He lived a wan and sickly child,,
And reason's gifted light,

That beam'd so fair in promise there,
Seemed quenched in endless night.

But love supplied what hope had lost,
'Twas still his mother's joy,
To watch his wildly wandering look,
And soothe her crazy boy.

She thought his spirit hid with God,
And trusting in his care,

It was her comfort when she died,
That she would meet him there.

The boy then lived a wandering life,
And with his pedlar's pack,

He traversed many a woodland path,
And shepherd's mountain track.

Where Elliot came the children thronged
His glittering store to see,

And well he loved the simple hand
That pressed around his knee.

He sung them many a simple song,
Wove caps of rushes green,
And shared in all their infant mirth,
From morning's sun till e'en.

The aged loved the simple boy,
And gave him welcome cheer,
He seemed to them a sacred thing,
'Twas pity made him dear.

At parting hour his playmates flocked,
To guide him cross the burn,
They filled his scrip, and kindly pressed,
That he would quick return.

Alas! no more his lightsome step
Will reach that friendly door,
His corpse lies cold upon the heath,
His pale face stained with gore.

Did sordid passion's greedy eye
Fix on his little store,

And prompt the sacrilegious thought,

To rob the wandering poor?

Wretch! couldst thou share his simple meal,

And rest thee on his bed,

And then let fall thy murderous hand

On his defenceless head?

But heaven that saw the ruthless deed,
Stamped ruffian on thy brow,
A dungeon's gloom, a felon's fate,
Unpitied, waits thee now.

VOL. IX.

As on the brink of death he stood,
O'erwhelmed with guilt and dread,
Mid thunder's peal and lightning's flash,
The murderous spirit fled.

GENIUS. AN ODE.

I.

On Genius!-soul of harmony,
If in my bosom sleep thy fire,
Awake its flame to ecstacy,

And sweep the ravished lyre !—
While emulation deems thy power
Inspired from life's primeval hour,
And glorying in his mental force,
Pursues Ambition's daring course.
Thou stimulus of mystic form,

Still deeply felt though dimly seen,-
Wild-in the soul-impassioned storm,
And in the bosom-calm, serene.
What mighty beings worship thee,
Spirit of song and liberty!

But ah, what votaries destroy

Thy promise of immortal joy!

Their aimless views the mental balance keep
Uneasy in suspense, or wavering half asleep.

II.

But come, thou bent of vigour's soul,
Ambitious to attain the goal-
Come, portion of celestial fire,
Infused by nature's awful sire!
Designed to burn, or less or more,
As heaven instils the active power.
'Tis inclination's potent vein,

Enamoured of its vital course-
That bursts restraint's obnoxious chain,
Or sleeps indignant at its source.
Ah who would curb the fiery steed
In emulation's eager speed?

Who would still love's first emotion?
Who arrest the rolling ocean?

Who would chain the wanton wind

Cramps the wild genius of the mind!

Blasts the rich promise of the vernal year,
And clouds the sun of day in glory's glad career.

In vain-the spirit will be free

Though bends the frame in thraldom's chain; And nature! never yet to thee

Rose the blest song of liberty,

So sweet as woke the captive's strain!

Men heard-and blushed that they were men.

Earth shall be free-and men rejoice.

Do tyrants smile?-'tis nature's voice.
And Genius, in his visions high,
Breathes freedom to posterity.

Freedom! what spirits bless thy sway,

Immortal habitant of mind

And catch thy beauty from the day,
Thy music from the wind!

Till borne away by patriot zeal,

Song breathes what they divinely feel

And Genius, burning with congenial flame,

Hymns to the ravished world the glory of thy name!

IV.

Behold in Hope's caressing arms,
While yet her fond enthusiast slumbers-
He dreams of nature's glory's charms-
And wakes to breathe in numbers.
But who will hear his friendless lay,
Who dare the modest youth approve?
The world is mute.-He turns away—
While envy tears the laurel'd bay
By fancy's fairy fingers wove!"
Pale scorn, how bitter is thy love!
Thy cold compassion, who would bear?
But Genius spurns the world-to rove
Through indignation's twilight grove,
And shed the burning tear.

Day breaks:-shall he return again,
To mingle with the herd of men?
And struggle in starvation's field

For laurels which they blush to yield?
No!-but the feeble wants of nature crave,

He weeps for Chatterton-and finds them in his grave!

V.

Oh world! ungrateful as thou art,

Why, why withhold poor merit's claim-
When splendour wins thy selfish heart,
To glory in thy shame!

But who would bend the humble knee,
To thine abhorred hypocrisy ?-
That slave shall merit thy regard,—
But not the poet's bright reward,—
Whose proud devotion woos to be
Espoused to immortality!

Fond child of hope! what dreams employ
Thy spirit in the realms of joy !—
To range the deep expanse of night,
Or hail the rainbow-dawn of light,-
Or see instruction's page sublime,
Emblazoned on the wings of time.
Muse of genius! wildly strong,

And richly various glows thy song

Enamoured still of nature's beauteous form

Delight sails on the breeze, or rapture mounts the storm.

VI.

Who but genius framed the lyre,

And bade enthusiasm sweep the string

When music wrapt the soul on fire,

And set the foot on wing!

Behold in fancy's magic ring,

What charmed passions move!-
See pride forget disaster's sting-
Ambition dance,-and sorrow sing
In harmony with love.

