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the stanzas in his poem on Chigwell displays his In Holywell Street, St Pancras, he was bred
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head.
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down :
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired youth,
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
The muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat;
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, The surviving partner of this literary duumvirate Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, -the most constant and interesting, perhaps, since Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. that of Beaumont and Fletcher, and more affec- George Green below, with palpitating hand, tionate from the relationship of the parties—has Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver's band; distinguished himself by his novels and historical Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeigned, romances, and by his generosity to various literary Regained the felt, and felt what he regained,
Mr Horace Smith has also written some while to the applauding galleries grateful Pat copies of verses, one of which, the Address to the Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. * * Mummy, is a felicitous compound of fact, humour, and sentiment, forcibly and originally expressed. The Baby's Debut.-By W. W. [Wordsworth.]
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of The Theatre.-By the Rev. G. C. [Crabbe.]
age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by
Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.] 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
My brother Jack was nine in May, Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
And I was eight on New Year's Day; Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
So in Kate Wilson's shop Start into light, and make the lighter start:
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
And brother Jack a top. While gradual parties fill our widened pit,
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars ! Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg top's peg,
And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlour door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite;
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg top's tooth !
Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt:
No Drury Lane for you to-day!'
And while papa said, ' Pooh, she may!'
Mamma said, 'No, she shan't!'
Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,
And trotted down the street.
saw them go : one horse was blind;
The tails of both hung down behind;
Their shoes were on their feet.
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
And Richardson's hotel.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Stood in the lumber room :
And brushed it with a broom.
(I always talk to Sam):
And leaves me where I am.
As these; and, goodness me!
As these that now I see.
Won't hide it, I'll be bound :
They keep them on the ground.
Umbob, the prompter man,
Speak to 'em, little Nan.
And then you're sure to take :
Then why not Nancy Lake ?'
Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit!
To join them in the pit.
So, bidding you adieu,
[Blows kiss, and exit.
Nor these alone, but far and wide
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise;
It seemed that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire
His nether bulk embraced ;
In tin or copper traced.
Along the pavement paced.
Nor notice give at all:
For fear the roof should fall.
Whitford, keep near the walls ! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down in thunder falls ! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from the astonished crowd. At length the mist awhile was cleared, When lo! amid the wreck upreared, Gradual a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of wo, • A Muggins to the rescue, ho !
And poured the hissing tide:
He tottered, sunk, and died!
His brother chief to save;
Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
A Tale of Drury Lane.—By W. S. [Scott.]
As chaos which, by heavenly doom,
In bedgown woke her dames,
* The playhouse is in flames.' And lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane :
A bright ensanguined drain;
Where patent shot they sell :
Where Muggins broke before.
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade-
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ?
Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalıned,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :
Antiquity appears to have begun
Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green;
Still silent, incommunicative elf !
But prithee tell us something of thyself;
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ;
What hast thou seen --what strange adventures num-
The Roman empire has begun and ended,
New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold :
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : (By HORACE SMITH.)
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that
la Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead !
Imperishable type of evanescence !
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dumby;
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
* Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.
whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters."
The poetical works of Wilson have been collected PROFESSOR Wilson, the distinguished occupant of in two volumes. They consist of the Isle of Palms the chair of moral philosophy in the university of (1812), the City of the Plague (1816), and several Edinburgh, earned his first laurels by his poetry. smaller pieces. The broad humour and satire of
some of his prose papers form a contrast to the delicacy and tenderness of his acknowledged writingsparticularly his poetry. He has an outer and an inner man-one shrewd, bitter, observant, and full of untamed energy; the other calm, graceful, and meditative — all conscience and tender heart.' He deals generally in extremes, and the prevailing defect of his poetry is its uniform sweetness and feminine softness of character. ‘Almost the only passions,' says Jeffrey, 'with which his poetry is conversant, are the gentler sympathies of our naturetender compassion, confiding affection, and guiltless sorrow. From all these there results, along with a most touching and tranquillising sweetness, a certain monotony and languor, which, to those who read poetry for amusement merely, will be apt to appear like dulness, and must be felt as a defect by all who have been used to the variety, rapidity, and energy of the popular poetry of the day.' Some of the scenes in the City of the Plague are, however, exquisitely drawn, and his descriptions of lake and mountain scenery, though idealised by his imagination, are not unworthy of Wordsworth. The prose descriptions of Wilson have obscured his poetical, because in the former he gives the reins to his fancy, and, while preserving the general outline and distinctive features of the landscape, adds a number of subsidiary
charms and attractions. He was born in the year 1788, in the town of Paisley, where his father had carried on business, and at
[A Home among the Mountains.] tained to opulence as a manufacturer. At the age
[From the City of the Plague'] of thirteen, the poet was entered of Glasgow univer
MAGDALENE and 18ABEL. sity, whence in due time he was transferred to
Magdalene. How bright and fair that afternoon Magdalene college, Oxford. Here he carried off the
returns Newdigate prize from a vast number of competitors When last we parted! Even now I feel for the best English poem of fifty lines. Mr Wilson Its dewy freshness in my soul! Sweet breeze! was distinguished in these youthful years by his That hymning like a spirit up the lake, fine athletic frame, and a face at once handsome Came through the tall pines on yon little isle and expressive of genius. A noted capacity for Across to us upon the vernal shore knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a singular taste for The unseen musician Hoating through the air,
With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four And smiling, said, “Wild harper of the hill! years' residence at Oxford, the poet purchased a So mayst thou play thy ditty when once more small but beautiful estate, named Elleray, on the This lake I do revisit. As he spoke, banks of the lake Windermere, where he went to Away died the music in the firmament, reside. He married—built a house and a yacht. And unto silence left our parting hour. enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of No breeze will ever steal from nature's heart the lakes—wrote poetry—and cultivated the society So sweet again to me. of Wordsworth. These must have been happy days.
