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Unworthy our regard?—This is too hard
For mortals to unravel, nor has He
Vouchsafed a clue to man, who bade us trust
To Him our weakness, and we shall wake up
After his likeness, and be satisfied.



As he who sails aloof Upon the perilous Atlantic, vex'd By baffling gales, what time his gallant bark Or on the summit of some dark blue wave Storm-beaten rides, or plunges into the chasm From that tremendous altitude, and straight Lies in his trough becalm’d, as if the grave Had swallow'd her; nathless undaunted sets His fix’d regard upon the starry vault, And notes the hour, and frequent calculates Distance and bearings, and with skill corrects The errors of his course. So darkling steer'd Aëtius, through the shoals and fearful blasts Of his tempestuous time, but never found That anchorage, secure from every change Of fitful gales, that haven, which the just Alone inherit: for the sons of earth, Who, vex'd with vain disquietude, pursue Ambition's fatuous light, through miry pools That yawn for their destruction, stray foredoom'd Amid delusive shadows to their end. That certain hope, which shineth evermore A beacon to the righteous, over them Its peaceful radiance never shall diffuse; And bitterness shall be the bread they chew, While striving to devour the portion snatch'd By strong injustice from their fellow men, A baneful meal; and their satiety Shall be a curse, more fatal than the void Of meager famine, an unwholesome weight, That haply shall bring dreams beyond the grave To the charged soul, and phantoms of the things Which have been on this earth, and which shall be Hereafter, when the trumpet wakes the dead.



FAIR Est and loveliest of created things, By our great Author in the image form'd Of his celestial glory, and design'd To be man's solace " Undefiled by sin How much dost thou exceed all earthly shapes Of beautiful, to charm the wistful eye, Bland to the touch, or precious in the use ! His treasure of delight, while the fresh prime Adorns his forehead with the joy of youth, His comfort in the winter of the soul! Chaste woman' thou art e'en a brighter gem To him, who wears thee, than e'er shone display'd Upon the monarch's diadem; a charm More sweet to lull all sorrow, than the tint Of spring's young verdure in the dewy morn, Or music's mellow tones, which floating come

Over the water like a fairy dream :
Thou hangest, as a wreath upon his neck,
More fragrant than the rose, in thy pure garb
Of blushing gentleness. Thou art a joy
More sprightly than the lark in vernal suns
Pouring his throat to heaven, or forest call
By blithesome Dryads blown; a faithful stay
In all the world's mischances; a helpmeet
For man in sickness, and decay, and death.
Thou art more precious than an only child
In weary age begotten, a clear spring
Amid the desert, an unhoped-for land
To baffled mariners, or dawn of day
To who has press'd all night a fever'd couch.
Oh, wherefore, best desired and most beloved
Of all heaven's works, oh, wherefore wert thou
To be our curse as well as blessing ! lured
From thy first shape of innocence to become
A thing abased by guilt, and more deform'd
As thine original glory was more bright!

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ReAn ER, whoe'er hast travell'd to the goal Through this long chant unwearied, if my verse, Tuned to no trivial strain, hast lent thee aught Of pleasure or of profit, o'er the work Wrought by the chaste artificer of song Bend kindly, yielding such small meed of praise Earn'd by high musing, as may send his name Not ill-esteem'd upon the wings of Time Unto his children's children, when the sod Shall lie upon the hand that gave it life, Calling the soul's unborn imaginings [forms From thought's deep fountain; like the glowing Of Eros and his brother, who uprose From their wet cradle at the wizard's voice, This mournful, o'er his neck the jetty locks With hyacinthine ringlets clustering, That blythe and golden as the god of day.

