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Yet still, enamored of the tender tale,

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecayed the fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.

SONNET.

Could then the Babes from you unsheltered cot Implore thy passing charity in vain?

Too thoughtless Youth! what though thy happier lot

Insult their life of poverty and pain!

What though their Maker doomed them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath the Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,
Their evening cheerful, though their day distressed,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossessed,
A Faith more fixed, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.

Samuel Rogers.

Rogers (1763-1855) was the son of a banker, resident near London. In 1776 he entered the banking-house as a clerk. Once, when a boy, he resolved to call on Dr. Johnson in Bolt Court, but his courage failed him as he placed his hand on the knocker, and they never met. In 1782 Rogers published "The Pleasures of Memory." Its success was remarkable. In 1793 his father died, and Samuel, inheriting a large fortune, had ample leisure for literature. At his residence in St. James's Place, he delighted to gather round him men eminent in letters and art. In 1830 he published a superb edition of his poem, "Italy," illustrated with engravings after drawings done for him by Stothard, Turner, and other artists. Rogers was a careful and fastidious writer. His "Italy" has passages of high artistic merit, and will long make his place good among British poets. A certain quaint sarcasm characterized some of his sayings. The late Lord Dudley (Ward) had been free in his criticisms on the poet, who retaliated with this epigrammatic couplet:

"Ward has no heart, they say; but I deny it;
He has a heart-he gets his speeches by it."

On one occasion Rogers tried to extort from his neighbor, Sir Philip Francis, a confession that he was the author of "Junius;" but Francis gave a surly rebuff, and Rogers remarked that if he was not Junius, he was at least Brutus. The poet's recipe for long life was,

"tem

267

perance, the bath and flesh-brush, and don't fret." He thus, in his " Italy," refers to himself:

"Nature denied him much,

But gave him at his birth what most he values:

A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting,
For poetry, the language of the gods,
For all things here, or grand or beautiful,

A setting sun, a lake among the mountains,
The light of an ingenuous countenance,

And, what transcends them all, a noble action."

Rogers died in his ninety-third year, his life having ranged over four successive generations in the history of English literature.

THE OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gate-way strews the grass-grown
court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest:
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
O haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly

hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glec.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring;
And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear;
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood,
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood:
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep.
Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high;

Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of Inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the 'wildered sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colored chart,
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive
thought;

Those muskets cased with venerable rust;
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through
their dust,

Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silvered by the touch of time;
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer
shade;

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

HOPES FOR ITALY.

FROM ITALY."

Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?

And shall I sup where Juliet at the mask
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself;
And not a finger-post by the roadside
"To Mantua"-"To Ferrara"-but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation.
O Italy, how beautiful thou art!

Yet could I weep-for thou art lying, alas!
Low in the dust; and they who come, admire thee
As we admire the beautiful in death.
Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of beauty.

Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast,
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee!
-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already,
Twice shone among the nations of the world,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come,
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
Their wisdom folly. E'en now the flame
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
And, dying, left a splendor like the day,
That like the day diffused itself, and still
Blesses the earth-the light of genius, virtue,
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept
Since Athens, Lacedæmon, were themselves,
Since men invoked "By those in Marathon!"
Awake along the Egean; and the dead,
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Moving as once they were-instead of rage
Breathing deliberate valor.

VENICE.

FROM ITALY."

There is a glorious City in the Sea,
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing, and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the laud we went,
As to a floating city--steering in,

And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings ;
The fronts of some, though time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

ROMAN RELICS.

FROM "ITALY."

I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking, at once I cry,

SAMUEL ROGERS.-JOHN MASON GOOD.-JAMES GRAHAME.

Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?
And from within a thrilling voice replies,
Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images;
And I spring up as girt to run a race!

:

Thou art in Rome! the city that so long Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world:Thou art in Rome! the city where the Gauls, Entering at sunrise through her open gates, And, through her streets silent and desolate, Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men; The city that by temperance, fortitude, And love of glory, towered above the clouds, Then fell but, falling, kept the highest seat, And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe, Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, Her empire undiminished.

There, as though

Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble-from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples-all things that inspire
Wonder, delight! Who would not say the forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flocked thither to abide eternally,

Within those silent chambers where they dwell
In happy intercourse?

And I am there!

Ah! little thought I, when in school I sat,
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn
Glowing with Roman story, I should live
To tread the Appian, once an avenue
Of monuments most glorious, palaces,
Their doors sealed up and silent as the night,
The dwellings of the illustrious dead;-to turn
Toward Tiber, and, beyond the city-gate,
Pour out my unpremeditated verse,
Where on his mule I might have met so oft
Horace himself;-or climb the Palatine,
Dreaming of old Evander and his guest,—
Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence,
Longwhile the seat of Rome, hereafter found
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge
One in his madness; and, the summit gained,
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf,
That shoots and spreads within those very walls
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine,
Where his voice faltered, and a mother wept
Tears of delight!

1 Nero.

John Mason Good.

269

Good (1764-1827) was born at Epping, in Essex, and was an indefatigable worker. He was apprenticed as a surgeon, and afterward settled in London as a surgeon and apothecary. His "Book of Nature" (1826) was a great success.

THE DAISY.

Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here;
The daisy, fresh from Nature's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.

For who but He that arched the skies, And pours the day-spring's living flood, Wondrous alike in all he tries,

Could raise the daisy's purple bud,

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely spin, And cut the gold-embosséd gem,

That, set in silver, gleams within,

And fling it, unrestrained and free,

O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see, In every step, the stamp of God?

James Grahame.

Grahame (1765-1811), a native of Glasgow, exchanged the profession of a barrister for that of a curate in the Church of England. Amiable, modest, pious, his poetry consists of a drama, "Mary, Queen of Scots;" "The Sabbath," the best of his poems; "The Birds of Scotland;" "British Georgies," etc. His style is moulded on the model of Cowper.

SABBATH MORNING.

FROM "THE SABBATH."

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmars more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from you lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away.
So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers: then to the pastures green
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.

A WINTER SABBATH WALK.

FROM "THE SABBATH."

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day,-
Not even a footfall heard! Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit Nature in her grand attire:
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below,
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood!
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold?
There silence dwells profound; or, if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm,
The mantled echoes no response return.

But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell: No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's, Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts, Nor linger there too long! The wintry day Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall, Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen, While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh, then,

A PRESENT DEITY. FROM "THE SABBATH."

O Nature! all thy seasons please the eye
Of him who sees a present Deity in all.
It is his presence that diffuses charms
Unspeakable o'er mountain, wood, and stream.
To think that He who hears the heavenly choirs
Hearkens complacent to the woodland song;
To think that He who rolls yon solar sphere
Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky;
To mark his presence in the mighty bow
That spans the clouds as in the tints minute
Of tiniest flower; to hear his awful voice
In thunder speak, and whisper in the gale;
To know and feel his care for all that lives,-
"Tis this that makes the barren waste appear
A fruitful field, each grove a paradise.

Yes! place me 'mid far-stretching woodless wilds,
Where no sweet song is heard; the heath-bell there
Would please my weary sight, and tell of thee!
There would my gratefully uplifted eye
Survey the heavenly vault by day, by night,
When glows the firmament from pole to pole;
There would my overflowing heart exclaim,
"The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
The firmament shows forth his handiwork!"

Carolina, Baroness Nairne.

Carolina Oliphant, afterward Baroness Nairne (17661845), was born in the county of Perth, Scotland, and wrote several lyrical pieces, still popular. She was celebrated for her beauty, talents, and estimable character. She married her second-cousin, Major Nairne, who, in 1824, was restored to his rank in the peerage, and became Lord Nairne. A collection of her poems, edited by Dr. Charles Rogers, with a memoir, was published in 1868. There is a shorter version of "The Land o' the Leal."

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.-ROBERT BLOOMField.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', John,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John;
I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, John;
There's neither cauld nor care, John;
The day is aye fair

I' the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, John;

She was baith gude and fair, John; And oh, we grudged her sair

To the land o' the leal.

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,
And joy's a-comin' fast, John,
The joy that's aye to last

I' the land o' the leal.

Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought

To the land o' the leal.

O dry your glistening e'e, John!
My soul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

O haud ye leal and true, John;
Your day it's wearin' through, John,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain John!
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We'll meet, and we'll be fain,
I' the land o' the leal.

WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?

AIR: "AIKEN AROON."

Would you be young again?

So would not I!

One tear to memory given,
Onward I'd hie.

Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,

Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?

If you might, would you now Retrace your way?

Wander through stormy wilds,

Faint and astray?

Night's gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope's smiles around us shed, Heavenward-away!

Where, then, are those dear ones, Our joy and delight?

Dear and more dear, though now
Hidden from sight!

Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me:

Fly, time, fly speedily!

Come, life and light!

Robert Bloomfield.

271

Bloomfield (1766-1823), an English pastoral poet, was a native of Honington, in Suffolk. He was the youngest son of a tailor, who died before Robert was a year old. At the age of eleven the lad was employed as a farmer's boy, and next as a shoemaker in London. While working with others in a garret, he composed mentally, arranged and re-arranged, his poem of "The Farmer's Boy," comprising some sixteen hundred lines, without committing a line to paper. Having procured paper, he "had nothing to do," he said, "but to write it down." It was printed in the year 1800, under the patronage of Capel Lofft, and 26,000 copies were sold in three years. Through imprudent liberality to poor relations, and an unfortunate adventure in the book business, the poet's last days were darkened by poverty, ill-health, and distress. He left a widow and four children. In all that he wrote there is an artless simplicity, an exquisite sensibility to the beautiful, and an unerring rectitude of sentiment, worthy of all praise. In "The Soldier's Home," a trite subject is dignified by the touching fidelity to nature in every part. It has all the neatness, truthfulness in detail, and perfect simplicity of a chefd'œuvre by Teniers.

THE SOLDIER'S HOME.

My untried Muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strut in arms-fare well my cap and plume!
Brief be my verse, a task within my power;

I tell my feelings in one happy hour:

But what an hour was that! when from the main

I reached this lovely valley once again!
A glorious harvest filled my eager sight,
Half shocked, half waving in a sea of light:
On that poor cottage roof where I was born,
The sun looked down as in life's early morn.
I gazed around, but not a son appeared;
I listened on the threshold, nothing heard;

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