him; and accordingly arrives in the next scene to still the tossing of his wounded spirit, with her meek eyes and enchanting voice. He recognizes her almost immediately, and regains his perfect recollection; and she says Thy face Is all at once spread over with a calm More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy! p. 147, 148. She then clasps him in her arms; and he says Thy soft white spotless bosom, like the plumes At breathless midnight. A sweet mild voice is echoing far away When all the stars of heaven are on its breast. Magd. We go to sleep, and shall awake with God. One of those hymns you sang long, long ago On Sabbath evenings! Sob not so, my Magdalene. p. 149. We pity the reader who does not feel the beauty and the pathos of those simple expressions. He dies in that pure embrace: and she remains entranced upon his bosom. The Priest says See her breath just moves The ringlets on his cheek!-How lovingly In her last sleep these white and gentle hands Lie on his neck and breast!-Her soul is parting!' p. 151. She does not die there, however; but is present at his funeral in the concluding scene. She faints at the edge of his grave, and is thus commiserated by the by-standers. That one small grave-that one dead mariner That dying Lady-and those wond'rous friends So calm, so lofty, yet compassionate Do strike a deeper awe into our souls, A deeper human grief than yon wide pit. Another Voice. Woe and death Have made that Angel bright their prey at last! Becalm a shrieking room with one sweet smile! And childhood murmur forth her holy name Another Voice. Her soft hand clos'd My children's eyes,-and when she turn'd to go, So sank into my heart, that I beheld She dies at length in blissful resignation, and the scene closes with prayers and benedictions. We have dwelt so long upon this leading part of the volume before us, that we can afford to give but a short account of the rest. There is another dramatic fragment, entitledThe Convict,' which we think has extraordinary merit.The subject is the conviction and deliverance, at the place of execution, of an innocent country man, upon whom accidental circumstances had fastened irresistible suspicions of murder. The topics may seem low and ignoble, but the interest excited is prodigious, and of a true tragic character,-while the piety of the unhappy victim, the innocent simplicity of his wife and children, and the rustic images belonging to his condition, serve to redeem the horror of the main incidents, and lend a certain elegance and dignity to what might otherwise appear but a dreadful or an edifying story. The great merit of the piece, however, consists in the fine dissection and leisurely display of all the terrible emotions that belong to such an occurrence, and in forcing the reader to contemplate it steadily and fixedly, till all the powerful emotions with which it is pregnant are developed, and find their way to the heart. We have not room now to give any considerable specimens of the way in. which this is executed. But we must add a part of the last One compassionate and distant spectator observes, scene. I see the hill-side all alive, On one poor single solitary wretch, Who views not in the darkness of his trouble One human face among the many thousands All staring towards the scaffold! Some are there Have in his very cottage been partakers Within the House of God. May God forgive them!' p. 283. The whole process of dreadful preparation, with its effect on the sympathizing crowd, is then described with admirable force of colouring. When all is about to be concluded, the true murderer is accidentally discovered, and dragged to the foot of the scaffold, amidst shouts to stop the execution; at this instant the prisoner's wife, followed by her children, bursts through the crowd, and exclaims, 'Come down-come down-my husband! from the scaffold. -O Christ! art thou alive-or dead with fear! Let me leap up with one bound to his side, And strain him to my bosom till our souls Are mix'd like rushing waters. Dost hear thy Alice? Come down from the scaffold, With me, thy wife, in everlasting joy! [She tries to move forward, but falls down in a fainting fit.] One of the crowd. See-see his little daughter! how she tears The covering from his eyes-unbinds the halter Leaps up to his bosom-and with sobs is kissing His pale fix'd face. "I am thy daughter-Father!" Nor sees-nor feels-nor hears—his soul seems gone [The PRISONER is led down from the scaffold, with his daughter Prisoner. Must this wild dream be all dreamt o'er again! Who put this little Child into my arms? My wife Lying dead!-Thy judgments, Heaven! are terrible. The Clergyman. Look up-this world is shining out once more In welcome to thy soul recalled from death. The murderer is discovered. [The prisoner falls on his knees, and his wife, who has recovered, goes and kneels by his side.] Clergyman. Crowd not so round them-let the glad fresh air Enter into their souls. Prisoner. Alice! one word! Let me hear thy voice assuring me of life. Ah me! that soft cheek brings me by its touch -Gasping with gratitude! she cannot speak. Wife. I never shall smile more-but all my days An everlasting hymn within my soul To the great God of Mercy! Prisoner (starting up). O thou bright angel with that golden hair, Scattering thy smiles like sunshine through the light, Art thou my own sweet Daughter! Come, my Child, Come with those big tears sparkling on thy cheeks, -That laugh hath fill'd the silent world with joy!' p. 287-89. The two most considerable of the other poems are • The Children's Dance,' and The Scholar's Funeral, both written with very considerable elegance, and full of the author's characteristic sweetness and tenderness. The first is not the celebration of a city ball, but of the annual assembly of the infant rustics around Grassmere and its romantic neighbourhood, who meet in a little lowly room, garnished with holly boughs and Christmas roses, to exhibit before their delighted parents their proficiency in the arts taught by the old village dancing-master, the judicious instructor of more than one generation. It begins, • How calm and beautiful the frosty Night Has stol'n unnotic'd like the hush of sleep O'er Grassmere vale! Beneath the mellowing light, Than danc'd, at peep of morn, mine own dear mountain- Oft in her own small mirror had the gleam, Who kiss'd her cherub-head with tears of silent pride. ' p. 172, 173. The description of the whole scene is equally beautiful and touching; but we can afford room for no more than the breaking up and retiring of the party. • But now the lights are waxing dim and pale, Night's peerless Queen the realms of heaven doth fill p. 185. And many a wearied infant hangs her head, Silent walks homeward through the hour of rest— Whose ringlets like the glittering dew-wire move, p. 186, 187. The scene of the Scholar's Funeral' is at Oxford; and it commemorates the untimely death of a glorious youth, who sickened and died while pursuing his studies at that seat of learning. It is written throughout with singular elegance and beauty; and has an air of sad reality about it, that assures us of its being drawn from nature. But we can afford no more extracts-and must here close our notice of this interesting volume. We take our leave of it with unfeigned regret, and very sincere admiration of the author's talents. He has undoubtedly both the heart and the fancy of a poet; and, with these great requisites, is almost sure of attaining the higher honours of his art, if he continue to cultivate it with the docility and diligence of which he has already given proof. Though his |