Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; Travellers, weary eyed, Bless us, far and wide; Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce: Not a poor town window Loves its sick liest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting. Sagest yet the uses, Mix'd with our sweet juices, Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm; As fair fingers heal'd Knights from the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. Ev'n the terror, poison, Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. And oh! our sweet soul-taker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! In his talking rooms How the feasting fumes, Who shall say, that flowers Dress not heaven's own bowers? Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men! Who its love, without us, can fancy-or sweet The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers. floor? Who shall even dare To say, we sprang not there, And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more? Oh! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little, patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness, Thy heart, in pain and weakness, That wipes thy quiet tears,- Sorrows I've had, severe ones I cannot bear the gentleness,- Ah! firstborn of thy mother, When life and hope were new; My bird when prison bound,My hand in hand companion,-no, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say, "He has departed," She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat ; "His voice,"-" his face,"-" is gone;""No love," quoth he, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on: Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping! Seem whispering us a smile :- Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." task like that!" THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT. TO FISH. You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced, And mute though dwellers in the roaring waste; O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles? How do ye vary your vile days and nights? How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles bites, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and one for whom he sigh'd: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me: THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, divine, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine. O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love; For difference must itself by difference prove, And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill. One of the spirits am I, that at their will Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, doveNo hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill. And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and "What writest thou?" The vision raised its graves, Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere, Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves, Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so;" Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, It came again, with a great wakening light, bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 75 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Blackwood, a place of much natural beauty, on Nithside, a few miles above Dumfries, on the 7th of December, 1784. His father and grandfather were farmers; and one of his ancestors, an officer under the great Montrose, shared in his leader's good and evil fortune at Kilsythe and Philiphaugh. Some hopes held out by a relative of a situation in India, having, it appears, failed, Allan, at eleven years of age, was removed from school, to learn, under an elder brother, his business of a mason. This he did not dislike, and soon became a skilful workman; but he loved still better to pore over old books-listen to old songs and tales-and roam among his native glens and hills. A thirst for knowledge came early; but a love of writing, as we have heard him say, came late. Some of his lyrics, however, found their way into a singular book,-Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Songs,"-and, passing for ancient, were received with an applause which at once startled and amused the writer. Dr. Percy boldly declared they were too good to be old; and the author of Marmion" has more than once said, that not even Burns himself has enriched Scottish song with more beautiful effusions. In 1810, Mr. Cunningham was allured from the Nith to the Thames. For some years he attached himself to the public press; and in 1814, entered the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, the distinguished sculptor, as superintendent of his works, a station which he continued to occupy till Sir Francis's death. The first volume he ventured to publish was "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, named after one of the heroes of his native district. It was well received by critics; and Sir Walter Scott generously Cun spected and esteemed than Mr. Cunningham; he numbers among his personal friends all the most eminent and accomplished of his contemporaries: in private life he has ever been irreproachable ;an early and a happy marriage probably preserved him from the errors and eccentricities which too generally mark the career of a youth of genius upon entering the perilous maze of the metropolis; where hundreds of as rare promise have sunk under the effect of dissipation and despondency; and whose names are to be found only in the terrible records of " Calamities of Authors." ningham, in person, seems better fitted to deal with huge blocks of marble than with creations of fancy. His frame is of vigorous proportions; his countenance highly expressive of mental as well as physical power; his eye keen and searching, but peculiarly gentle and winning. He combines industry with genius, and a most rigid integrity with both. His biographies have been objected to on the ground that he has seen more to censure than to praise in the subjects of them: if, however, such contributions are valuable only as they are TRUE, and in proportion to their distance from the imaginative and the misleading, they are the best, and will be the most enduring of his works. The poems of Cunningham, as we have intimated, are not numerous; his last poetical production of any length,-the Maid of Elvar,-is, perhaps, his best: the scene of this little rustic epic, as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native vale; and many of the delicious pictures it contains, with a true vein of poetry throughout, are drawn from rural life. It is, however, written in a measure il calculated to become extensively popular. The poetical reputation of Allan Cunningham has been made, and is sustained, by his "Handed the rustic stranger up to fame," ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in by a kind notice of his first attempt in the Preface feeling—chaste and elegant in style—graceful in to the "Fortunes of Nigel." Thenceforward Mr. expression, and natural in conception: they seem, Cunningham took his place among the Poets of indeed, the mere and unstudied outpourings of the Great Britain. He has since supplied us with but heart; yet will bear the strictest and most critical occasional proofs of his right to retain it; having inspection of those who consider elaborate finish devoted much of his leisure to the production of to be at least the second requisite of the writers of prose works of fiction; and commenced an under- song. His own country has supplied him with his taking of vast magnitude and importance,-the principal themes; and the peculiar dialect of Scot"Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge;” | land-in which he frequently writes-his good -a task for which he is eminently qualified. taste prevents him from ever rendering harsh, or Few modern writers are more universally re- even inharmonious, to Southern ears. POEMS. Bright as the sun when from the cloud He comes as cocks are crowing loud; Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Now groping trouts in lucid streams, Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, Now hunting echo's empty sound, THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. Now climbing up some old tall tree CHILD of the country! free as air Child of the town! for thee I sigh; A gilded roof's thy golden sky, A narrow street thy boundless road, Child of the country! thy small feet 'Tread on strawberries red and sweet; With thee I wander forth to see The flowers which most delight the bee; Child of the town! for thee, alas! Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass; Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Glad streams come singing as they run: A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree, A beetle is thy murmuring bee; Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare; Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound Hawk'd clamorous all the city round; No roses, twinborn on the stalk, Perfume thee in thy evening walk; No voice of birds,-but to thee comes The mingled din of cars and drums, And startling cries, such as are rife When wine and wassail waken strife. Child of the country! on the lawn I see thee like the bounding fawn, Blithe as the bird which tries its wing The first time on the winds of spring; For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee Or share with thee thy venturous throne. Child of the town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet! Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles; Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; And thou art cabin'd and confined, At once from sun, and dew, and wind; Or set thy tottering feet but on Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone, The coachman there careering reels With goaded steeds and maddening wheels; And Commerce pours each poring son In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run: While flush'd with wine, and stung at play, Men rush from darkness into day. The stream's too strong for thy small bark; There nought can sail, save what is stark. Fly from the town, sweet child! for health Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and bower; On every herb on which you tread Are written words which, rightly read, Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, To hope, and holiness, and God. AWAKE, MY LOVE! AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray She comb'd her curling ringlets down, The lark's song dropp'd,-now loud, now hush,— 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day |