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Departing year ! 'twas on no earthly shore

For ever shattered, and the same for ever? My soul beheld thy vision! Where alone,

Who gave you your invulnerable life, Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? With many an unimaginable groan

And who commanded--and the silence cameThou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?

Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude, Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow glories shone.

Adown enormous ravines slope amainThen, his eye wild ardours glancing,

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, From the choirèd gods advancing,

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! The Spirit of the earth made reverence meet,

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts !
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers O Albion ! O my mother isle !

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,

‘God !' let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Glitter green with sunny showers;

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, ‘God!' Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

‘God!' sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Echo to the bleat of flocks

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, Proudly ramparted with rocks);

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 'God!' And Ocean, 'mid his uproar wild, Speaks safety to his island-child !

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Hence, for many a fearless age

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Has social Quiet loved thy shore !

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! Nor ever proud invader's rage

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. Ye signs and wonders of the element !

Utter forth ‘God,' and fill the hills with praise ! Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni.

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breastOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !

Thou too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou, The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!

In adoration, upward from thy base Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, How silently! Around thee and above,

Solemnly seemest like a vapoury cloud Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,

To rise before me-Rise, oh, ever rise ; An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it,

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! As with a wedge! But when I look again,

Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,

Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Thy habitation from eternity!

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, o dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer,
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ;

All are but ministers of love, Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transsused,

And feed his sacred flame. Into the mighty vision passing--there,

Oft in my waking dreams do I As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven !

Live o'er again that happy hour, Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise

When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruined tower.
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake,

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, awake!

Had blended with the lights of eve ; Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.

And she was there, my hope, my joy, Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale !

My own dear Genevieve ! Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night,

She leaned against the armed man, And visited all night by troops of stars,

The statue of the armed knight ; Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink !

She stood and listened to my lay
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,

Amid the lingering light.
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald ! wake, wake, and utter praise !

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?

My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

She loves me best whene'er I sing Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ?

The songs that make her grieve. And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad !

I played a soft and doleful air, Who called you forth from night and utter death,

I sang an old and moving storyFrom dark and icy caverns called you forth,

An old rude song that suited well Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,

That ruin wild and hoary.


She listened with a flitting blush,

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, With downcast eyes and modest grace ;

And partly 'twas a bashful art,
For well she knew I could not choose

That I might rather feel than see
But gaze upon her face.

The swelling of her heart.
I told her of the knight that wore

I calmed her fears; and she was calm, Upon his shield a burning brand;

And told her love with virgin pride ;
And that for ten long years he wooed

And so I won my Genevieve,
The lady of the land.

My bright and beauteous bride!
I told her how he pined ; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,

From · Frost at Midnight.
Interpreted my own.

Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
She listened with a flitting blush,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, With downcast eyes and modest grace ;

Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And she forgave me that I gazed

And momentary pauses of the thought !
Too fondly on her face.

My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart

With tender gladness thus to look at thee, But when I told the cruel scorn

And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, That crazed that bold and lovely knight,

And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,

In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
Nor rested day nor night;

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.

But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze That sometimes from the savage den,

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags And sometimes from the darksome shade,

Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, And sometimes starting up at once,

Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores In green and sunny glade,

And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible There came and looked him in the face

Of that eternal language which thy God An angel beautiful and bright;

Utters, who from eternity doth teach
And that he knew it was a fiend,

Himself in all, and all things in himself.
This miserable knight !

Great universal Teacher! he shall mould

Thy spirit, and, by giving, make it ask. And that, unknowing what he did,

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, He leaped amid a murderous band,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
And saved from outrage worse than death

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
The lady of the land ;

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch And how she wept and clasped his knees,

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the evedrops And how she tended him in vain

fall, And ever strove to expiate

Heard only in the trances of the blast,
The scorn that crazed his brain.

Or if the secret ministry of frost
And that she nursed him in a cave;

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
And how his madness went away,

Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay;

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education.
His dying words—but when I reached

O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

rule, My faltering voice and pausing harp

And sun thee in the light of happy faces ;
Disturbed her soul with pity!

Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,

And in thine own heart let them first keep school. All impulses of soul and sense

For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve-

Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

Do these upbear the little world below

Of education-Patience, Love, and Hope. And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show,

The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, An undistinguishable throng;

And robes that touching as adown they flow,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long !

Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.

O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie, She wept with pity and delight,

Love too will sink and die. She blushed with love and virgin shame;

But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
And like the murmur of a dream

From her own life that Hope is yet alive ;
I heard her breathe my name.

And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,

And the soft murmurs of the mother-dove, Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;

Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies; As conscious of my look she stept

Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.

Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length, She half inclosed me with her arms,

Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. She pressed me with a meek embrace,

Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
And bending back her head, looked up

Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And gazed upon my face.

And both supporting, does the work of both.



objects of the senses must stimulate the mind; and the Youth and Age.

mind must in turn assimilate and digest the food which

it thus receives from without. Method, therefore, must Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

result from the due mean or balance between our passWhere Hope clung feeding, like a bee-

ive impressions and the mind's reaction on them. So Both were mine! Life went a-maying

in the healthful state of the human body, waking and With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

sleeping, rest and labour, reciprocally succeed each other, When I was young!

and mutually contribute to liveliness, and activity, and When I was young? Ah, woful when!

strength. There are certain stores proper, and, as it Ab, for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

were, indigenous to the mind-such as the ideas of This breathing house not built with hands,

number and figure, and the logical forms and combinaThis body that does me grievous wrong,

tions of conception or thought. The mind that is rich O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,

and exuberant in this intellectual wealth is apt, like a How lightly then it flashed along :

miser, to dwell upon the vain contemplation of its Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, | riches, is disposed to generalise and methodise to excess, On winding lakes and rivers wide,

ever philosophising, and never descending to action; That ask no aid of sail or oar,

spreading its wings high in the air above some beloved That fear no spite of wind or tide!

spot, but never flying far and wide over earth and sea, Nought cared this body for wind or weather, to seek food, or to enjoy the endless beauties of nature ; When Youth and I lived in 't together.

the fresh morning, and the warm noon, and the dewy

On the other hand, still less is to be expected, Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like; towards the methodising of science, from the man who Friendship is a sheltering tree;

flutters about in blindness like the bat ; or is carried O the joys that came down shower-like,

hither and thither, like the turtle sleeping on the Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

wave, and fancying, because he moves, that he is in Ere I was old!

progress. Ere I was old ? Ah, woful Ere,

It is not solely in the formation of the human underWhich tells me, Youth's no longer here !

standing, and in the constructions of science and literaO Youth ! for years so many and sweet,

ture, that the employment of method is indispensably 'Tis known that thou and I were one ;

necessary; but its importance is equally felt, and equally I'll think it but a fond conceit

acknowledged, in the whole business and economy of It cannot be that thou art gone !

active and domestic life. From the cottager's hearth Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,

or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace or the And thou wert aye a masker bold !

arsenal, the first merit—that which admits neither What strange disguise hast now put on,

substitute nor equivalent-is, that everything is in its To make-believe that thou art gone?

place. Where this charm is wanting, every other merit I see these locks in silvery slips,

either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground This drooping gait, this altered size ;

of accusation and regret. Of one by whom it is But springtide blossoms on thy lips,

eminently possessed we say, proverbially, that he is And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!

like clock-work. The resemblance extends beyond the Life is but thought : so think I will

point of regularity, and yet falls far short of the truth. That Youth and I are housemates still.

Both do, indeed, at oncé divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time ; but the

man of methodical industry and honourable pursuits Dewdrops are the gems of morning,

does more ; he realises its ideal divisions, and gives But the tears of mournful eve!

a character and individuality to its moments. If the Where no hope is, life 's a warning

idle are described as killing time, he may be justly That only serves to make us grieve,

said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes When we are old :

it the distinct object not only of the consciousness, but That only serves to make us grieve

of the conscience. He organises the hours, and gives With oft and tedious taking leave ; Like some poor nigh-related guest,

them a soul ; and to that, the very essence of which is

to fleet and to have been, he communicates an imperishThat may not rudely be dismissed,

able and a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,

servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodAnd tells the jest without the smile.

