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Where is the vessel? Shining through the light,
Like the white sea-fowl's horizontal flight,
Yonder she wings, and skims, and cleaves her way
Through refluent foam and iridescent spray.

The stars, in their nocturnal vigils, rest
Like signal-fires on its illumined crest;
The gliding moon around the ramparts wheels,
And all its magic lights and shades reveals ;
Beneath, the tide with equal fury raves,
To undermine it through a thousand caves ;
Rent from its roof, though thundering fragments oft
Plunge to the gulf, immovable aloft,
From age to age, in air, o'er sea, on land,
Its turrets heighten and its piers expand.

Hark! through the calm and silence of the scene,
Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between,
Celestial music swells along the air!
No ! 'tis the evening-hymn of praise and prayer
From yonder deck, where, on the stern retired,
Three humble voyagers, with looks inspired,
And hearts enkindled with a holier flame
Than ever lit to empire or to fame,
Devoutly stand : their choral accents rise
On wings of harmony beyond the skies ;
And, ʼmidst the songs that seraph-minstrels sing,
Day without night, to their immortal king,
These simple strains, which erst Bohemian hills
Echoed to pathless woods and desert rills,
Now heard from Shetland's azure bound-are known
In heaven ; and He who sits upon the throne
In human form, with mediatorial power,
Remembers Calvary, and hails the hour
When, by the Almighty Father's high decree,
The utmost north to him shall bow the knee,
And, won by love, an untamed rebel-race
Kiss the victorious sceptre of his grace.
Then to his eye, whose instant glance pervades
Heaven's heights, earth's circle, hell's profoundest

Is there a group more lovely than those three
Night-watching pilgrims on the lonely sea ?
Or to his ear, that gathers, in one sound,
The voices of adoring worlds around,
Comes there a breath of more delightful praise
Than the faint notes his poor disciples raise,
Ere on the treacherous main they sink to rest,
Secure as leaning on their Master's breast ?

They sleep; but memory wakes; and dreams array
Night in a lively masquerade of day;
The land they seek, the land they leave behind,
Meet on mid-ocean in the plastic mind;
One brings forsaken home and friends so nigh,
That tears in slumber swell the unconscious eye :
The other opens, with prophetic view,
Perils which e'en their fathers never knew
(Though schooled by suffering, long inured to toil,
Outcasts and exiles from their natal soil);
Strange scenes, strange men; untold, untried distress;
Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness,
Diseases; death in every hideous form,
On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm;
Wild beasts, and wilder men—unmoved with fear,
Health, comfort, safety, life, they count not dear,
May they but hope a Saviour's love to shew,
And warn one spirit from eternal woe:
Nor will they saint, nor can they strive in vain,
Since thus to live is Christ, to die is gain.

Night. Night is the time for rest ;

How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightsul bed ! Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of lise,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strise ;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !
Night is the time for toil ;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep

The joys of other years ;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young like things on earth!
Night is the time to watch ;

Ön ocean's dark expanse
To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.
Night is the time to think ;

Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and on the utmost brink

Of yonder starry pole,
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do ;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.
Night is the time for death ;

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease : Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends—such death be mine !

The Pelican Island. Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, Keel-upward from the deep emerged a shell, Shaped like the moon ere half her horn is filled ; Fraught with young lise, it righted as it rose,

'Tis morn : the bathing moon her lustre shrouds ; Wide o'er the east impends an arch of clouds That spans the ocean; while the infant dawn Peeps through the portal o'er the liquid lawn, That ruffled by an April gale appears, Between the gloom and splendour of the spheres, Dark-purple as the moorland heath, when rain Hangs in low vapours over the autumnal plain : Till the full sun, resurgent from the flood, Looks on the waves, and turns them into blood; But quickly kindling, as his beams aspire, The lambent billows play in forms of fire.

1 The first Christian missionaries to Greenland.

From din, and pageantry, and strife,

'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life,

Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,
No fountain scattering diamond-showers,
But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.

