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And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day arrive
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell
In crowded cities, without fear shall live
Studious of mutual benefit; and he,

For you, in presence of this little band
Gather'd together on the green hill side,
Your pastor is imbolden'd to prefer
Vocal thanksgivings to th' Eternal King;

Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have

flowers

Of every clime, to till the lonely field,

Be happy in himself? The law of faith,

made

Your very poorest rich in peace of thought
And in good works; and him, who is endow'd

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth

Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve?
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart!
And with that help the wonder shall be seen
Fulfill'd, the hope accomplish'd: and thy praise
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy.
"Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake,
On us the venerable pastor turn'd

His beaming eye that had been raised to heaven,
"Once, while the name, Jehovah, was a sound
Within the circuit of the seagirt isle
Unheard, the savage nations bow'd the head
To gods delighting in remorseless deeds;
Gods which themselves had fashion'd, to promote
Ill purposes, and flatter foul desires.
Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove,
To those inventions of corrupted man
Mysterious rites were solemnized: and there,
Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods,
Of those terrific idols, some received
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice
Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard
Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome,
Though aided by wild winds, the groans
shrieks

Of human victims, offer'd up t' appease
Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes
Had visionary faculties to see

The thing that hath been as the thing that is,
Aghast we might behold this crystal mere
Bedimm'd with smoke, in wreaths voluminous,
Flung from the body of devouring fires,
To Taranis erected on the heights
By priestly hands, for sacrifice perform'd
Exultingly, in view of open day

And full assemblage of a barbarous host;
Or to Andates, female power! who gave
(For so they fancied) glorious victory.
A few rude monuments of mountain stone
Survive; all else is swept away. How bright
Th' appearances of things! From such, how
changed

and

Th' existing worship! and with those compared,
The worshippers how innocent and blest!
So wide the difference, a willing mind,
At this affecting hour, might almost think
That Paradise, the lost abode of man,
Was raised again: and to a happy few,
In its original beauty, here restored.
Whence but from Thee, the true and only God,
And from the faith derived through Him who bled
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance
Of good from evil; as if one extreme
Were left-the other gain'd ?-O ye, who come
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend pile,
Call'd to such office by the peaceful sound
Of Sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in earth,
All cares forgotten, round its hallow'd walls!

Which the salvation of his soul requires.
Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd
On you, the children of my humble care,
And this dear land, our country while on earth
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul,
Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude.
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;
These fertile fields, that recompense your pains;
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain top;
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,
Or hush'd; the roaring waters, and the still;
They see the offering of my lifted hands-
They hear my lips present their sacrifice-
They know if I be silent, morn or even :
For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart
Will find a vent; and thought is praise to Him,
Audible praise, to Thee, Omniscient Mind,
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!"
This vesper service closed, without delay,
From that exalted station to the plain
Descending, we pursued our homeward course,
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake,
Beneath a faded sky. No trace remain'd
Of those celestial splendours; gray the vault,
Pure, cloudless ether; and the star of eve
Was wanting; but inferior lights appear'd
Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and some
Above the darken'd hills stood boldly forth
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attain'd
Her mooring place; where to the sheltering tree
Our youthful voyagers bound fast her prow,
With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we

paced

The dewy fields; but ere the vicar's door
Was reach'd, the solitary check'd his steps;
Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestow'd
A farewell salutation,-and, the like
Receiving, took the slender path that leads
To the one cottage in the lonely dell;
But turn'd not without welcome promise given,
That he would share the pleasures and pursuits
Of yet another summer's day, consumed
In wandering with us through the valleys fair,
And o'er the mountain wastes. "Another sun,"
Said he, "shall shine upon us ere we part,-
Another sun, and peradventure more;
If time, with free consent, is yours to give,-
And season favours."

To enfeebled power,
From this communion with uninjured minds,
What renovation had been brought; and what
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit,
Dejected, and habitually disposed
To seek, in degradation of the kind,
Excuse and solace for her own defects;
How far those erring notions were reform'd;
And whether aught, of tendency as good

And pure, from further intercourse ensued; This (if delightful hopes, as heretofore, Inspire the serious song, and gentle hearts Cherish, and lofty minds approve the past)My future labours may not leave untold.

THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE.

Leading such companion, I that gilded dome, Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his wors home."

"Feeling tunes your voice, fair princess! And your brow is free from scorn, Else these words would come like mockery, Sharper than the pointed thorn." "Whence the undeserved mistrust? apart

Too wide

The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of Our faith hath been,-0, would that eyes could see

the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby; and the liberty is taken of inscribing it to him as an acknowledgement, however unworthy, of pleasure and instruction derived from his numerous and valuable writings, illustrative of the piety and chivalry of the olden time.

