SAMUEL ROGERS. SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the | a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, about 1760. He received a learned education, which he completed by travelling through most of the countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the common reverses of an author, in which character he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirited Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These were succeeded, after an interval of five years, by the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, when he added to a collected edition of his works, his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Columbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, a tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published his first part of Italy, which has since been completed, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, his last and greatest, but by no means his best, performance; though an eminent writer in the New Monthly Magazine calls it "perfect as a whole." There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive passages to be found in it; and it is totally free from meretriciousness: but we think the author has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, to render it of much value to his reputation, as a whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Memory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and conversation than the venerable subject of our memoir; and his benevolence is said to be on a par with his taste and accomplishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, "We are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell." THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. Hoc est Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui.-Mart. O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page, here. 234 1793. PART I Dolce sentier, Colle, che mi piacesti, Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena; ANALYSIS. Petrarch. THE poem begins with the description of an obscurc village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in tin.e or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of his youth. The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the domestic tribes. TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear! Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway 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 reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest: [hung, Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd 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 stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. 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 turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd 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, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye household deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Childhood's loved group revisits every scene The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Wh glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd: To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door, The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! instructers of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give. -But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined! Ethereal power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Drew every subject spirit to his cell; Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy; And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, breeze, The village common spotted white with sheep, So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day And hence the charm historic scenes impart : Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the gale; In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: What though the iron school of war erase Th' intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: ay why Vespasian loves his Sabine farm; Why great Navarre, when France and freedom bled, Sought the lone limits of a forest shed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, When Dioclesian's seli-corrected mind The social tribes its choicest influence hail:- Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, more, His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth, Led by what chart, transports the timid dove Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, And lights at last where all her cares repose. attest, And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. PART II. Delle cose custode, e dispensiera.—Tasso. ANALYSIS. THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distinguished from other animals; but, with respect to man, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colours all the prospects of life: for "we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past." On her agency depends every effusion of the fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, augment or diminish, the materials which she has collected. When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of hav ing acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar. Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm. But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well regulated mind that the memory is most perfect: and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a tale illustrative of her influence in slitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty. SWEET Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail, To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to thee impart What charms in genius, and refines in art; Thee, in whose hand the keys of science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal lamp. The friends of reason, and the guides of youth, Whose language breathed the eloquence of truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, by thee to fame consign'd, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws; And fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From thee that bosom spring of rapture flows, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows. When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospects close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light. The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear familiar face: And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper bell Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent cell Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song With rapt ear drink th' enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. Yet here, e'en here, with pleasures long re sign'd, Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. Ah! why should virtue fear the frowns of fate? But most we mark the wonders of her reign, When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying roun't |