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Already with thee! tender is the night,
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they ! And haply the queen-moon is on her throne
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;
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The redbreast whistles from a garden croft, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
And gathering swallows twitter from the skies. Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
Sonnets. White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ;
[On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.] Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ;
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
Round many western islands have I been The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Darkling I listen; and for many a time
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: To take into the air my quiet breath;
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
When a new planet swims into his ken; To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad He stared at the Pacific—and all his men In such an ecstacy!
Looked at each other with a wild surmise Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. To thy high requiem become a sod.
[The Human Seasons.) Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; No hungry generations tread thee down;
There are four seasons in the mind of man : The voice I hear this passing night was heard
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Takes in all beauty with an easy span : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
He has his Summer, when luxuriously Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
He furleth close; contented so to look Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
On mists in idleness to let fair things To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. Adieu!' the fancy cannot cheat so well
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
[On England.] Past the near meadows, over the hill-stream,
Happy is England ! 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; Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? . 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 forget what world or wordling meant. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Enough their simple loveliness for me; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves
Yet do I often warmly burn to see run;
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And float with them about their summer waters. And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells
Lines. With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more,
['The poet Keats walked in the Highlands, not with the And still more, later flowers for the bees,
joyousness, the rapture, of the young Rousseau, but in that Until they think warm days will never cease, hallowed pleasure of the soul which, in its fulness, is akin to For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. pain. The following extract of a poem, not published in his
works, proves his intensity of feeling, even to the dread of Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
madness. It was written while on his journey, soon after bis Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find pilgrimage to the birthplace of Burns, not for the game of the Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
world, but as a record for himself of the temper of his mind at Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; the time. It is a sure index to the more serious traits in his Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
character; but Keats, neither in writing nor in speaking, could Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook affect a sentiment-his gentle spirit knew not how to counter
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; feit.'- New Monthly Magazine, 1822.] And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
There is a charm in footing slow Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Across a silent plain, Or by a cider-press with patient look,
Where patriot battle has been fought, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where glory had the gain :
DR REGINALD HEBER,
There is a pleasure on the heath,
He has also given a striking sketch of the Druses, Where Druids old have been,
the hardy mountain race descended from the CruWhere mantles gray have rustled by,
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!
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,
Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, DR REGINALD HEBER, bishop of Calcutta, was
As the lone lamp that trembles in the tomb; born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, where For few the souls that spurn a tyrant's chain, his father had a living. In his seventeenth year And small the bounds of freedom's scanty reign. he was admitted of Brazen-nose college, Oxford, and soon distinguished himself by his classical at- admired, and all looked forward to the maturity of
While his poem of Palestine' was universally tainments. In 1802 he obtained the university prize a genius so rich in promise, Heber continued his for Latin hexameters, his subject being the Carmen studies with unabated industry. He made considerSeculare. Applying himself to English verse, Heber, able progress in mathematics and in the higher in 1803, composed his poem of Palestine, which classics. In 1805 he took his degree of B. A., and has been considered the best prize poem the uni- the same year gained the prize for the English versity has ever produced. Parts of it were set to essay; the subject, The Sense of Honour. He was music; and it had an extensive sale. Previous to elected to a fellowship at All Souls college, and its recitation in the theatre of the university, the soon after went abroad, travelling over Germany, young author read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a Russia, and the Crimea. On his return he took visit to Oxford; and Scott observed, that in the his degree of A. M. at Oxford. He appeared again verses on Solomon's temple, one striking circum- as a poet in 1809, his subject being Europe, or Lines stance had escaped him-namely, that no tools were
on the Present War. The struggle in Spain formed used in its construction. Reginald retired for a the predominating theme of Heber's poem. He was few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned now presented to the living of Hodnet; and at the with the beautiful lines
same time he married Amelia, daughter of Dr No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung;
Shipley, dean of St Asaph. The duties of a parish Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.
pastor were discharged by Heber with unostenMajestic silence!
tatious fidelity and application. He also applied
his vigorous intellect to the study of divinity, and His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen and deso- in 1815 preached the Bampton Lecture, the subject late state, is pathetic and beautiful :-
selected by him for a course of sermons being the Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Personality and Office of the Christian Comforter. Mourn, widowed queen! forgotten Sion, mourn !