You have heard "a Spanish lady
How she wooed an English man ;"*
Hear now of a fair Armenian,
Daughter of the proud soldàn;

How she loved a Christian slave, and told her pain By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love again.

"Pluck that rose, it moves my liking,"
Said she, lifting up her veil;
"Pluck it for me, gentle gardener,

Ere it wither and grow pale."

"Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take From twig or bed an humbler flower, e'en for your sake."

"Grieved am I, submissive Christian!
To behold thy captive state;
Women in your land may pity
(May they not?) th' unfortunate."

"Yes, kind lady! otherwise man could not bear Life, which to every one that breathes is full of care."

"Worse than idle is compassion,

If it end in tears and sighs;

Thee from bondage would I rescue
And from vile indignities;

Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree, Look up-and help a hand that longs to set thee free."

"Lady, dread the wish, nor venture

In such peril to engage;

Think how it would stir against you
Your most loving father's rage;

Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with shame, Should troubles overflow on her from whom it came."

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the heart!"

"Tempt me not, I pray; my doom is These base implements to wield; Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield! Never see my native land, nor castle towers, Nor her who thinking of me there counts widow't hours."

"Prisoner! pardon youthful fancies;
Wedded? If you can, say no!-

Blessed is and be your consort;

Hopes I cherished let them go!

Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose free,
Without another link to my felicity."

"Wedded love with loyal Christians,
Lady, is a mystery rare;

Body, heart, and soul in union,
Make one being of a pair."

"Humble love in me would look for no return, Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot burn.” "Gracious Allah! by such title

Do I dare to thank the God,
Him, who thus exalts thy spirit,
Flower of an unchristian sod!

Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven dost wear?

What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt? where am I? where?"

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With accordant steps, or gathering
Forest fruit with social hands;

Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon

Bead with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal

On a friendly deck reposing,
They at length for Venice steer;

There, when they had closed their voyage,
One, who daily on the pier

Watch for tidings from the east, beheld his lord, Fel down and clasp'd his knees for joy, not uttering word.

Mutual was the sudden transport;
Breathless questions follow'd fast,
Years contracting to a moment,
Each word greedier than the last;

"He thee to the countess, friend! return with speed,

And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was freed.

"Say that I, who might have languish'd,
Droop'd, and pined till life was spent,
Now before the gates of Stolberg
My deliverer would present

For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.

"Make it known that my companion
Is of royal Eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,

Innocent, and meek, and good,

Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will Holy Church disperse by beams of gospel light."

Swiftly went that gray-hair'd servant,
Soon return'd a trusty page
Charged with greetings, benedictions,
Thanks and praises, each a gage

For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way,
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.

Fancy (while, to banners floating
High on Stolberg's castle walls,
Deafening noise of welcome mounted,
Trumpets, drums, and atabols)

The devout embraces still, while such tears fell
As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.

Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,

Look'd the beautiful deliverer

On that overpowering sight,

While across her virgin cheek pure blushes stray'd,
For every terder sacrifice her heart had made.

On the ground the weeping countess
Knelt, and kiss'd the stranger's hand;
Act of soul-devoted homage,

Pledge of an eternal band:

Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.

Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit

Reverenced, like a sister loved.

Christian meekness smooth'd for all the path of life, Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.

Mute memento of that union
In a Saxon church survives,

Where a cross-legg' knight lies sculptured
As between two welded wives-
Figures with armorial signs of race and birth,
And the vain rack the pilgrims bore while yet on
earth.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's tower
At eve; how softly then

Doth Aira force, that torrent hoarse,
Speak from the woody glen!
Fit music for a solemn vale!

And holier seems the ground
To him who catches on the gale
The spirit of a mournful tale,
Embodied in the sound.

Not far from that fair site whereon
The pleasure house is rear'd,
As story says, in antique days,

A stern-brow'd house appear'd;
Foil to a jewel rich in light,

There set, and guarded well;
Cage for a bird of plumage bright,
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight
Beyond her native dell.

To win this bright bird from her cage,
To make this gem their own,
Came barons bold, with store of gold,
And knights of high renown;
But one she prized, and only one;

Sir Eglamore was he;

Full happy season, when was known,
Ye dales and hills! to you alone
Their mutual loyalty-

Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,

Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where passion caught what nature taught, That all but love is folly;

Where fact with fancy stoop'd to play,

Doubt came not, nor regret;
To trouble hours that wing'd their way,
As if through an immortal day

Whose sun could never set.

