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Already with thee! tender is the night,
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
Forlorn 1 the very word is like a bell
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they
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,
Ay, if a madman could have leave
One hour half idiot he stands
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,
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,
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.
These flocks and herds—this faint and weary train—
Red from the scourge, and recent from the chain
Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave
| And range unconscious through the ocean's bed;
Till midway now—that strange and fiery form
Hymn.-Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity.
Lo, the lilies of the field,
Say, with richer crimson glows
One there lives, whose guardian eye
An Evening Walk in Bengal.
Our task is done!—on Gunga's breast
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, |
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,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
Few and short were the prayers we said,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,