ised, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than

that time lives in him. His days, months, and years, Among the day-dreams of Coleridge, as we as the stops and punctual marks in the records of have already mentioned, was the hope of produc-duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, ing a great philosophical work, which he conceived and remain extant when time itself shall be no more. would ultimately effect a revolution in what has been called philosophy or metaphysics in Eng

REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. land and France. The only completed philosophical attempt of the poet was a slight intro

The Rev. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850) duction to the Encyclopædia Metropolitana, a inspired" the genius of Coleridge. His first pub

enjoys the distinction of having 'delighted and preliminary treatise on Method, from which we lication was a small volume of sonnets published subjoin an extract.

in 1789, to which additions were made from time

to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a Importance of Method.

ninth edition. Various other poetical works proThe habit of method should always be present and ceeded from the pen of Mr Bowles: Coombe Ellen effective ; but in order to render it so, a certain train and St Michael's Mount, 1798; Battle of the Nile, ing or education of the mind is indispensably neces. 1799 ; Sorrows of Switzerland, 1801 ; Spirit of sary, Events and images, the lively and spirit-stirring Discovery, 1805 ; The Missionary of the Andes, machinery of the external world, are like light, and air, 1815 ; Days Departed, 1828 ; St John in Patmos, and moisture to the seed of the mind, which would else 1833 ; &c. None of these works can be said to rot and perish. In all processes of mental evolution the have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse. Mr Bowles had the true poetical feeling and im

Hope. agination, refined by classical taste and acquire

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, ments. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most

Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard, devoted admirers. A volume of Mr Bowles's

Heartless, the carol of the matin bird sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn young poet, converted him from some 'perilous

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; errors' to the love of a .style of poetry at once He the green slope and level meadow views, tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews; master in richness and luxuriance, though not in Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head, elegance or correctness. Mr Bowles, in 1806, In varying forms, fantastic wander white; edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being

Or turns his ear to every random song attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the

Heard the green river's winding marge along, Poets, led to a literary controversy, in which Lord

The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight : Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted

With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indis

steal. pensable part of the poetical character ; 'every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's

Bamborough Castle. variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of col

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, ouring, and claimed for the poet" (what Bowles

Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,

Though hurrying silent by, relentless time never could have denied) nature, moral as well as

Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind sweep. external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights

For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls, and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope

Here Charity has fixed her chosen seat; occupied a middle position, inclining to the artifi- Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat cial side of life. Mr Bowles was born at King's- With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; Sutton, Northamptonshire, and was educated first And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour at Winchester School, under Joseph Warton, and Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of And turns her ear to each expiring cry, which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton

Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his

And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave. death he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral. He is described by his neighbour,

South American Scenery.
Moore the poet, as a simple, amiable, absent-
minded scholar, poet, and musician.

Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,

Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead,

The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
To Time.

Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires. O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay

A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence-

Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense-
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away ;

Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks

Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks ; On thee I rest my only hope at last,

The chrysomel and purple butterfly, And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear

Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by ; That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers, I may look back on every sorrow past,

With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers; And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile

The woodpecker is heard with busy bill, As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

The mock-bird sings—and all beside is still. Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,

And look ! the cataract that bursts so high, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :

As not to mar the deep tranquillity, Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure

The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure !

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;

Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews, Winter Evening at Home.

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Fair Moon ! that at the chilly day's decline

Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon, Of sharp December, through my cottage pane

And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane ;

Here, its gay network and fantastic twine In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine,

The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey

And ost, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;

Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall

The sunshine darts its interrupted light, Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,

And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes, Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!

With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I

Sun-dial in a Churchyard.
I think around me in this twilight gloom,

So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade, I but remark mortality's sad doom;

Brief Time! and hour by hour, and day by day, Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft, appear

The pleasing pictures of the present fade, In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.

And like a summer vapour steal away.

And have not they, who here forgotten lie

most cherished and constant companions. In one Say, hoary chronicler of ages past

of his poems, he says: Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye, Nor thought it fled—how certain and how fast ?

