Obrazy na stronie
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Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the queen-moon is on her throne
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous blooms and winding mossy
ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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 ecstacyl
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn 1 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 hill-side; 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,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimmed 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
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the riversallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter from the skies.

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 surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

[The Human Seasons.] Four seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear | Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh | Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings | He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things | Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. |

[On England.] Happy is England 1 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 .. what world or wordling 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 Across a silent plain, Where patriot battle has been fought, Where glory had the gain:

There is a pleasure on the heath,
Where Druids old have been,
Where mantles gray have rustled by,
And swept the nettles green:
There is a joy in every spot,
Made known in days of old,
New to the feet, although each tale
A hundred times be told.
* * #

Ay, if a madman could have leave
To pass a healthful day,
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint
When first began decay.
* + +

One hour half idiot he stands
By mossy waterfall,
But in the very next he reads
His soul's memorial,
He reads it on the mountain's height,
Where chance he may sit down
Upon rough marble diadem—
That hill’s eternal crown |
Yet be his anchor e'er so fast,
Room is there for a prayer,
That man may never lose his mind
On mountains black and bare.
That he may stray, league after league,
Some great birthplace to find,
And keep his vision clear from speck,
His inward sight unblind!

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; Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung, Majestic silences

| His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen and desolate state, is pathetic and beautiful:—

| Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widowed queen! forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
While suns unblessed their angry lustre fling,
And wayworn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed ?
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued;
No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
No suppliant nations in thy temple wait;
No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song:
But lawless Force, and meagre Want are there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear,
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.

He has also given a striking sketch of the Druses, o: hardy mountain race descended from the Crusaders :

Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold,
Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold;
From Norman blood their lofty line they trace,
Their lion-courage proves their generous race.
They, only they, while all around them kneel
In sullen homage to the Thracian steel,
Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear
The patriot terrors of the mountain spear.
Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine,
The native guard of feeble Palestine,
O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed,
Defend the birthright of the cedar shade 1
What though no more for you the obedient gale
Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian sail;
Though now no more your glittering marts unfold
Sidonian dyes and Lusitanian gold;
Though not for you the pale and sickly slave
Forgets the light in Ophir's wealthy cave;
Yet yours the lot, in proud contentment blest,
Where cheerful labour leads to tranquil rest.
No robber-rage the ripening harvest knows;
And unrestrained the generous vintage flows:
Nor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire;
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire.
So when, deep sinking in the rosy main,
The western sun forsakes the Syrian plain,
His watery rays refracted lustre shed,
And pour their latest light on Carmel's head.'
Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom,
As the lone lamp that trembles in the tomb;
For few the souls that spurn a tyrant's chain, -
And small the bounds of freedom's scanty reign.

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 Lecture, the subject selected by him for a course of 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. The same year he was elected, by the benchers of Lincoln's Inn, preacher to their society. Here he had chambers in London, an addition of about £600 to his yearly income, and his duty was only preaching thirteen sermons in the year. An office so honourable, from the high character and talents of the electors, and the eminent persons by whom it has been held, is usually considered a stepping-stone to a bishopric. To this honour in its highest form— that of a spiritual peer of the realm—Heber might

now have looked forward with confidence; but a

strong sense of duty and desire of Christian usefulness prevented the prospect being realised. . It was under such feelings, and contrary to the advice of prudent friends, that he accepted, in 1823, the difficult task of bishop of Calcutta. With his family -

Heber's Parish Church.

he arrived safely at his destination on the 10th of October; 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 Travencore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. He preached, confirmed, and visited his Christian communities with his usual affection and ardour. 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, 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.

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These flocks and herds—this faint and weary train—

Red from the scourge, and recent from the chain
God of the poor, the poor and friendless save!
Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave
North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly,
The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry.
On earth's last margin throng the weeping train;
Their cloudy guide moves on:—“And must we swim
the main?’
"Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood,
Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood;
He comes—their leader comes!—the man of God
O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod,
And onward treads. The circling waves retreat,
In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet;
And the chased surges, inly roaring, show
The hard wet sand and coral hills below.
With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell,
Down, down they pass—a steep and slippery dell;
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurled,
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world;
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green,
And caves, the sea-calves’ low-roofed haunt, are seen.
Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread;
The beetling waters storm above their head;
While far behind retires the sinking day,
And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray.
Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light,
Or dark to them or cheerless came the night.
Still in their van, along that dreadful road,
Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God.

