when his sword
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
For thine her evening-prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, . Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys; And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die!
This most popular of the American poets is a native of the state of Massachusetts, born in 1794. With a precocity, rivalled only by that of Chatterton, he published in his fourteenth year a political satire, The Embargo, which is represented as having been highly successful. From this perilous course of political versifying, the young author was removed by being placed at Williams College. He was admitted to the bar, and practised for several years with fair success, but in 1825 he removed to New York, and entered upon that literary life which he has ever since followed. In 1826 Mr Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post, and his connection with that journal still subsists. His poetical works consist of Thanatopsis—an exquisite solemn strain of blank verse, first published in 1816; The Ages, a survey of the experience of mankind, 1821; and various pieces scattered through periodical works. Mr Washington Irving, struck with the beauty of Bryant's poetry, had it collected and published in London in 1832. The British public, he said, had expressed its delight at the graphic descriptions of American scenery and wild woodland characters contained in the works of Cooper. “The same keen eye and just feeling for nature, he added, ‘the same indigenous style of thinking and local peculiarity of imagery, which give such novelty and interest to the pages of that gifted writer, will be found to characterise this volume, condensed into a narrower compass, and sublimated into poetry. From this opinion Professor Wilson— who reviewed the volume in Blackwood's Magazine —dissented, believing that Cooper's pictures are infinitely richer in local peculiarity of imagery and thought. ‘The chief charm of Bryant's genius, he considered, ‘consists in a tender pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over all his contemplations, dreams, and reveries, even such as in the main are glad, and giving assurance of a pure spirit, benevolent to all living creatures, and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural religion—with what Wordsworth calls the religion of the woods. This is strictly applicable to the Thanatopsis and Forest Hymn, but Washington Irving is so far right that Bryant's grand merit is his nationality and his power of painting the American landscape, especially in its wild, solitary, and magnificent forms. His diction is pure and lucid, with scarcely a flaw, and he is a master of blank verse.
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
Lodged in sunny cleft Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little wind-flower, whose just-opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at, Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.
The Disinterred Warrior.
Gather him to his grave again,
The soul hath quickened every part-
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
For he was fresher from the hand
Then they were kind—the forests here,
A noble race! But they are gone,
The Indian at the Burying-place of his Fathers.
It is the spot I came to seek—
For here the upland bank sends out
A white man, gazing on the scene,
The sheep are on the slopes around,
Methinks it were a nobler sight
And then to mark the lord of all, The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And seamed with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his train, to dare a" wolf, and grapple with the bear.
The REv. FRANCIs WRANGHAM (1769–1843), rector of Hummanby, Yorkshire, and Archdeacon of Chester, in 1795 wrote a prize-poem on the Restoration of the Jews, and translations in verse. He was the author of four Seaton prize-poems on sacred subjects, several sermons, an edition of Langhorne's Plutarch, and dissertations on the British empire in the East, on the translation of the Scriptures into the Oriental languages, &c. His occasional translations from the Greek and Latin, and his macaronic verses, or sportive classical effusions among his friends, were marked by fine taste and felicitous adaptation. He continued his favourite studies to the close of his long life, and was the ornament and delight of the society in which he moved.
h ENRY FRANCIS C.A.R.Y.
The REv. HENRY FRANCIs CARY (1772–1844), by his translation of Dante, has earned a high and lasting reputation. He was early distinguished as