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Next these came Tyne, along whose stony bank
That Roman monarch1 built a brazen wall,
Which might the feeble Britons strongly flank
Against the Picts, that swarmed over all,
Which yet thereof Gualsever they do call;
And Tweed, the limit betwixt Logris'2 land
And Albany; and Eden, though but small,
Yet often stained with blood of many a band
Of Scots and English both, that tyned3 on his strand.

Spenser.

1

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.4

How does the water come down at Lodore ?5

Here it comes sparkling,6
And there it lies darkling;

Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along, conflicting, strong,

Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,

Swelling and flinging,

Showering and springing,

Monarch-Severus.

2 Logris-or Lægria-an old poetical name of England, as Albany was of Scotland.

3 Tyned-fought.

4 This poem is a literary curiosity-showing the fertility and energy of our native tongue. We have here at least 150 adjectives applied to water dashing down a cascade, and nearly every one of them apt and expressive-many very happily descriptive.

5 Lodore-a waterfall, one hundred feet in height, near Keswick, in Cumberland.

6 Dr. Wallis, in his valuable English grammar-written in Latin-shows, that in the formation of many English words, there is a remarkable correspondence between the sound and the sense. Thus words beginning with sp, as "sparkling," denote, says he, " dispersion or expansion"-with sm and sw, as "smoking" and "swelling," "a sort of noiseless agitation or gentle lateral motion"-with str, as "strong," " energy, strength, effort," &c. The above lines will furnish many illustrations of the general principle.

Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting,
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,

With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding astounding,

Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.

Reeding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering;

And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

Southey.

FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time-
Beyond the reign of death—
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire!

There is a world above

Where parting is unknown-
A long eternity of love

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star1 by star declines,
Till all are past away;

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

GOD, THE ONLY COMFORTER!

Montgomery.

Он, thou! that driest the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee!

The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.

But thou wilt heal the broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished too;

Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light
We could not see by day.

Moore.

TO ENGLAND.

O NE'ER enchained, nor wholly vile,
O Albion! O my Mother Isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers!

1 Thus star, &c.-The close of this beautiful stanza has been already characterised. See note 1, p. 34.

2 As darkness shows, &c.-A most ingenious and striking adaptation of a scientific truth to a moral purpose.

Thy grassy upland's gentle swells
Echo to the bleat of flocks;

Those grassy hills, those glittering dells,
Proudly ramparted with rocks:
And OCEAN, mid his uproar wild,
Speaks safety to his ISLAND-CHILD!
Hence, through many a fearless age,
Has social Freedom loved the Land,
Nor alien Despot's jealous rage,

Or warped thy growth, or stamped the servile brand.

PATRIOTISM.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own-my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel's raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung!

Coleridge.

Walter Scott.

THE MAN OF ROSS.1

RISE, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleased Vaga2 echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

Ross is a town on the banks of the Wye, in Herefordshire-and the Man of Ross was a benevolent individual, of the name of John Kyrle, who, after a life of benevolence, died in the year 1724, at the age of 90.

2 Vaga-wandering-the Latin name of the Wye.

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