And moved at will along the yielding water.
The native pilot of this little bark
Put out a tier of oars on either side,
Spread to the wasting breeze a twofold sail,
And mounted up and glided down the billow
In happy freedom, pleased to feel the air,
And wander in the luxury of light.
Worth all the dead creation, in that hour,
To me appeared this lonely Nautilus,
My fellow-being, like myself alive.
Entranced in contemplation, vague yet sweet,
I watched its vagrant course and rippling wake,
Till I forgot the sun amidst the heavens.

It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing ;
While the last bubble crowned the dimpling eddy,
Through which mine eye still giddily pursued it,
A joyous creature vaulted through the air--
The aspiring fish that fain would be a bird,
On long, light wings, that flung a diamond-shower
Of dew-drops round its evanescent form,
Sprang into light, and instantly descended.
Ere I could greet the stranger as a friend,
Or mourn his quick departure, on the surge
A shoal of dolphins, tumbling in wild glee,
Glowed with such orient tints, they might have been
The rainbow's offspring, when it met the ocean
In that resplendent vision I had seen.
While yet in ecstasy I hung o'er these,
With every motion pouring out fresh beauties,
As though the conscious colours came and went
At pleasure, glorying in their subtle changes,
Enormous o'er the flood, Leviathan
Looked forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent
Two fountains to the sky, then plunged amain
In headlong pastime through the closing gulf.

Aspirations of Youth. Higher, higher, will we climb,

Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time

In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls ! Deeper, deeper, let us toil

In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil,

Win from school and college ; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems. Onward, onward, will we press

Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty. Minds are of supernal birth, Let us make a heaven of earth. Closer, closer, then we knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather ;
Oh, they wander wide who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.
Nearer, dearer bands of love

Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,

To the saints' communion ; Thither every hope ascend, There may all our labours end.

The Recluse.
A fountain issuing into light

Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,

Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glid away a nameless brook.
Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,

Flies o'er its eddying surface played,
Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,

Flocks through the verdant meadows strayed ; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest. 'Twas beautisul to stand and watch

The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
And from the sky such colours catch

As if 'twere raining diadems;
Yet all was cold and curious art,
That charmed the eye, but missed the heart
Dearer to me the little stream

Whose unimprisoned waters run,
Wild as the changes of a dream,

By rock and glen, through shade and sun;
Its lovely links had power to bind
In welcome chains my wandering mind.
So thought I when I saw the face

By happy portraiture revealed,
Or one adorned with every grace,

Her name and date from me concealed,
But not her story ; she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.
She cast her glory round a court,

And frolicked in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport

Like sparkling fireflies on the wing;
But thence, when love had touched her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.

The Common Lot. Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man : and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth,

This truth survives alone :
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe--a smile, a tear !

Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirits' rise and sall;
We know that these were felt by him,

For these are felt by all.
He suffered—but his pangs are o'er ;

Enjoyed—but his delights are fled ;
Had friends--his friends are now no more ;

And foes-his foes are dead.
He loved—but whom he loved the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb :
Oh, she was fair! but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen ;

Encountered all that troubles thee :
He was—whatever thou hast been ;
He is—what thou shalt be.


The rolling seasons, day and night,

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ! Erewhile his portion, life, and light,

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
To bim exist in vain.

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ;

Around her knees domestic duties meet,
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
That once their shades and glory threw,

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Have left in yonder silent sky

Art thou a man ?-a patriot ?-look around ;
No vestige where they flew.

Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,

That land thy country, and that spot thy home! The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace

THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. Than this—there lived a man !


1834) published occasional poems of that descripPrayer.

tion named vers de société, whose highest object is Prayer is the soul's sincere desire

to gild the social hour. They were exaggerated in Uttered or unexpressed ;

compliment and adulation, and wittily parodied The motion of a hidden fire

in the Rejected Addresses. As a companion, Mr That trembles in the breast.

