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And timid hares were drawn from woods

To share his home-caresses, Uplooking in his human eyes,

With sylvan tendernesses.

But while in darkness he remained,

Unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without
The sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth,
Though frenzy desolated--
Nor man nor nature satisfy
Whom only God created.

MARY HOWITT.

nated,' she says, 'in a strong impression of the inmense value of the human soul, and of all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part-in a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my

motto.

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, This lady, the wife of William Howitt, an indus- but without sufficient grounds for their palliation trious miscellaneous writer, is distinguished for and commiseration. It is necessary, for the acquisiher happy imitations of the ancient ballad manner. tion of that charity which is the soul of Christianity, In 1823 she and her husband published a volume of for us to descend into the depths of our own nature; poems with their united names, and made the fol- to put ourselves into many imaginary and untried lowing statement in the preface: The history situations, that we may enable ourselves to form of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in some tolerable notion how we might be affected by reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been them; how far we might be tempted-how far deour youthful amusement, and our increasing daily ceived--how far we might have occasion to lament enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful the evil power of circumstances, to weep over our hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of own weakness, and pray for the pardon of our our national literature, we have revelled with grow-crimes; that, having raised up this vivid perception ing and unsatiated delight; and, at the same time, of what we might do, suffer, and become, we may living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we apply the rule to our fellows, and cease to be astohave watched the changing features of nature; we nished, in some degree, at the shapes of atrocity into have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unos- which some of them are transformed; and learn to tentatious images which she is perpetually present bear with others as brethren, who have been tried ing, and given full scope to those workings of the tenfold beyond our own experience, or perhaps our imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty strength.' and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and

scenes.'

A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in

concert :

Away with the pleasure that is not partaken!
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en:

I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken

On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes

On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes, To see my delight is partaken by thee!

And when, as how often, I eagerly listen

To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day,
How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten,

And feel that affection has sweetened the lay.
Yes, love-and when wandering at even or morning,
Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white,
I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning,
Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight.
And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth,
And we fain would express what there might not
be said,

How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth,
And how sweet is the thought that is secretly

read!

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Mrs Howitt has since presented several volumes in both prose and verse, chiefly designed for young people. The whole are marked by a graceful intelligence and a simple tenderness which at once charm the reader and win his affections for the author.

Mountain Children.

Dwellers by lake and hill !

Merry companions of the bird and bee!

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained step and spirits free!

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall impedes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played.

The gray and ancient peaks

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth-
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;

For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth
Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee;

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

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The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend.

'And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?'
'I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see!'

And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?'

'I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.'

'And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?

'I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill.'

'Oh, tell me all, my Mary-
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night on the Caldon-Low.'

'Then take me on your knee, mother,
And listen, mother of mine:
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.

And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,
And their dancing feet so small;
But, oh, the sound of their talking
Was merrier far than all!'

'And what were the words, my Mary,
That you Idid hear them say?'
'I'll tell you all, my mother-
But let me have my way!

And some they played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;

"And this," they said, "shall speedily turn
The poor old miller's mill;

For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man shall the miller be
By the dawning of the day!

Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,
Till the tears fill both his eyes!"

And some they seized the little winds,
That sounded over the hill,
And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew so sharp and shrill:-

“And there," said they, "the merry winds go,

Away from every horn;

And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:

Oh, the poor, blind old widow

Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong!"

And some they brought the brown lintseed,
And flung it down from the Low-
"And this," said they, "by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow!

Oh, the poor, lame weaver,

How will he laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!"

And then upspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin

"I have spun up all the tow," said he,
"And I want some more to spin.

I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another-
A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!"

And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.

And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.

But, as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

And I peeped into the widow's field;
And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.

And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high;
But I saw the weaver at his gate

With the good news in his eye!

Now, this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be!'

The Monkey.

[From Sketches of Natural History.] Monkey, little merry fellow, Thou art Nature's Punchinello; Full of fun as Puck could be Harlequin might learn of thee!

In the very ark, no doubt,
You went frolicking about;
Never keeping in your mind
Drowned monkeys left behind!

Have you no traditions-none,
Of the court of Solomon?
No memorial how ye went
With Prince Hiram's armament!

Look now at him!-slyly peep;
He pretends he is asleep;
Fast asleep upon his bed,
With his arm beneath his head.

Now that posture is not right,
And he is not settled quite;
There! that's better than before-
And the knave pretends to snore!
Ha! he is not half asleep;
See, he slyly takes a peep.
Monkey, though your eyes were shut,
You could see this little nut.

You shall have it, pigmy brother!
What, another! and another!
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack-
Sit down, and begin to crack.

There the little ancient man
Cracks as fast as crack he can!
Now good-by, you merry fellow,
Nature's primest Punchinello.

THOMAS HOOD.

THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845) appeared before the public chiefly as a comic poet and humorist, but several of his compositions, of a different nature, show that he was also capable of excelling in the grave, pathetic, and sentimental. He had thoughts too deep for tears,' and rich imaginative dreams and fancies, which were at times embodied in continuous strains of pure and exquisite poetry, but more frequently thrown in, like momentary shadows, among his light and fantastic effusions. His wit and sarcasm were always genial and well applied. This ingenious and gifted man was a native of London, son of one of the partners in the bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe. He was educated for the counting-house, and at an early age was placed under the charge of a city merchant. His health, however, was found unequal to the close confinement and application required at the merchant's desk, and he was sent to reside with some relatives in Dundee, of which town his father was a native. While resident there, Mr Hood evinced his taste for literature. He contributed to the local newspapers, and also to the Dundee Magazine, a periodical of considerable merit. On the re-establishment of his health, he returned to London, and was put apprentice to a relation, an engraver. At this employment he remained just long enough to acquire a taste for drawing, which was afterwards of essential service to him in illustrating his poetical productions. About the year 1821 he had adopted literature as a profession, and was installed as regular assistant to the London Magazine, which at that time was left without its founder and ornament, Mr John Scott, who was unhappily killed in a duel. On the cessation of this work, Mr Hood wrote for various periodicals. He was some time editor of the New Monthly Magazine, and also of a magazine which bore his own name. His life was one of incessant exertion, embittered by ill health and all the disquiets and uncertainties incidental to authorship. When almost prostrated by disease, the government stept in to relieve him with a small pension; and after his premature death in May 1845, his literary friends contributed liberally towards the support of his widow and family.