[graphic]

Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave
On the long mirror of the rosy wave;
While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply,
Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye–
To them alone—for Misraim's wizard train
Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain;
Clouds heaped on clouds their struggling sight confine,
And tenfold darkness broods above their line.
Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led,

| And range unconscious through the ocean's bed;

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Till midway now—that strange and fiery form
Showed his dread visage lightening through the storm;
With withering splendour blasted all their might,
And brake their chariot wheels, and marred their
coursers' flight.
‘Fly, Misraim, fly!" The ravenous floods they see,
And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity.
‘Fly, Misraim, fly!" From Edom's coral strand
Again the prophet stretched his dreadful wand.
With one § crash the thundering waters sweep,
And all is waves—a dark and lonely deep;
Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past,
As mortal wailing swelled the nightly blast.
And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore
The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore.
Oh! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood
In trustless wonder by the avenging flood
Oh! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show
The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below !
The mangled limbs of men—the broken car—
A few sad relics of a nation's war;
Alas, how few Then, soft as Elim's well,
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell.
And he, whose hardened heart alike had borne
The house of bondage and the oppressor's scorn,
The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued,
In faltering accents sobbed his gratitude,
Till kindling into warmer zeal, around
The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound;
And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest,
The struggling spirit throbbed in Miriam's breast.
She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky
The dark transparence of her lucid eye,
Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony.
‘Where now,” she sang, ‘the tall Egyptian spear?
On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where?
Above their ranks the whelming waters spread.
Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphéd l’
And every pause between, as Miriam sang,
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang,
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread—
“Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphéd l’

Hymn.-Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity.

Lo, the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield !
Hark to Nature's lesson, given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:
“Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow !

Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol ...
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow !

One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;
One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall.

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An Evening Walk in Bengal.

Our task is done!—on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And, moored beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride:
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslem's savoury supper steams;
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.

Come, walk with me the jungle through— If yonder hunter told us true, Far off, in desert dank and rude, The tiger holds its solitude; Now (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun) A dreadful guest but rarely seen, Returns to scare the village green. Come boldly on; no venomed snake Can shelter in so cool a brake— Child of the sun, he loves to lie *Midst nature's embers, parched and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade; Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of Death. Come on ; yet pause ! Behold us now Beneath the bamboo's arched bough, Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom, Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom;1 And winds our path through many a bower Of fragrant tree and giant flower— The ceiba's crimson poinp displayed O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade, And dusk anana's prickly glade; While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, The betel waves his crest in air; With pendant train and rushing wings, Aloft the gorgeous |. springs; And he, the bird of hundred dyes,” Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. So rich a shade, so green a sod, Our English fairies never trod | Yet who in Indian bowers has stood, But thought on England’s “good greenwood;’ And blessed, beneath the pio shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade; And breathed a prayer (how oft in vain ) To gaze upon her oaks again : A truce to thought—the jackal's cry Itesounds like sylvan revelry; And through the trees yon failing ray Will scantly serve to guide our way. Yet mark, as fade the upper skies, Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes— Before, beside us, and above, The fire-fly lights his lamp of love, Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring; While to this cooler air confest, The broad dhatura bares her breast, Of fragrant scent and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night! Still as we pass, in softened hum Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum : Still as we pass, from bush and brier The shrill cigala strikes his lyre; And what is she whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?

* A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium. * The Mucharunga.

| Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

I know that soul-entrancing swell, |
It is—it must be—Philomel!
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind. |
But oh! with thankful hearts confess
E’en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth—his hope of heaven.

chartles 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 battlefield 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 be- | yond 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, 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;

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

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