Spencer was much prized by the brilliant circles

of the metropolis ; but, if we may credit an anecPrayer is the burden of a sigh,

dote told by Rogers, he must have been heartless The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye,

and artificiál. Moore wished that Spencer should When none but God is near.

bail him when he was in custody after the affair of

the duel with Jeffrey. 'Spencer did not seem much Prayer is the simplest form of speech

inclined to do so, remarking that he could not well That infant lips can try ;

go out, for it was already twelve o'clock, and he Prayer the sublimest strains that reach

had to be dressed by four. Spencer, falling into The Majesty on high.

pecuniary difficulties, removed to Paris, where he Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,

died. His poems were collected and published in The Christian's native air ;

1835. MrSpencer translated the Leonora of Bürger His watchword at the gates of death :

with great success, and in a vein of similar excelHe enters heaven by prayer.

lence composed some original ballads, one of Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice

which, marked by simplicity and pathos, we Returning from his ways ;

subjoin : While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, 'Behold, he prays!'

Beth Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound.
The saints in prayer appear as one

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
In word, and deed, and mind,

And cheerily smiled the morn ;
When with the Father and his Son

And many a brach, and many a hound,
Their fellowship they find.

Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone :

And still he blew a louder blast,
The Holy Spirit pleads ;

And gave a lustier cheer :
And Jesus, on the eternal throne,

Come, Gelert, come, wert never last
For sinners intercedes.

Llewelyn's horn to hear.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,

Oh, where doth faithful Gêlert roam,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,

The flower of all his race;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :

So true, so brave-a lamb at home,
Lord, teach us how to pray !

A lion in the chase?'

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board Home,

The faithful Gêlert fed ; There is a land, of every land the pride,

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,

And sentinelled his bed.
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,

In sooth he was a peerless hound,
And milder moons emparadise the night;

The gift of royal John; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,

But now no Gêlert could be found,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.

And all the chase rode on.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

The gallant chidings rise, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ;

All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
In every clime the magnet of his soul,

The many-mingled cries !
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,

That day Llewelyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare ; The heritage of nature's noblest race,

And scant and small the booty proved,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,

For Gelert was not there.
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied,
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,

When, near the portal seat, While in his softened looks benignly blend

His truant Gelert he espied, The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Bounding his lord to greet. 150



Too late I stayed-forgive the crime;

Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time,

That only treads on flowers !
What eye with clear account remarks

The ebbing of the glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass !
Oh, who to sober measurement

Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent

Their plumage for his wings !

But, when he gained his castle-door,

Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound all o'er was smeared with gore ;

His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise ;

Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite checked his joyful guise,

And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed,

And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,

With blood stained covert rent ;
And all around, the walls and ground

With recent blood besprent.
He called his child—no voice replied-

He searched with terror wild ;
Blood, blood he found on every side,

But nowhere found his child. 'Hell-hound ! my child's by thee devoured,'

The frantic father cried ;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gêlert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,

No pity could impart ;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell

Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell

To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap

His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,

But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,

Tremendous still in death.

When midnight o'er the moonless skies

Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,

And nought is wakeful but the dead :
No bloodless shape my way pursues,

No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ;
Visions more sad my fancy views,

Visions of long-departed joys !
The shade of youthful hope is there,

That lingered long, and latest died ;
Ambition all dissolved to air,

With phantom honours by his side.
What empty shadows glimmer nigh?

They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love !
Oh, die to thought, to memory die,

Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! These last two verses, Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes in his diary, terming them “fine lines,' and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!

For now the truth was clear ;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain

To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe;

‘Best of thy kind, adieu ! The frantic blow which laid thee low

This heart shall ever rue.'

HENRY LUTTRELL, Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770-1851), author of Advice to Julia : a Letter in Rhyme, 1820, and Crockford House, 1827. Mr Luttrelí was a favourite in the circle of Holland House : 'none of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, 'can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does. The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree :

On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings,

The tree will return her as good as she brings. Luttrell sat in the Irish parliament before the Union. He is said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton. The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia :

And now a gallant tomb they raise,

With costly sculpture decked ;
And marbles storied with his praise

Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
There, never could the spearman pass,

Or forester unmoved ;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,

And there, as evening sell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,

And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold

The name of Gelert's Grave.'

