earth eats into the adulterer's heart. The story of Farmer Ellis, might, we think, have stood by itself, instead of being introduced merely as part of another story-but Mr Crabbe very frequently brings forward his very finest things, as illustrations of others of inferior interest, or as accessories to less momentuous matter. A certain widower, hight Sir Owen Dale, having been refused by a young coquette, after some encouraging flirtation, induces his nephew, a handsome but poor soldier, to attempt to win her affections, and then to abandon her to despair. The young couple fall desperately in love with each other, and the heart of the soldier altogether misgiving him, he fairly confesses to the lady the infamous bargain into which he had entered with his uncle, and his determination to break it by marrying her on the spot. Meanwhile the worthy baronet is congratulating himself on the apparent success of this very manly scheme of revenge, when he happens to pay a visit to Farmer Ellis, who tells him a story that at once murders all revengeful thoughts, and restores him to his humanity. The farmer's wife had been seduced by a young Gentleman Farmer who had lived in the family; and Ellis thus tells to Sir Owen Dale the fate of the adulterer and adulteress. "Hear me, Sir Owen:-I had sought them long, Urged by the pain of every present wrong, Years hateful now-ere I my victims found: The very smallest-but they none were small.' But who shall part by part describe the state Unnamed, unnoticed: farewell to his dreams! them shun; And they were duteous all, and he was all undone.' "Now the lost pair, whom better times To part disputing, shared their sorrow's bed: In short, Sir Owen, I must feel as man ; "This had you known, and traced them to Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, "Sought you them, Ellis, from the mean "What indeed I meant At first was vengeance; but I long pursued The pair, and I at last their misery view'd In that vile garret, which I cannot paintThe sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint; And there that wife,-whom I had loved so well, And thought so happy, was condemn'd to The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad My children's mother, my Alicia,-laid But could not leave her, though for death I sigh'd, And tried the poison'd cup, and dropt it as I tried." "She is a woman, and that famish'd thing Makes her to life, with all its evils, cling: Feed her, and let her breathe her last in peace, And all my sufferings with your promise cease!" I could not speak my purpose, but my eyes And my expression bade the creature rise.' "Yet, O! that woman's look! my words are vain Her mix'd and troubled feelings to explain; True, there was shame and consciousness. of fall, But yet remembrance of my love withal, And knowledge of that power which she would now recal.' "But still the more that she to memory brought, The greater anguish in my mind was wrought; "This war within, these passions in their strife, If thus protracted, had exhausted life; And as I wept at large, and thought alone, I felt my reason re-ascend her throne.' 66 6 My friend !' Sir Owen answer'd, 'what became Of your just anger?-when you saw their shame, It was your triumph, and you should have shown Strength, if not joy-their sufferings were their own.' "Alas, for them! their own in very deed! I saw them then-methinks I see them now! That arm,-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek, Spoke all, Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak!' "And you relieved?' If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied 66 6 too.' Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power, the right: To give it up was heaven's own act to slight.' "Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs, When my vain help was offer'd, he was past All human aid, and shortly breathed his last; But his heart open'd, and he lived to see Guilt in himself, and find a friend in me.' "Strange was their parting, parting on the day I offer'd help, and took the man away, ensue or see.'" This is somewhat superior to Kotze bue's Stranger and Mrs Haller. Farmer Ellis is but a homely person, it is true-but he is an Englishman, and he behaves like one, with the dagger of grief festering in his heart. Nothing can be more affecting than his conduct in granting an asylum in a lonely spot on his own grounds to the repentant wretch who had once been so dear to him-a sanctuary, as it were, where she may live within the protection of her husband's humanity, though for ever divorced from his love-and where the melancholy man knows that she is making her peace with God, in a calm haven provided for her against the waves of the world by him whose earthly happiness she had for ever destroyed. Never did a more sublime moral belong to a tale of guilt. But we shall now lay before our readers a picture of gentler sorrowsof a calm and heavenly melancholy on which the soul can repose, as on the still beauty of a moonlight sea, after a dark day of clouds and storms. The brothers are taking their daily walk into the country round the "Hall," when George tells Richard to visit a certain cottage in which a young and fair lady dwells. "Nor pass the pebbled cottage as you rise Above the sluice, till you have fix'd your eyes On the low woodbined window, and have seen, So fortune favour you, the ghost within: Take but one look, and then your way pursue, It flies all strangers, and it knows not you.' On his return from the cottage, Richard informs his brother that he had caught a single glimpse of this solitary maid. "Fair, fragile thing! I said, when first my eye Caught hers, wilt thou expand thy wings and fly? Or wilt thou vanish? beauteous spirit, stay!— · Till pity pain'd me, and I rode away.' "Tell me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread For the great change that bears her to the dead? Has she connexions? does she love?—I feel Pity and grief, wilt thou her woes reveal ? George then tells the story of her grief. A youth of sensibility and genius, in the lowly and despised situation of tutor in her noble father's family, had fallen in love with her-but in despair left his native country. "Greece was the land he chose; a mind deAnd ruin'd there through glorious ruin cay'd stray'd; There read, and walk'd, and mused-there loved, and wept, and pray'd. Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live, But gave to study all his mind could give; Till, with the dead conversing, he began To lose the habits of a living man, Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried To soothe-some doubtful, them he strove to guide; Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy Of that new state that death must not destroy; What Time had done we know not-Death was nigh, To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh, But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his wish to die." At last the death of Ellen's proud and unrelenting parent awakens hope in the young man's heart, and he returns to England. But having been, in an hour of caprice, refused an interview with Ellen, he thinks his case hopeless, and again abandons his country-for ever. The deserted lady then feels how deep is her love and her despair. home!' But when she heard that he on foreign ground Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found; But still she felt a varying hope that love Would all these slight impediments remove; Has he no friend to tell him that our pride Resents a moment and is satisfied? Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made, A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade; Have I no friend to say, "Return again, Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain ?" " "With suffering mind the maid her prospects view'd, That hourly varied with the varying mood; As past the day, the week, the month, the year, The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear. "No Cecil came !- Come, peevish and unjust !' Sad Ellen cried, why cherish this disgust? Thy Ellen's voice could charm thee once, buys, From this are doled the favourite charities; "Such have the ten last years of Ellen been! This little story, of which we fear our extracts can scarcely give an adequate idea, is, we think, one of the most simple, graceful, and pathetic of all Mr Crabbe's compositions, For the present we close our extracts from these admirable volumes with some passages from the last of the "Tales," which is entitled "Smugglers and Poachers," and which is perhaps the most characteristic of them all, of Mr Crabbe's genius. It opens in this beautiful and natural way. "There was a widow in the village known To our good Squire, and he had favour shown By frequent bounty-She as usual came, And Richard saw the worn and weary frame, Pale cheek, and eye subdued, of her whose mind Truly deep, And very still, and therefore seems to sleep; The squire then recounts this widow's melancholy history. "There were two lads call'd Shelley hither brought, But whence we know not-it was never sought; Their wandering mother left them, left her name, And the boys throve and valiant men became: Handsome, of more than common size, and tall, And no one's kindred, seem❜d beloved of all ; All seem'd alliance by their deeds to prove, And loved the youths who could not claim their love." These brothers love the same damsel, and their mutual jealousy by degrees destroys their affection for each aversion and hatred. Robert, whom other, and at last ripens into settled the maiden loves, has linked himself with a desperate band of smugglers and poachers, while James has become a gamekeeper. In a nocturnal fray between some of James' assistants and the gang to which Robert belongs, one of the former is killed; and Robert being thrown into prison, expects no punishment short of death. James tells the terrified girl that if she will marry him, he will procure his brother's pardon, but that otherwise, the law must take its course. She visits her lover in prison, and but hear Mr Crabbe himself. "She saw him fetter'd, full of grief, alone, Still as the dead, and he suppress'd a groan At her appearance-Now she pray'd for strength; And the sad couple could converse at length. "It was a scene that shook her to repeatLife fought with love, both powerful, and both sweet. "Wilt thou die, Robert, or preserve thy life? heart!" Then why this visit, if I wish'd to part? Was it, ah, man ungrateful! wise to make Effort like this, to hazard for thy sake A spotless reputation, and to be A suppliant to that stern man for thee? But I forgive thy spirit has been tried, And thou art weak, but still thou must decide. "I ask'd thy brother, James, would'st thou command, Without the loving heart, the obedient hand? I ask thee, Robert, lover, canst thou part With this poor hand, when master of the heart ?' He answer'd, Yes! I tarry thy reply, Resign'd with him to live, content with thee to die.' "Assured of this, with spirits low and tame, Here life so purchased-there a death of shame; Death once his merriment, but now his dread, And he with terror thought upon the dead: O! sure 'tis better to endure the care And pain of life, than go we know not where! And is there not the dreaded hell for sin, Or is it only this I feel within ? That, if it lasted, no man would sustain, But would by any change relieve the pain: Forgive me, love! it is a loathsome thing To live not thine; but still this dreaded sting Of death torments me-I to nature clingGo, and be his-but love him not, be sure Go, love him not-and I will life endure: He, too, is mortal!'-Rachel deeply sigh'd, But would no more converse: she had com plied, And was no longer free-she was his brother's bride. "Farewell!' she said, with kindness, but not fond, Feeling the pressure of the recent bond, And put her tenderness apart to give Advice to one who so desired to live: Reflected-wept was sad was satisfied.” She then departed, join'd the attending guide, Robert and his comrades are rescued from prison by a sudden assault of the gang-and their first social meeting after liberation is thus described: "Now met the lawless clan-in secret met, And down at their convivial board were set; The plans in view to past adventures led, And the past conflicts present anger bred; They sigh'd for pleasures gone, they groan'd Their ancient stores were rifled-strong desires for heroes dead: Awaked, and wine rekindled latent fires. "It was a night such bold desires to move, Strong winds and wintry torrents fill'd the A spy in the pay of James has informed him of the intended plan of the poachers, and he and his assistants go to encounter the gang in the woods. James has by this time been married to Rachel, who makes a dutiful, and even a loving wife. She feels an unusual terror in her heart when her husband leaves her on this fearful night, and at last, unable to endure |