Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the storms are bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurled; green hills emerge; and lo!
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

[Morning Landscape.]

Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.

[Life and Immortality.]

O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)
Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought?
Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?
Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?
For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,
And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.
Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crowned?
Ah! see, the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool,
Have all the solitary vale embrowned;

Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray.
And hark: the river, bursting every mound,
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks away.

Yet such the destiny of all on earth:
So flourishes and fades majestic man.
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan.
O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span.

Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
And be it so. Let those deplore their doom
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn;
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live!
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive
With disappointment, penury, and pain?
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive,
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant
reign.

Retirement.-1758.

When in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.

'Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:

Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Wo retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep:

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequestered bower
Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivied shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless fair?
Thy heavenly smile how win?

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,
And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing?

Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclined
He framed his infant lays;
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarmed,
Nor Envy, with malignant glare,
His simple youth had harmed.

'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee
His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.

Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!—
O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream.
Whence the scared owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of flowers
The zephyr breathes along;

Let no rude sound invade from far, No vagrant foot be nigh,

No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallowed bowers explore,

O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,
That wean from earthly wo,

And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains his heart below.

For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread ;

No more I climb those toilsome heights,
By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain.'

The Hermit.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
"Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
'Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and wo,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral:
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.
Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays:
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!
"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to
shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"O pity, great Father of Light," then I cried,
"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!"
And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses

blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

are

CHRISTOPHER SMART.

CHRISTOPHER SMART, an unfortunate and irregular man of genius, was born in 1722 at Shipbourne in Kent. His father was steward to Lord Barnard (afterwards Earl of Darlington), and dying when his son was eleven years of age, the patronage of Lord Barnard was generously continued to his family. Through the influence of this nobleman, Christopher procured from the Duchess of Cleveland an allowance of £40 per annum. He was admitted of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, in 1739, elected a fellow of Pembroke in 1745, and took his degree of M.A. in 1747. At college, Smart was remarkable for folly and extravagance, and his distinguished contemporary Gray prophesied truly that the result of his conduct would be a jail or bedlam. In 1747, he wrote a comedy called a Trip to Cambridge, or The Grateful Fair, which was acted in Pembroke College Hall, the parlour of which was made the green-room. No remains of this play have been found, excepting a few songs and a mockheroic soliloquy, the latter containing the following humorous simile :

Thus when a barber and a collier fight, The barber beats the luckless collier white; The dusty collier heaves his ponderous sack, And, big with vengeance, beats the barber black. In comes the brick-dust man, with grime o'erspread, And beats the collier and the barber red; Black, red, and white, in various clouds are tossed, And in the dust they raise the combatants are lost. From the correspondence of Gray, it appears that Smart's income at Cambridge was about £140 per annum, and of this his creditors compelled him to assign over to them £50 a-year till his debts were paid. Notwithstanding his irregularities, Smart cultivated his talents, and was distinguished both for his Latin and English verse. His manners were agreeable, though his misconduct appears to have worn out the indulgence of all his college friends. Having written several pieces for periodicals published by Newberry, Smart became acquainted with the bookseller's family, and married his stepdaughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and endeavoured to subsist by his pen. The notorious Sir John Hill-whose wars with the Royal Society, with Fielding, &c., are wellknown, and who closed his life by becoming a quack latter replied by a spirited satire entitled The Hildoctor having insidiously attacked Smart, the

liad.

Among his various tasks was a metrical translation of the Fables of Phædrus. He also translated the psalms and parables into verse, but the version is destitute of talent. He had, however, in his better days, translated with success, and to Pope's satisfaction, the Ode on St Cecilia's Day. In 1756 Smart was one of the conductors of a monthly periodical called The Universal Visiter; and to assist him, Johnson (who sincerely sympathised, as Boswell relates, with Smart's unhappy vacillation of mind) contributed a few essays. In 1763 we find the poor poet confined in a mad-house. 'He has partly as much exercise,' said Johnson, as he used to have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the ale-house; but he was carried back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him (also falling upon his knees and saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place); and I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that

he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it. During his confinement, it is said, writing materials were denied him, and Smart used to indent his poetical thoughts with a key on the wainscot of his walls. A religious poem, the Song to David, written at this time in his saner intervals, possesses passages of considerable power and sublimity, and must be considered as one of the greatest curiosities of our literature. What the unfortunate poet did not write down (and the whole could not possibly have been committed to the walls of his apartment) must have been composed and retained from memory alone. Smart was afterwards released from his confinement; but his ill fortune (following, we suppose, his intemperate habits) again pursued him. He was committed to the King's Bench prison for debt, and died there, after a short illness, in 1770.