He was an occasional contributor to the Quarterly Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Review; and in 1822 he wrote a copious life of Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
Jeremy Taylor, and a review of his writings for While suns unblessed their angry lustre fling,
a complete edition of Taylor's works. The same And wayworn pilgrims seek the scanty spring ? year he was elected, by the benchers of Lincoln's Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed ? Inn, preacher to their society. Here he had chamWhere now thy might, which all those kings subdued ? bers in London, an addition of about £600 to his No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
yearly income, and his duty was only preaching No suppliant nations in thy temple wait;
thirteen sermons in the year. An office so honourNo prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, able, from the high character and talents of the Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song:
electors, and the eminent persons by whom it has But lawless Force, and meagre Want are there, been held, is usually considered a stepping-stone to And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear,
a bishopric. To this honour in its highest formWhile cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
that of a spiritual peer of the realm-Heber might Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
now have looked forward with confidence ; but a strong sense of duty and desire of Christian useful- one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his ness prevented the prospect being realised. It was course in life, from the moment that he was crowned under such feelings, and contrary to the advice of with academical honours till the day of his death, prudent friends, that he accepted, in 1823, the diffi- one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of cult task of bishop of Calcutta. With his family India. The widow of Dr Heber has published a Me
moir 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.
Passage of the Red Sea.
[From • Palestine.]
Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots rolled !
Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates, he arrived safely at his destination on the 10th of Old Thebes hath poured through all her hundred gates, October ; and no man could have entered on his mis- Mother of armies! How the emeralds glowed, sion with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. During
Where, flushed with power and vengeance, Pharaoh
rode ! the ensuing year, he was engaged in visiting the And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, several European stations in Bengal and the upper Osiris ark his swarthy wizards bore; provinces of Hindostan. In January 1825 he made And still responsive to the trunipet's cry, a similar tour to the stations under the Bombay go- The priestly sistrum murmured – Victory! vernment, consecrating churches at various places. In May 1825 he held his episcopal visitation at Bom- Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom! bay. During this progress he laid the foundation These flocks and herds—this faint and weary train
Whom come ye forth to combat?—warriors, whom! of two central schools. He also visited the Deccan, Red from the scourge, and recent from the chain ! Ceylon, and Madras, on his return to Bengal, per- God of the poor, the poor and friendless save! forming at each station the active duties of his Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! sacred office. His whole energies appear to have North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly, been devoted to the propagation of Christianity in the circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. the East. In 1826 the bishop made a journey to On earth’s last margin throng the weeping train; Travencore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of Their cloudy guide moves on :- And must we swim the Church Missionary Society. He preached, con- the main ?' firmed, and visited his Christian
communities with Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, his usual affection and ardour. On the 1st of April Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood; he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on He comes-their leader comes !-the man of God the day following. He went the next day, Monday, O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native And onward treads. The circling waves retreat, Christians in the fort, and attend divine service. In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet; He then returned to the house of a friend, and went And the chased surges, inly roaring, show into the bath preparatory to his dressing for break. The hard wet sand and coral hills below. fast. His servant conceiving he remained too long, With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the Down, down they pass—a steep and slippery dell; bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurled, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world; caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a And Aowers that blush beneath the ocean green, public man, equally beloved and venerated, was And caves, the sea-calves' low-roofed haunt, are seen. inourned by all classes, and every honour was paid Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread; to his memory. Much might have been anticipated, The beetling waters storm above their head; from the zeal and learning of Heber, in elucidation while far behind retires the sinking day, of the antiquities of India, and the moral and reli- And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. gious improvement of its people, had his valuable Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, life been spared. At the time of his death he was or dark to them or cheerless came the night. only in his forty-third year—a period too short to Still in their van, along that dreadful road, have developed those talents and virtues which, as Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God.
Pass we blithely then the time,
Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon's isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The Heathen, in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high ; Shall we to man benighted The lamp of life deny! Salvation ! Oh, salvation ! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation Has learned Messiah's name.
Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave
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 carA 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 triumphëd!' And every pause between, as Miriam sang, From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, And loud and far their stormy chorus spreadShout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphëd !'
Hymn.--Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity.
Lo, the lilies of the field,
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow :
[From Bishop Heber's Journal.] If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
Listening the nightingale !
My babies at my knee,
O'er Gunga's mimic sea !
When on our deck reclined,
And woo the cooler wind.
My twilight steps I guide,
I miss thee from my side.
The lingering noon to cheer,
Thy meek attentive ear.
Beholds me on my knee,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
My course be onward still;
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
Nor wild Malwah detain;
By yonder western main.
Across the dark-blue sea;
I know that soul-entrancing swell,
An Evening Walk in Bengal.
Come, walk with me the jungle through-
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ? 1A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium.
9 The Mucharunga.
CHARLES 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 beyond 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 pur. sued 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 interest. ing 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 ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
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.