Or mark the pencil's witching grace,
Make beauty dearer to the heart,-
Or sculpture, breathing loveliness,
From inspiration's chisel start.
Oh power of genius! ever hail
In modesty's angelic veil.

But why, alas! should nature hide,
In vesture meek, her darling pride?

Ah! why with promise bright adorn
The dawn of life's prophetic morn,
And damp the summer of its years,

With pale misfortune's sighs, and sorrow's anguished tears?

VII.

Why feels the genius of the soul
Adversity's supreme control?—

Why?-but to prove man's might the more,
In life's rough path-so smooth before!
And strengthen, by his triumph there,
Worth, friendless, struggling with despair,
Thou stepdame of unfavoured youth,
Adversity, rude nurse of truth!
The proudest spirit bends to thee,
With stern, yet deep humility,—
Till from his heart in anguish steal
The tear his cheek disdains to feel!
But salutary virtues arm

The torments of thy powerful charm.
Else how should Homer's genius glow

In pale starvation's wildest throe,

And pour the universal strain,

That boasts unrivalled worth in glory's brightest fane,

VIII.

Oh! rapture of the brilliant flame,
Impelling modesty to fame,
May never indolence enslave
The spirit can misfortune brave;
Nor luxury's voluptuous boon
Enerve the vigour of his noon;
Nor uniformity destroy
The wildness of poetic joy!
Let wanton fancy shift the scene
Congenial to the native vein.

But ah! ye friends to genius dear,

Encourage modesty's career,

Nor let ingratitude of scorn

Blast promise in its blushing morn ;

Nor approbation too profuse

Wake vanity to tame the muse:

But give, ye friends, to genuine merit give
So much of true desert as bids ambition live.

IX.

Alas! and must our nature own
That merit lives-but dies unknown.
The cypress binds his burning brow,
Till death the laurel crown bestow.
And was it so in Greece?-In Rome ?-
Yes, genius, and must be thy doom-
As down thou sail'st the stream of life,
With all its elements at strife;
And when thy bark is buried deep,
Will envy be the first to weep!

Accursed inheritance of worth

To shame the land that boasts his birth:

And glories in his memory

As Spain, Cervantes! joys in thee-
And England, art thou too unjust?

Oh! wake not Milton's-Butler's dust ;

Whence indignation weeping turns

Where Scotia's blushing pride points to the tomb of Burns!

THE PLAID OF THE NORTH.

Addressed to a Lady on beholding her beautiful Plaid.

STRIKE the Harp of the North, for the plaid of the Highlands,
Till beauty and valour shall honour the strain-
Strike it up, till its glory resound o'er the islands,
Where bosoms of rapture shall praise it again.
Let the Lowlands exult in their civilized story,
And boast their apparel-too tame to be free!
But let mine be the mountain, romantic in glory-
The Plaid of the North is the mantle for me!
"Tis the robe of all hues, in variety blending-
An emblem of friendship, fidelity, worth;
But its charm is best seen when divinely descending
O'er beauty's fond bosom, the pride of the North.
I have witnessed the brave of all nations before me,
Yet felt no emotion, their vesture was art-
But the Highlander rose, and his spirit came o'er me,
While nature's wild mantle enravished my heart.
I have witnessed the fair robed in fanciful splendour,
And mused on their charms, though I could not approve;
But when beauty shone forth in the plaid, I grew tender,
And worshipped the magic that taught me to love.
'Tis the garment for beauty, adorned while adorning,
The mantle for valour is Caledon's plaid,—

But when loveliness smiles in its hues 'tis the morning,
With the rainbow of glory thrown over her head.

THE GRAVE OF ROMNEY.

Keswick, 30th July 1821. MR EDITOR,

THE Vestiges of a man of genius are so interesting, that you will perhaps give place to the letter of a Cockney Tourist, who, in his rambles among the Lakes of Cumberland, chanced to stumble on the grave of George Romney.

This celebrated Artist, the friend of Cowper and of Hayley, was born at a place called Beckside, near the little town of Dalton, in Lancashire, on the 15th of December 1734. His father followed the occupation of a carpenter, and George was apprenticed to the same business; and though he never had an opportunity of seeing a finer specimen of the art of painting than the sign of the Red Lion at Dalton, he very early discovered his genius for the art, by the execution of pieces of sculpture and tracery on his father's furniture, and by curious designs and sketches, with which he decorated the walls of his workshop. These early indications of talent recommended George Romney to the notice of a neighbouring gentleman. In 1755, an itinerant painter, of the name of Steele, took Dalton in his route, and George was apprenticed to him. He soon after accompanied his master to

York, where Lawrence Sterne, at that time one of the Prebends of York Cathedral, then resided. Sterne soon discovered the superiority of Romney's genius, and took him under his protection. He painted several scenes from the Tristram Shandy, and about that time conceived and executed an historical picture, which laid the foundation of his future eminence: the subject was the Death of David Rizzio. I must refer you, Mr Editor, to the life of this eminent artist, given by Richard Cumberland, in the European Magazine of June 1803, and content myself with telling you that, in passing through Dalton last week, on my way from Furney's Abbey, I felt a strong inclination to visit the grave of one whose works I had often contemplated with enthusiastic pleasure. I was directed by a person I met in the street, to ask at the Vicarage, where I should find the grave I sought for. I went accordingly to the simple dwelling of the parish minister; it was in no respect distinguished from the cottages that surrounded it, except by a little inclosure. I rapped at the door, and made my request with an apology for the intrusion of a stranger; the good old cler