Whate'er my doom, With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaust- It cannot be unhappy. God hath given me less imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have The boon of resignation : I could die, been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some Though doubtless human fears would cross my soul, reverses however came, and, after entering himself Calmly even now; yet if it be ordained of the Scottish bar, he sought and obtained his That I return unto my native valley, moral philosophy chair. He connected himself also And live with Frankfort there, why should I fear with Blackwood's Magazine, and in this miscel- To say I might be happy-happier far lany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, Than I deserve to be. Sweet Rydal lake! and taste—displaying also the peculiarities of his Am I again to visit thee! to hear sanguine and impetuous temperament. The most Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul? valuable of these contributions have been collected Isabel. Methinks I see us in a cheerful group and published (1842) in three volumes, under the title Walking along the margin of the bay, of The Recreations of Christopher North. The criti- Where our lone summer-housecisms on poetry understood to be from the pen of Magd. Sweet mossy cell! Wilson, are often highly eloquent, and conceived So cool—so shady-silent and composed ! in a truly kindred spirit. A series of papers on A constant evening full of gentle dreams ! Spenser and Homer are equally remarkable for Where joy was felt like sadness, and our grief their discrimination and imaginative luxuriance. A melancholy pleasant to be borne. In reference to these golden spoils' of criticism, Mr Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring Hallam has characterised the professor as 'a living In her own rose-bush near the quiet door ! writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, Bright solitary bird ! she oft will miss
Her human friends : our orchard now must be
Address to a Wild Deer.
. One blessed week would soon restore its beauty, Magnificent creature ! so stately and bright! Were we at home. Nature can work no wrong. The very weeds how lovely! the confusion
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight; Doth speak of breezes, sunshine, and the dew.
For what hath the child of the desert to dread, Magd. I hear the murmuring of a thousand bees
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming head; In that bright odorous honeysuckle wall
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ! That once enclosed the happiest family
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful !hail! That ever lived beneath the blessed skies.
Hail! idol divine !-whom nature hath borne Where is that family now? O Isabel,
O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn, I feel my soul descending to the grave,
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and And all these loveliest rural images
moor, Fade, like waves breaking on a dreary shore !
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore : Isabel. Even now I see a stream of sunshine bathing For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, The bright mo89-roses round our parlour window!
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee, Oh! were we sitting in that room once more !
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne ! Magd. 'Twould seem inhuman to be happy there,
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone And both my parents dead. How could I walk
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign On what I used to call my father's walk,
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. He in his grave! or look upon that tree,
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy Each year so full of blossoms or of fruit,
breast, Planted by my mother, and her holy name
Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest ; Graven on its stem by mine own infant hands!
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill!
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still! A Sleeping Child.
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight,
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, Art thou a thing of mortal birth,
One moment—thou bright apparition-delay! Whose happy home is on our earth!
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. Does human blood with life imbue
His voyage is o'er—as if struck by a spell, Those wandering veins of heavenly blue
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell; That stray along thy forehead fair,
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest. Oh! can that light and airy breath
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race Steal from a being doomed to death;
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place Those features to the grave be sent
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.
Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee :
Magnificent prison enclosing the free; Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
With rock wall-encircled-with precipice crowned Whence burst those gleams of ecstacy!
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. That light of dreaming soul appears
'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep To play from thoughts above thy years.
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep; Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, And who can tell what visions high
Where the creature at rest can his image behold, May bless an infant's sleeping eye!
Looking up through the radiance as bright and as bold. What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on than an infant's mind,
Yes: fierce looks thy nature e'en hushed in repose Ere sin destroy or error dim
In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, The glory of the seraphim!
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war. Oh! vision fair! that I could be
No outrage is war to a creature like thee; Again as young, as pure as thee!
The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee, Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, May view, but cannot brave the storm :
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death, That paint the bird of Paradise,
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heathAnd years, 80 fate hath ordered, roll
In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roarClouds o'er the summer of the soul.
In the cliff that once trod, must be trodden no more Fair was that face as break of dawn,
Thy trust—'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign : When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn
-But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? Like a thin veil that half-concealed
On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, The light of soul, and half-revealed.
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day-
How mournfully this burial ground
Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound, With such & wild, yet bashful glee,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
All round these deaf and silent graves !