With tender gladness thus to look at thee, Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Love, Hope, and Patience in Education. O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies; Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. Yet haply there will come a weary day, When overtasked at length Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. Youth and Age. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Ere I was old! Ah, woful ere, Which tells me Youth's no longer here! That only serves to make us grieve style of poetry at once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. In 1805 Mr Bowles published another volume of poetry, The Spirit of Discovery by Sea, a narrative poem of considerable length and beauty. He has also published hymns and other poems. He prepared an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy, in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope occupied a middle position, inclining to the artificial side of life. Mr Bowles has outlived most of his poetical contemporaries, excepting Rogers. He was born at King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire, in the year 1762, and was educated first at Winchester school, and subsequently at Trinity college, Oxford. He has long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire. Sonnets. To Time. O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear Winter Evening at Home. Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December, through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light, Just glimmering bids each shadowy image fall Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night! Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze, I think around me in this twilight gloom, I but remark mortality's sad doom; Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft, appear In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere. Hope. As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, [South American Scenery.] Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires. A glen beneath-a lonely spot of restHung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest. Summer was in its prime; the parrot-flocks Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers, With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers; The woodpecker is heard with busy bill, The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still. And look! the cataract that bursts so high, As not to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fail suspends, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends; Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay network and fantastic twine, The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes, With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. Sun-Dial in a Churchyard. So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade, And like a summer vapour steal away. Nor thought it fled-how certain and how fast! I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard, While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, Heartless, the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn He the green slope and level meadow views, Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head, Or turns his ear to every random song Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal. And strangers gaze upon my humble stone! Enough, if we may wait in calm content The Greenwich Pensioners. When evening listened to the dripping oar, Reflects that stately structure on his side, Within whose walls, as their long labours close, Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, The other fixed his gaze upon the light As they departed through the unheeding crowd, One of the most voluminous and learned authors of this period was ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D., the poet-laureate. A poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, and historian, Mr Southey wrote more than even Scott, and he is said to have burned more verses between his twentieth and thirtieth year than he published during his whole life. His time was entirely devoted to literature. Every day and hour had its appropriate and select task; his library was his world within which he was content to range, and his books were his most cherished and constant companions. In one of his poems, he says My days among the dead are passed; With whom I converse night and day. Robert Southey The same year he published a volume of poems in conjunction with Mr Robert Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion. About the same time he composed his poem of Wat Tyler, a revolutionary brochure, which was long afterwards published surreptitiously by a knavish bookseller to annoy its author. In my youth,' he says, 'when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education; when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue's end, I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and following those opinions with ardour wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for their root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote Wat Tyler,' as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen, and it was treated, as might be expected, by a youth of twenty in such times, who regarded only one side of the question.' The poem, indeed, is a miserable production, and was harmless from its very inanity. Full of the same political sentiments and ardour, Southey composed his Joan of Arc, an epic poem, displaying fertility of language and boldness of imagination, but at the same time diffuse in style, and in many parts wild and incoherent. In imitation of Dante, the young poet conducted his heroine in a dream to the abodes of departed spirits, and dealt very freely with the 'murderers of mankind,' from