Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Of monstrous crime!-that horror-striking blade, Shudder'd the walls,-the marble city wept,And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; But in calm peace the appointed victim slept, As he had fallen, in magnanimity: Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just To his own native greatness, to desire That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Released from life and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his fate,"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. WHO is the happy warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? -It is the generous spirit who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doom'd to go in company with pain, And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives; By objects, which might force her soul to abate Her feeling, render'd more compassionate; Is placable-because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, Who comprehends his trust, and to the same A constant influence, a peculiar grace; With sudden brightness, like a man inspired; Come when it will, is equal to the need: Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:- Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth THE POWER OF VIRTUE. And the arts died by which they had been raised. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. "The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and spring, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow come and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare: Are beautiful and fair; That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, To me alone there came a thought of grief; And I again am strong; The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other made; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss-I feel-I feel it all. In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, A single field which I have looked upon, gone: Whither is fled the visionary gleam! Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: And cometh from afar; But trailing clouds of glory do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The youth, who daily farther from the east At length the man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses,A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art: A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, The little actor cons another part,- Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest. Broods like the day,-a master o'er a slave, O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise, But for those obstinate questionings High instincts, before which our mortal nature Those shadowy recollections, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song! We in thought will join your throng; Ye that pipe, and ye that play, What though the radiance which was once so bright Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Which, having been, must ever be; How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, The boat her silent course pursues! Such views the youthful bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? Glide gently thus, for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow, As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Who, murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress Collins's Ode on the Death of THOMSON, the last written of the poems which were published during his lifetime. SCORN NOT THE SONNET. SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlock'd his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from faery land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas, too few. GREAT MEN. [bend GREAT men have been among us; hands that penn'd MILTON. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour; TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ;O miserable chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow, Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! A NATION'S POWER NOT IN ARMIES. That power, that spirit, whether on the wing A VISION. In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud CHILDHOOD. AIR sleeps from strife or stir the clouds are free; The gentleness of heaven brood's o'er the sea: ELEGIAC STANZAS.* LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells, The sky was blue, the air was mild; Free were the streams and green the bowers; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had ever shown A countenance that as sweetly smiled— And we were gay, our hearts at ease; If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days-but hush-no more! Oh Goddard! what art thou?-a name- The lamented youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a Swiss tour, when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling-companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Küsnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves. + Mount Righi-Regina Montium. Nor more, for aught that time supplies, We met, while festive mirth ran wild, We parted upon solemn ground Fetch, sympathizing powers of air, Beloved by every gentle muse, Though lodged within no vigorous frame, Not vain is sadly uttered praise; Lamented youth! to thy cold clay And, when thy mother weeps for thee, The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted mother felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her daughter, who visited Europe some years af terwards.-Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg. |