How softly, in the pauses Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide! With evil deeds of evil men The affrighted land is ringing; But still, O Lord! the pious heart And soul-toned voice are singing! Hush! hush! the preacher preachet 1: "Wo to the oppressor, wo!" But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun And sadden'd flowers below; So frowns the Lord!-but, tyrants, ye And see not in the gather'd brow Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher! On useful hands, and honest hearts, The base their wrath are wreaking; But, thank'd be God! they can't prevent The storm of heaven from speaking. RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING. No name hast thou! lone streamlet That lovest Rivilin. Here, if a bard may christen thee, I'll call thee Ribbledin;" Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, And down the rock, like music, flows Here, while beneath the umbrage Of Nature's forest bower, Bridged o'er by many a fallen birch, Beheld thy streamlet flow: See how he bends him down to hear Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems, Wildest and lonest streamlet! Would that I were a river, Through some sweet Eden of the wild, In music of my own; And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew Or that I were the lichen, That, in this roofless cave, For all the sad and lovely things, Oh that I were a primrose, To bask in sunny air! Far, far from all the plagues that make Then would I watch the building-birds, Or that I were a skylark To soar and sing above, And o'er the good man dying, My song should come like buds and flowers When music warbles flying. Oh, that a wing of splendour, Like yon wild cloud, were mine! Yon bounteous cloud, that gets to give, On that bright wing, to climes of spring And bid hope smile on weeping thoughts, Or like the rainbow, laughing O'er Rivilin and Don, When misty morning calleth up Her mountains, one by one, While glistening down the golden broom, The little wave complaineth. Oh, that the truth of beauty Were married to my rhyme! And down the rocks all wildly flows THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The stormy gloom is roll'd; His purple, green, and gold. Complains that Sol is slow O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, Its beauteous nest to make. Where verdure fires the plain, For, oh, I love these banks of rock, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world not scorn'd by Him who made Thy glorious thoughts are read; Which insects understand! Thy bright small hand is here. What tilings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from heaven in madness flings Do not hear his thunder roll- Tis mute as death!—but in my soul What pigmy oaks their foliage toss With shade o'er shade, from ledge to edge, Thy feather o'er the steepest edge On these gray stones unseen may dwell; I feel no shock, I hear no groan, May crawl some atom cliffs to sɛe- Lo! while he pauses, and admires The works of Nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night! O God of terrors! what are we? Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee Could smite us into nought! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, Safe in the hollow of thine hand HYMN. NURSE of the Pilgrim sires, who sought, For fearless truth and honest thought, Who would not be of them or thee Cradle of Shakspeare, Milton, Knox And shall thy children forge base chains No! by thy Elliots, Hampdens, Vanes, No!-for the blood which kings have gorged Hath made their victims wise, While every lie that fraud hath forged Veils wisdom from his eyes: But time shall change the despot's mood: If round the soul the chains are bound For freedom if thy Hampden fought; Then, Father, will the nations all, Sing words of joy, like these:- THOMAS. THOU art not dead, my son! my son! While lives the sire who loved thee. That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended? The strength with which thy soul sustain'd Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure And that last smile, which seem'd to say Why cannot ye restore me?" Thy look'd farewell is in my heart, And brings thee still before me. What though the change, the fearful change, By awed remembrance cherish'd; The pale rose of thy faded face Still withers in my bosom. O Mystery of Mysteries, That took'st my poor boy from me! What art thou, Death? all-dreaded Death' If weakness can o'ercome thee? We hear thee not! we see thee not, E'en when thy arrows wound re Thy steps are ever round us. On which the seraph gazes, Where burns the throne of Him, whose came The sunbeams here write faintly; And where my child a stranger stands Amid the blest and saintly, And sobs aloud-while in his eyes The tears, o'erflowing, gather They come not yet!-until they come, Heaven is not Heaven, my father! Why come they not? why comes not she From whom thy will removes me? Oh, does she love me-love me still? I know my mother loves me! Then send her soon! and with her send The brethren of my bosom! My sisters too! Lord, let them all Bloom round the parted blossom! The only pang I could not hear Was leaving them behind me: I cannot bear it. Even in heaven SLEEP. SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home; Thy weakness is unmeasured might: The will and power are given to thee- The curtain of eternity- THE PILGRIM FATHERS. A VOICE of grief and anger Of pity mix'd with scornMoans o'er the waters of the west, Through fire and darkness borne; A wild triumphant yell! The voice of men who left their homes To make their children free; Of men whose hearts were torches For freedom's quenchless fire; Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth They speak!