My days among the dead are passed;

Around me I behold, Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast, Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath

The mighty minds of old : The pastor and his flock alike have slept,

My never failing friends are they, And ‘dust to dust' proclaimed the stride of death.

With whom I converse night and day. Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,

It is melancholy to reflect, that for nearly three Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile, As hope, and youth, and life were in our power ;

years preceding his death, Mr Southey sat among So smiling, and so perishing the while.

his books in hopeless vacuity of mind, the victim

of disease. This distinguished author was a I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound native of Bristol, the son of a respectable linen

When to these scenes a stranger I drew near- draper of the same name, and was born on the Proclaim the tidings of the village round,

12th of August 1774. He was indebted to a While memory wept upon the good man's bier.

maternal uncle for most of his education. In his Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells

fourteenth year he was placed at Westminster Ring merrily when my brief days are gone;

School, where he remained between three and While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,

four years, but having in conjunction with several And strangers gaze upon my humble stone !

of his school associates set on foot a periodical

entitled The Flagellant, in which a sarcastic Enough, if we may wait in calm content

article on corporal punishment appeared, the The hour that bears us to the silent sod;

head-master, Dr Vincent, commenced a prosecuBlameless improve the time that Heaven has lent,

tion against the publisher, and Southey was comAnd leave the issue to thy will, O God.

pelled to leave the school. This harsh exercise of

authority probably had considerable effect in BLANCO WHITE.

disgusting the young enthusiast with the instituIt is a singular circumstance in literary history, tions of his country. In November 1792 he was that what many consider the finest sonnet in the entered of Balliol College, Oxford. He had then English language should be one written by a distinguished himself by poetical productions, and Spaniard. The Rev. JOSEPH BLANCO White had formed literary plans enough for many years (1775-1841) was a native of Seville, son of an

or many lives. In political opinions he was a Irish Roman Catholic merchant settled in Spain. democrat; in religion, a Unitarian; consequently He was author of Letters from Spain by Don he could not take orders in the church, or look for Leucadoin Doblado (1822), Internal Evidence any official appointment. He fell in with Coleagainst Catholicism (1825), and other works both ridge, as already related, and joined in the plan of in English and Spanish. A very interesting

emigration. His academic career was abruptly memoir of this remarkable man, with portions of closed in 1794. The same year, he published a his correspondence, &c. was published by J. H. volume of poems in conjunction with Mr Robert Thom (London, 3 vols. 1845):

Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion.

About th same time he composed his drama of Sonnet on Night.

Wat Tyler, a revolutionary brochure, which was

long afterwards published surreptitiously by a Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew knavish bookseller to annoy its author. 'In my

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, youth,' he says, when my stock of knowledge Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,

consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and This glorious canopy of light and blue ? Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Roman history as is acquired in the course of Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

a scholastic education-when my heart was full of Hesperus with the host of heaven came :

poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside And lo! Creation widened in man's view !

were at my tongue's end-I fell into the political Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed opinions which the French revolution was then

Within thy beams, Sun? or who could find, scattering throughout Europe ; and following Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed, those opinions with ardour wherever they led, I

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife ? evil compared to the inequalities of property, and Il Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? those more fearful distinctions which the want of

moral and intellectual culture occasions between ROBERT SOUTHEY.

man and man. At that time, and with those

opinions, or rather feelings (for their root was in One of the most voluminous and learned the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote authors of this period was ROBERT SOUTHEY, Wat Tyler, as one who was impatient of all the LL.D., the poet-laureate. A poet, scholar, anti- oppressions that are done under the sun. The quary, critic, and historian, Southey wrote subject was injudiciously chosen, and it was more than even Scott, and he is said to have treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty burned more verses between his twentieth and in such times, who regarded only one side of the thirtieth year than he published during his whole question. The poem, indeed, is a miserable prolife

. His time was entirely devoted to literature. duction, and was harmless from its very inanity. Every day and hour had its appropriate and select Full of the same political sentiments and ardour, task; his library was his world within which he Southey, in 1793, had composed his Joan of Arc, was content to range, and his books were his an epic poem, displaying fertility of language and

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