Perchance I shall not walk with thee again Along the Muse's haunt, and we shall both Be number'd with the countless things that lie O'ershadow’d by oblivion; hearts that beat High in the noontide of ambitious hopes, And forms of loveliest symmetry, that once Delighted the beholder, by the hand, Which deals just measure unto all that tread This changeful world, o'ertaken in their dream Of summer joy. Calm reason throws a cloud O'er the enchantment of aspiring thoughts Which whisper of a life beyond the tomb Upon the lips of men, and tells how vain The shadow of such glory, nothing worth To him who hath his dwelling with the worm. But that Almighty will, which placed man here To labour in his calling, hath set deep Within his bosom an undying hope, An aspiration unto nobler ends Than he hath compass'd yet; a stirring thirst For praise beyond the term that nature's law Has granted to his brief mortality,


This, ever of the gloomy monitor
Regardless, bids him peril much, to win
The unsubstantial fame, which unto him
Shall be as if not being; a sweet strain
Of soul-enrapturing music to the deaf,
A scene of beauty and of light to eyes
That lie in darkness, and by slumber seal’d
Without the sense of vision. Strange, forsooth,
Appear the workings of the mind of man,
Which goad him to his loss. The promised boon
Of that stupendous glory, which shall be
Hereafter, and survive the wreck of worlds
Unto the end of Time, wants substance now
To wrestle with his sense of present good;
That which is lighter than a transient gleam
Of sunshine or the shadow of a shade
Reflected from a mirror, and, if gain'd,
Can never be by any sense of his
Enjoy'd or apprehended, the vain wish
To float upon the memory of men
After his term of being oft becomes
A master passion, and for that one aim
He barters all, that his Creator gave
Of joy or solace in the vale of life,
And that inheritance of perfect bliss
Which might be his for ever. Then happy they
Who in the airy building of a name,
Have travell'd through the guiltless ways of peace
Innocuous, and held the mind's calm eye -
Fix'd on a better star than those vague fires,
Which, fatuous, tole man to the abyss. Time was,
Nor will return, when poesy might rear
A more perennial monument than brass,
Towering above the age-worm edifice,
Where loath’d corruption saith unto the worm,
“Thou art my sister.” The famed capitol
No longer sees the silent virgin climb
Its marble steps, nor does the pomp profane
Of sacrificial pontiffs crowd its ways;
Yet still the chaplet blooms, wherewith the muse
In wreathed the forehead of Venusium's bard
Fragrant and fresh, while ages fling their dust
Upon the crumbling domes, with which he claim'd
Coeval glory. But the boast that told
Of sepulchres by magic verse uppiled,
Which neither storms nor all consuming Time
Should bring to nothingness, would perish now
Even in the utterance. I have yet beheld t
But half an age, yet in that petty space
Such giant forms of havoc and of change
Have glided o'er the earth, that the mazed thought
Dwells little on the past, but gazing forth,
Like the Ebudan seer, with ravishment
Strains after what shall be. The ear is cloy'd
Unto satiety with honied strains
That daily from the fount of Helicon
Flow murmuring; and that which is to-day

Inshrined upon the lip of praise, shall be
To-morrow a tale told, a shadow pass'd
Into those regions where oblivion throws
Over the bright creations of the mind
A darkness as of death. Scared learning flies
An age, which bubbling with unnumber'd tongues
In quest of some new wonder hurries on,
And hath no retrospect. Enough for me,
That this my tuneful labour, short howe'er
Its term of glory, hath my solace been
Through many a wintry hour, when icy chains
Bound the froze champaign; a sweet anodyne
To inward cares, lulling the tremulous heart
That throbs with high aspirings, and would fain
Live unreproach'd upon the rolls of fame,
Mindful of its Creator, who requires
From each with usury the gifts He gave,
And stirs by inborn thirst of good report
Man to his noblest uses. To have walk'd
No servile follower, nor vainly trick'd
With meretricious gauds of modern song,
Beneath Aovian umbrage never sere,
Where Melesigenes and Maro sang,
Where British Milton gave his country's lyre
A voice from ancient days, hath been to me
A charm illusive, a refreshing toil
Year after year. My little bark, o'er which
Long fashioning thy symmetry I hung,
Now launch’d upon the ocean wide of Time,
Whose winds are evil tongues, and passions roused
Amidst the warring multitude its storms,
Sore shall I miss thee! like the child, first sent
From the safe home, where fond parental cares
Watch'd o'er his growing energies. Go forth
Unto thy destinies, and fare unharm'd
Adown the current, which may waft thee soon
To that Lethean pool, where earthly toils
Sink unregarded in forgetfulness!