—the Pilgrim Fathers For earth hath mutter'd to their bones Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane !" I think, I feel-but when will she A voice of comfort answers me, That God does nought in vain: He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave; And will he waste the hope which grief Hath planted in the grave? CORN LAW HYMN. LORD! call thy pallid angel- Up sluggard! why so slow?" The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse, No; wake not thou the giant Who drinks hot blood for wine; While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men! A GHOST AT NOON. THE day was dark, save when the beam In gloom I sate, as in a dream, While there I sat, and named her name, I started from the seat in fear; The scat, the tree, where oft, in tears, She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown Her joys cut off in early years, Like gather'd flowers half-blown. And e'en the rose, which she had set, The thrush proclaim'd, in accents sweet, FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. FLOWERS! winter flowers!-the child is des Oh softly couch his little head, Place this wan lock of mine. Look, mother, on thy little one! And tears will fill thine eyes. Go, search the fields! the lichen wet Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower, A daisy Ah! bring childhood's flower! Beside the little check; Oh haste! the last of five is dead! REGINALD HEBER. (Born 1783-Died 1826). THIS eminent prelate and accomplished scholar was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the twenty-first of April, 1783, and in his seventeenth year was sent to Brazen Nose College, Oxford. While here he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and greatly distinguished himself by a poem in English entitled Palestine. Unlike the mass of undergraduate prize poems, Palestine attained at once a high reputation which promises to be permanent. On receiving his bachelor's degree, Mr. HEBER travelled in Germany, Russia, and the Crimea, and wrote notes and observations, from which many curious passages are given in the well-known journals of Dr. EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE. On his return, he published Europe, a Poem, and was elected to a fellowship in All Soul's College. He was soon after presented with a living in Shropshire, and for several years devoted himself with great assiduity to his profession. He however found time, while discharging his parochial duties, to make some admirable translations from Pindar, and to write many of his beautiful hymns and other brief poems, a volume of which was published in 1812. Three years afterward, he was appointed to deliver the Bampton Lectures, and fulfilled the duty in so able a manner as to add greatly to his literary reputation. In 1822 he was elected to the important office of preacher of Lincoln's Inn; in the same year appeared his edition of the works of JEREMY TAYLOR, with notes and an elaborate memoir; and in 1823 he embarked for the East Indies, having accepted the appointment to the bishopric of the see of Calcutta, made vacant by the death of Dr. Middleton. He held his first visitation in the Cathedral of the capital of Hindostan, on Ascension day, 1824, and from that time devoted himself with great earnestness and untiring industry to missionary labours. He left Calcutta to visit the different presidencies of his extensive iocese, and while at Trichinopoli, on the second of April, 1826, was seized with an apoplectic fit, which on the following day ter minated his life, in the "orty-third year of his age. He was a man of the most elevated character, whose histor was itself a poem of stateliest and purest tone, and most perfect harmony. In the church he was like MaLANCTHON, the healer of bruised hearts, the reconciler of all differences, the most enthusiastic yet the most placid of all the teachers of religion. In society he was a universal favourite, from his varied knowledge, his remarkable colloquial powers, and his unva rying kindness. India never lost more in a single individual than when HEBER died. The lyrical writings of HEBER possess great and peculiar merits. He is the only Englishman who has in any degree approached the tone of PINDAR, his translations from whom may be regarded as nearly faultless; and his hymns are among the sweetest which English literature contains, breathing a fervent devotion in the most poetical language and most melodious verse. I doubt whether there is a religious lyric so universally known in the British empire or in our own country, as the beautiful missionary piece beginning "From Greenland's icy mountains." The fragments of Morte d'Arthur, the Mask of Gwendolen, and the World before the Flood, are not equal to his Palestine, Europe, or minor poems; but they contain elegant and powerful passages. The only thing unworthy of his reputation which I have seen is Blue Beard, a seriocomic oriental romance, which I believe was first published after his death. The widow of Bishop HEBER, a daughter of Dean Shipley, of St. Asaph, and a woman whose gentleness, taste, and learning made her a fit associate for a man of genius, has published his Life, and his Narrative of a Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay, each in two volumes quarto. A complete edition of his Poetical Works has been issued in this coun. try in good style, and his Memoirs, Travels, Sermons, and other prose writings, have also been reprinted. They possess considerable interest. |