Nimrod the mighty hunter,, down to the hero conqueror of Agincourt A huge and massy pile- They entered there a large and lofty dome, He might be called young Ammon. In this court As gazing round, The Virgin marked the miserable train, Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, No tear relieved the burden of her heart; At length, collecting, Zeinab turned her eyes The Lord our God is good!' In the second edition of the poem, published in 1798, the vision of the Maid of Orleans, and everything miraculous, was omitted. When the poem first appeared, its author was on his way to Lisbon, The metre of 'Thalaba,' as may be seen from this in company with his uncle, Dr Herbert, chaplain to specimen, has great power, as well as harmony, in the factory at Lisbon. Previous to his departure skilful hands. It is in accordance with the subject in November 1795, Mr Southey had married Miss of the poem, and is, as the author himself remarks, Fricker of Bristol, sister of the lady with whom the Arabesque ornament of an Arabian tale.' Coleridge united himself; and, according to De Southey had now cast off his revolutionary opinions, Quincy, the poet parted with his wife immediately and his future writings were all marked by a some after their marriage at the portico of the church, what intolerant attachment to church and state. to set out on his travels. In 1796 he returned to He established himself on the banks of the river England, and entered himself of Gray's Inn. He Greta, near Keswick, subsisting by his pen, and a afterwards made a visit to Spain and Portugal, and pension which he had received from government. published a series of letters descriptive of his travels. In 1804 he published a volume of Metrical Tales, În 1801 he accompanied Mr Foster, chancellor of and in 1805 Madoc, an epic poem, founded on a the Exchequer, to Ireland in the capacity of private Welsh story, but inferior to its predecessors. In secretary to that gentleman; and the same year 1810 appeared his greatest poetical work, The Curse witnessed the publication of a second epic, Thalaba of Kehama, a poem of the same class and structure the Destroyer, an Arabian fiction of great beauty and as Thalaba,' but in rhyme. With characteristic magnificence. The style of verse adopted by the egotism, Mr Southey prefixed to 'The Curse of Kepoet in this work is irregular, without rhyme; and | hama' a declaration, that he would not change a sylit possesses a peculiar charm and rhythmical har-lable or measure for any onemony, though, like the redundant descriptions in the work, it becomes wearisome in so long a poem. The opening stanzas convey an exquisite picture of a widowed mother wandering over the sands of the east during the silence of night : I. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; Pedants shall not tie my strains To our antique poets' veins. Kehama is a Hindoo rajah, who, like Dr Faustus, obtains and sports with supernatural power. His adventures are sufficiently startling, and afford room for the author's striking amplitude of description. The story is founded,' says Sir Walter Scott, 'upon the Hindoo mythology, the most gigantic, cumbrous, and extravagant system of idolatry to which temples were ever erected. The scene is alternately laid in the terrestrial paradise, under the sea-in the heaven of heavens-and in hell itself. The principal actors are, a man who approaches almost to omnipotence; another labouring under a strange and fearful malediction, which exempts him from the ordinary laws of nature; a good genius, a sorceress, and a ghost, with several Hindostan deities of different ranks. The only being that retains the usual attributes of humanity is a female, who is gifted with immortality at the close of the piece.' Some of the scenes in this strangely magnificent theatre of horrors are described with the power of Milton, and Scott has said that the following account of the approach of the mortals to Padalon, or the Indian Hades, is equal in grandeur to any passage which he ever perused: Far other light than that of day there shone A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, A thing of comfort; and the sight, dismayed, Arched the long passage; onward as they ride, With stronger glare the light around them spread- The world of wo before them opening wide, Girding the realms of Padalon around. A sea of flame, it seemed to be Sea without bound; For neither mortal nor immortal sight Could pierce across through that intensest light. Besides its wonderful display of imagination and invention, and its vivid scene-painting, the Curse of Kehama' possesses the recommendation of being in manners, sentiments, scenery, and costume, distinctively and exclusively Hindoo. Its author was too diligent a student to omit whatever was characteristic in the landscape or the people. Passing over his prose works, we next find Mr Southey appear in a native poetical dress in blank verse. In 1814 he published Roderick, the Last of the Goths, a noble and pathetic poem, though liable also to the charge of redundant description. The style of the versification may be seen from the following account of the grief and confusion of the aged monarch, when he finds his throne occupied by the Moors after his long absence: The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scimitar, The unaccustomed face of human kind Confused him now-and through the streets he went A Christian woman, spinning at her door, Or the following description of a moonlight scene:- Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Mr Southey, having, in 1813, accepted the office of poet-laureate, composed some courtly strains that tended little to advance his reputation. His Carmen Triumphale, and The Vision of Judgment, provoked much ridicule at the time, and would have passed |