Song to David.

O thou, that sit'st upon a throne,
With harp of high, majestic tone,
To praise the King of kings:

And voice of heaven, ascending swell,
Which, while its deeper notes excel,
Clear as a clarion rings:

To bless each valley, grove, and coast,
And charm the cherubs to the post

Of gratitude in throngs;
To keep the days on Zion's Mount,
And send the year to his account,
With dances and with songs:
O servant of God's holiest charge,
The minister of praise at large,

Which thou mayst now receive; From thy blest mansion hail and hear, From topmost eminence appear

To this the wreath I weave. Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, Sublime, contemplative, serene,

Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! Bright effluence of exceeding grace; Best man! the swiftness and the race, The peril and the prize!

Great-from the lustre of his crown,
From Samuel's horn, and God's renown,
Which is the people's voice;
For all the host, from rear to van,
Applauded and embraced the man—
The man of God's own choice.

Valiant the word, and up he rose ;
The fight-he triumphed o'er the foes
Whom God's just laws abhor;
And, armed in gallant faith, he took
Against the boaster, from the brook,
The weapons of the war.
Pious-magnificent and grand,
'Twas he the famous temple planned,
(The seraph in his soul :)
Foremost to give the Lord his dues,
Foremost to bless the welcome news,
And foremost to condole.

Good-from Jehudah's genuine vein,
From God's best nature, good in grain,
His aspect and his heart:
To pity, to forgive, to save,
Witness En-gedi's conscious cave,
And Shimei's blunted dart.
Clean-if perpetual prayer be pure,
And love, which could itself inure

To fasting and to fear-
Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet,
To smite the lyre, the dance complete,
To play the sword and spear.
Sublime invention ever young,
Of vast conception, towering tongue,
To God the eternal theme;
Notes from yon exaltations caught,
Unrivalled royalty of thought,

O'er meaner strains supreme.
Contemplative-on God to fix
His musings, and above the six
The Sabbath-day he blest;
'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned,
And heavenly melancholy tuned,

To bless and bear the rest.

Serene to sow the seeds of peace,
Remembering when he watched the fleece,
How sweetly Kidron purled-
To further knowledge, silence vice,
And plant perpetual paradise,

When God had calmed the world.

Strong in the Lord, who could defy
Satan, and all his powers that lie

In sempiternal night;

And hell, and horror, and despair
Were as the lion and the bear
To his undaunted might.
Constant-in love to God, the Truth,
Age, manhood, infancy, and youth-
To Jonathan his friend
Constant, beyond the verge of death;
And Ziba, and Mephibosheth,
His endless fame attend.
Pleasant-and various as the year;
Man, soul, and angel without peer,

Priest, champion, sage, and boy;
In armour, or in ephod clad,
His pomp, his piety was glad;
Majestic was his joy.

Wise in recovery from his fall,
Whence rose his eminence o'er all,

Of all the most reviled;

The light of Israel in his ways,
Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise,
And counsel to his child.

His muse, bright angel of his verse,
Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce,

For all the pangs that rage;
Blest light, still gaining on the gloom,
The more than Michal of his bloom,
The Abishag of his age.

He sang of God-the mighty source
Of all things-the stupendous force

On which all strength depends;
From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise
Commences, reigns, and ends.
Angels-their ministry and meed,
Which to and fro with blessings speed,
Or with their citterns wait;
Where Michael, with his millions, bows,
Where dwells the seraph and his spouse,
The cherub and her mate.

Of man-the semblance and effect
Of God and love-the saint elect
For infinite applause--
To rule the land, and briny broad,
To be laborious in his laud,

And heroes in his cause.