London in Autumn. 'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat Full on the scorching pavement beat. As o'er it the faint breeze, by fits Alternate, blows and intermits.

For short-lived green, a russet brown

author turned to the study of our mediæval archiStains every withering shrub in town.

tecture. His Architectural Tour in Normandy, and Darkening the air, in clouds arise

Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time Th’Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;

of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century—the latter At rest, in motion-forced to roam

a splendidly illustrated work—are valuable addiAbroad, or to remain at home,

tions to this branch of our historical literature.
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions— Be ye hot !'
Day is intolerable-Night

As close and suffocating quite ;
And still the mercury mounts higher,

Several other minor poets of considerable merit
Till London seems again on fire.

at the beginning of this period, were read and

admired by poetical students and critics, who have The November Fog of London.

affectionately preserved their names, though the

works they praised are now forgotten. DR FRANK First, at the dawn of lingering day,

SAYERS of Norwich (1763-1817) has been speIt rises of an ashy gray ;

cially commemorated by Southey, though even Then deepening with a sordid stain

in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was Of yellow, like a lion's mane.

'out of date.' The works of this amiable physiVapour importunate and dense, It wars at once with every sense.

cian consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient The ears escape not. All around

Northern Mythology, 1790 ; Disquisitions, MetaReturns a dull unwonted sound.

physical and Literary, 1793; Nuge Poetica, 1803; Loath to stand still, afraid to stir,

Miscellanies, 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were The chilled and puzzled passenger,

collected and republished, with an account of his Oft blundering from the pavement, fails life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823. To feel his way along the rails;

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very Or at the crossings, in the roll

early in life introduced to public notice by Dr Of every carriage dreads the pole.

Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun,

and Elfrida (1782). She went to reside in France, Blots from the face of heaven the sun.

imbibed republican opinions, and was near sufferBut soon a thicker, darker cloak

ing with the Girondists during the tyranny of Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke, Which steam-compelling trade disgorges

Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both From all her furnaces and forges

in prose and verse, author of Letters from France, In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise,

Travels in Switzerland, Narrative of Events in Descends rejected from the skies ;

France, Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Till struggling day, extinguished quite, Observations, &c. In 1823 she collected and reAt noon gives place to candle-light.

published her poems. To one of the pieces in O Chemistry, attractive maid,

this edition she subjoins the following note : 'I Descend, in pity, to our aid :

commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a Come with thy all-pervading gases,

predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses,

reason : it is that of Mr Wordsworth, who lately Thy fearsul energies and wonders,

honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders; Let Carbon in thy train be seen,

repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of Dark Azote and fair Oxygen,

many years.'
And Wollaston and Davy guide
The car that bears thee, at thy side.

Sonnet to Hope.
If any power can, any how,

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love!
Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou ;

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
And see, to aid thee, in the blow,

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The bill of Michael Angelo ;

The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Oh join-s
-success a thing of course is-

Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear ;
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces ;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
Make all chimneys chew the cud

That Fancy's radiance, Friendship’s precious tear, Like hungry cows, as chimneys should !

Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
And since 'tis only smoke we draw

But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Within our lungs at common law,

Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye,
Into their thirsty tubes be sent

Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer ! on my way Fresh air, by act of parliament.

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die ;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,

That asks not happiness, but longs for rest !
Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure

LEIGH HUNT. of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1786-1846). JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayThe first of these, Nderim, a Syrian Tale, was ist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, a Grecian Tale, and Alashtar, an Arabian Tale, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian ; 1817. Mr Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the Hannibal in Bithynia. Though evincing poeti- American war, he espoused the British interest cal taste and correctness in the delineation of with so much warmth, that he had to leave the Eastern manners-for Mr Knight had travelled- new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He these poems failed in exciting attention; and their took orders in the Church of England, and was

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