A BETTER prize There is for man, a glory of this world Well worth the labour of the blessed, won By arduous deeds of righteousness, that bring Solace, or wisdom, or the deathless boon Of holy freedom to his fellow men, And praise to the Almighty. Such a wreath Encircled late the patriotic brows Of him, who, greater than the kings of earth, To young Atlantis in an upright cause Gave strength and liberty, and laid the stone Whereon shall rise, if so Jehovah will, An empire mightier than the vast domain Sway'd once by vicious Cæsars.

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Since BAcon, no man has exhibited so wonderful a combination of the highest powers of science with the faculties of the poet, as Sir HuMPHRY DAvy. Coleridge said to Mr. Poole, “Had not DAvy been the first chemist, he probably would have been the first poet of his age;” and the “Consolations in Travel,” and the notes and poems recently given to the world by his brother, Dr. John Davy, are sufficient to prove that that opinion was not extravagant. “Who that has read his sublime quatrains on the doctrine of SPINoza,” says Lockh ART, the soundest critic of our times, “can doubt that he might have united, if he had pleased, in some great didactic poem, the vigorous ratiocination of DRydex and the moral majesty of Wordsworth " Even taking his effusions as we find them, it would not be difficult to vindicate their superiority to a vast deal of the most popular poetry of the age.

The life and scientific career of Sir HUMphry are so fully before the world in the biographies of Dr. PARIs and Dr. DAvy, that it is unnecessary here to do more than refer to a few dates. He was born at Penzance, on the shore of Mount's Bay, in Cornwall, the 17th December, 1778. His faculties were developed very early : he made rhymes and dis. played a fondness for drawing when scarcely five years old. In 1798, Dr. Beddoes conferred upon him the situation of superintendent of the Pneumatic Institution at Clifton, and he accordingly removed to that place. In 1802, he was appointed professor of chemistry in the Royal Institution, London. From this post he retired upon his marriage, in 1812, with Mrs. APREEcE. In the following year he went abroad, and remained there till 1815. In 1818, he made a second visit to the continent. Two


The tempest has darken'd the face of the skies, The winds whistle wildly across the waste plain,

The fiends of the whirlwind terrific arise, (main. And mingle the clouds with the white foaming

All dark is the night and all gloomy the shore, Save when the red lightnings the ether divide;

Then follows the thunder with loud sounding roar, And echoes in concert the billowy tide.

years after, on the death of Sir Joseph BANRs, he was elected President of the Royal Society. Towards the close of 1826, he experienced an attack of paralysis; but so far recovered as to be able to undertake a journey to the continent early in the next year. He died at Geneva, 29th May, 1829. His remains were deposited in the burying-ground of that city. The poetry now printed is a selection from the pieces published by his brother. It was written at various periods. Some of his poems appeared in 1799, in the Annual Anthology, an interesting miscellany, of which two of the volumes were edited by South Ey, and the third by Tobin. One of these poems, “The Tempest,” is printed below; it bears the date 1796. The poem alluded to by Mr. LockHART, is that entitled “Written after Recovery from a dangerons Illness.” There is a remark in one of Sir HUMPHRy DAvy's memorandum-books, exhibiting so singular a coincidence, in feeling and perception, with one of Mr. Wordsworth's admired passages, that it will probably interest the reader to see it extracted.—“To-day, for the first time in my life, I have had a distinct sympathy with nature. I was lying on the top of a rock to leeward; the wind was high, and every thing in motion; the branches of an oak tree were waving and murmuring to the breeze; yellow clouds, deepened by gray at the base, were rapidly floating over the western hills; the whole sky was in motion; the yellow stream below was agitated by the breeze; everything was alive, and myself part of the series of visible impressions; I should have felt pain in tearing a leaf from one of the trees.” The poem entitled “Nutting” will occur to every reader of Wordsworth.

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