The world-the clustering spheres he made, The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove, and hill;

The multitudinous abyss,
Where secrecy remains in bliss,

And wisdom hides her skill.

Trees, plants, and flowers-of virtuous root; Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit,

Choice gums and precious balm;
Bless ye the nosegay in the vale,
And with the sweetness of the gale
Enrich the thankful psalm.

Of fowl-e'en every beak and wing
Which cheer the winter, hail the spring,
That live in peace, or prey;
They that make music, or that mock,
The quail, the brave domestic cock,
The raven, swan, and jay.

Of fishes every size and shape,
Which nature frames of light escape,
Devouring man to shun:

The shells are in the wealthy deep,
The shoals upon the surface leap,
And love the glancing sun.

Of beasts-the beaver plods his task;
While the sleek tigers roll and bask,
Nor yet the shades arouse;
Her cave the mining coney scoops;
Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops,
The kids exult and browse.

Of gems their virtue and their price,
Which, hid in earth from man's device,
Their darts of lustre sheath;
The jasper of the master's stamp,
The topaz blazing like a lamp,
Among the mines beneath."

Blest was the tenderness he felt,
When to his graceful harp he knelt,

And did for audience call;

When Satan with his hand he quelled,
And in serene suspense he held

The frantic throes of Saul.

His furious foes no more maligned
As he such melody divined,

And sense and soul detained;
Now striking strong, now soothing soft,
He sent the godly sounds aloft,

Or in delight refrained.

When up to heaven his thoughts he piled,
From fervent lips fair Michal smiled,
As blush to blush she stood;
And chose herself the queen, and gave
Her utmost from her heart-so brave,
And plays his hymns so good.'

The pillars of the Lord are seven,
Which stand from earth to topmost heaven;
His wisdom drew the plan;

His Word accomplished the design,
From brightest gem to deepest mine,
From Christ enthroned to man.

Alpha, the cause of causes, first
In station, fountain, whence the burst
Of light and blaze of day;

Whence bold attempt, and brave advance,
Have motion, life, and ordinance,
And heaven itself its stay.
Gamma supports the glorious arch
On which angelic legions march,

And is with sapphires paved; Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, And thence the painted folds that lift The crimson veil, are waved.

Eta with living sculpture breathes,
With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes
Of never-wasting bloom;
In strong relief his goodly base
All instruments of labour grace,
The trowel, spade, and loom.
Next Theta stands to the supreme
Who formed in number, sign, and scheme,
The illustrious lights that are;
And one addressed his saffron robe,
And one, clad in a silver globe,
Held rule with every star.

Iota's tuned to choral hymns
Of those that fly, while he that swims
In thankful safety lurks;
And foot, and chapitre, and niche,
The various histories enrich

Of God's recorded works.
Sigma presents the social droves
With him that solitary roves,

And man of all the chief;

Fair on whose face, and stately frame,
Did God impress his hallowed name,
For ocular belief.

Omega! greatest and the best,
Stands sacred to the day of rest,

For gratitude and thought;
Which blessed the world upon his pole,
And gave the universe his goal,

And closed the infernal draught.

O David, scholar of the Lord!
Such is thy science, whence reward,
And infinite degree;

O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe!
God's harp thy symbol, and thy type
The lion and the bee!

There is but One who ne'er rebelled,
But One by passion unimpelled,

By pleasures unenticed;

He from himself his semblance sent,
Grand object of his own content,

And saw the God in Christ.

Tell them, I Am, Jehovah said
To Moses; while earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,

At once above, beneath, around,
All nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, O Lord, Thou Art.
Thou art to give and to confirm,
For each his talent and his term ;

All flesh thy bounties share:
Thou shalt not call thy brother fool;
The porches of the Christian school
Are meekness, peace, and prayer.
Open and naked of offence,
Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense:
God armed the snail and wilk;
Be good to him that pulls thy plough;
Due food and care, due rest allow

For her that yields thee milk.

Rise up before the hoary head,

And God's benign commandment dread,
Which says thou shalt not die:
'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,'
Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt;
With whose blessed pattern vie.