But in old times love dwelt not long
Sequester'd with repose;

Best throve the fire of chaste desire,
Fann'd by the breath of foes.
"A conquering lance is beauty's test,

And proves the lover true;"
So spake Sir Eglamore, and press'd
The drooping Emma to his breast,
And look'd a blind adieu.

A pleasure house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is the word used in the Lake District for waterfall.

They parted. Well with him it fared
Through wide-spread regions errant ;
A knight of proof in love's behoof,

The thirst of fame his warrant:
And she her happiness can build

On woman's quiet hours;

Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield,

And needle-work and flowers.

Yet blest was Emma when she heard

Her champion's praise recounted;

Though brain would swim, and eyes grows dim,

And high her blushes mounted;
Or when a bold heroic lay

She warbled from full heart;
Delightful blossoms for the May
Of absence! but they will not stay,
Born only to depart.

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills
Whatever path he chooses;
As if his orb, that owns no curb,

Received the light hers loses.

He comes not back; an ampler space
Requires for nobler deeds;
He ranges on from place to place,
Till of his doings is no trace

But what her fancy breeds.

His fame may spread, but in the past
Her spirit finds its centre;
Clear sight she has of what he was,

And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted knight?"

The tear in answer flows;

Month falls on month with heavier weight;
Day sickens round her, and the night
Is empty of repose.

In sleep she sometimes walk'd abroad,

Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale queen whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending;

But she is innocent of blood,

The moon is not more pure

That shines aloft, while through the wood
She thrids her way, the sounding flood

Her melancholy lure!

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,

In white array'd, glides on the maid,
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side
And to a holly bower;

By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!

A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.

Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see!

Perplex'd her fingers seem,
As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.

What means the spectre? Why intent
To violate the tree,

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore
Unfading constancy?

Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,

To her I left, shall prove
That bliss is ne'er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run

Of valour, truth, and love.

So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,

He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall,-
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he !"

Soul-shatter'd was the knight, nor knew
If Emma's ghost it were,
Or boding shade, or if the maid
Her very self stood there.

He touch'd, what follow'd who shall tell?
The soft touch snapp'd the thread

Of slumber-shricking, back she fell,
And the stream whirl'd her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the knight! when on firm ground
The rescued maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,

Confusion pass'd away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace

Her faithful spirit flew,

His voice; beheld his speaking face,
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life;

Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,

And there was sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found.
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,

Where clouds that spread in solemn shade
Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ;
And thou, in lover's hearts forgiven,

Shall take thy place with Yarrow!

[graphic]

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

comparison with those of Dr. Watts, and which are admirably calculated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed.

Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by his controversy with Byron on the subject of the writings of Pope. He advanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered him "no poet," and that, according to the

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire-a parish of which his father was vicar-on the 21th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The poet received his early education at Winchester school; and he rose to be the senior boy. He was entered at Trinity Col-"invariable principles" of poetry, the century of lege, Oxford, where he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 1792, he took his degree. On quitting the university he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire; soon afterwards he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire; in 1803 he became a prebend of Salisbury; and the Archbishop Moore presented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where he has since constantly resided,—only now and then visiting the metropolis,-enjoying the country and its peculiar sources of profitable delight; performing with zeal and industry his paro-reputation as a critic was considerably enhanced. chial duties; and beloved by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of his residence.

fame which had been accorded to the "Essay on Man" was unmerited. Campbell opened the defence; and Byron stepped forward as a warm and somewhat angry advocate. A sort of literary warfare followed; and a host of pamphlets on both sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, the question remains precisely where it did. Bowles, however, though he failed in obtaining a victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to his "invariable principles," manifested during the contest so much judgment and ability, that his

The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popularity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments than for any loftiness of thought or richness of fancy. He has never dealt with themes that "stir men's minds;" but has satisfied himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has considered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, "tender yet manly;" and he has undoubtedly brought the accessories of harmonious versification and graceful language to the aid of "right thinking" and sound judgment. His poems seldom startle or astonish the reader: he does not labour to probe the heart, and depict the more vio

The Sonnets of Bowles (his first publication) appeared in 1793. They were received with considerable applause; and the writer, if he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found ample recompense in the fact that they contributed to form the taste and call forth the genius of Coleridge, whom they "delighted and inspired." The author of "Christabel" speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from several perilous errors by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, how-lent passions of human kind; but he keeps an ever, satisfied with expressing in prose his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out his gratitude to his first master in minstrel lore:

"My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring."

In 1805 he published the "Spirit of Discovery by Sea." It is the longest of his productions, and is by some considered his best. The more recent of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse Book ;" a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by

"even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture.

The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beautiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignificant. The topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are such only as are naturally excellent.

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