Mr Hood's productions are in various styles and forms. His first work, Whims and Oddities, attained to great popularity. Their most original feature was the use which the author made of puns-a figure generally too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. He afterwards (1827) tried a series of National Tales, but his prose was less attractive than his verse. A regular novel,

Tylney Hall, was a more decided failure. In poetry he made a great advance. The Plea of the Molsea mer Fairies is a rich imaginative work, superior to his other productions. As editor of the Comic A nual, and also of some of the literary annuals, Mr Hood increased his reputation for sportive humour and poetical fancy; and he continued the same rein in his Up the Rhine-a satire on the absurdities of English travellers. In 1843 he issued two volumes of Whimsicalities, a Periodical Gathering, collected chiefly from the New Monthly Magazine. His last production of any importance was the Song of the Shirt, which first appeared in Punch, and was as admirable in spirit as in composition. This striking picture of the miseries of the poor London semp. stresses struck home to the heart, and aroused the benevolent feelings of the public. In most of Hood's works, even in his puns and levities, there is s 'spirit of good' directed to some kindly or philan thropic object. He had serious and mournful jests, which were the more effective from their strange and unexpected combinations. Those who came to laugh at folly, remained to sympathise with want and suffering.

Of Hood's graceful and poetical puns, it would be easy to give abundant specimens. The following stanzas form part of an inimitable burlesque, Lament for the Decline of Chivalry :

Well hast thou said, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work

Is ended now and past!
That iron age, which some have thought
Of mettle rather overwrought,

Is now all over-cast.

Ay! where are those heroic knights
Of old-those armadillo wights
Who wore the plated vest!
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold--enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest.

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;
So sleep his knights who gave that Round

Old Table such eclat!

Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow!
And none engage at turneys now

But those that go to law!

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Though certain doctors still pretend, Awhile, before they kill a friend,

To labour through his case! Farewell then, ancient men of might! Crusader, errant-squire, and knight! Our coats and customs soften; To rise would only make you weep; Sleep on in rusty iron sleep,

As in a safety-coffin !

The grave, lofty, and sustained style of Hood is much more rare than this punning vein; but a few verses will show how truly poetical at times was his imagination-how rapt his fancy. The diction of the subjoined stanzas is rich and musical, and may recall some of the finest flights of the Elizabethan poets. We quote from an Ode to the Moon. Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois on her Alpine snow, Where hunter never climbed-secure from dread? A thousand ancient fancies I have read

Of that fair presence, and a thousand wrought,
Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

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A far-bound galley on its perilous way;
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray:
Sometimes behold thee glide,

Clustered by all thy family of stars,
Like a lone widow through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars:
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latinian cave I see thee creep,
To catch the young Endymion asleep,
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch.

O thou art beautiful, howe'er it be!
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named-
And he the veriest Pagan who first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee;
It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee-
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,
And not divine the crescent on thy brows;
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild moon,
Behind those chestnut boughs,
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon,
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.

In the Gem, a literary annual for 1829, Mr Hood published a ballad entitled The Dream of Eugene Aram, which is also remarkable for its exhibition of the secrets of the human heart, and its deep and powerful moral feeling. It is perhaps to be regretted that an author, who had undoubted command of the higher passions and emotions, should so seldom have frequented this sacred ground, but have preferred the gaieties of mirth and fancy. He probably saw that his originality was more apparent in the latter, and that popularity was in this way more easily attained. Immediate success was of importance to him; and until the position of literary men be rendered more secure and unassailable, we must often be content to lose works which can only be the 'ripened fruits of wise delay.'

The following is one of Hood's most popular effusions in that style which the public identified as peculiarly his own :

A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergy. man, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published a volume of poetry in 1830, while still a very young man. It met with rather severe treatment from one or more of the most influential reviews. Four years later, he issued another volume, which met a reception as unfavourable. For ten years after this he ceased to publish; his name did not appear in magazines or annuals as a contributor, neither was he mentioned in anyway in the catalogues of

72

the publishers. He was not, however, forgotten. During the interval, there had been growing in many minds a sense of his merits. In the year 1842 appeared a reprint of the most of his pieces, some having been omitted, in consequence probably of the strictures of the reviewers, and some of them having been slightly altered, together with a series of new poems; the whole forming two small octavo volumes. Without external aid of any kind, these volumes found favour with the public, and in three years ran through as many editions. Suddenly it became the fashion to consider Alfred Tennyson as a great poet, if not as the poet of the age;' meaning, we presume, the greatest poet of the age, for in no other respect can the phrase be applicable, seeing that the age is one of hope and of progress, while Mr Tennyson's genius is essentially retrospective. The true poet of our age will be one of a more popular character than Mr Tennyson.

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The prevailing characteristic of his style is a quaint and quiet elegance, and of his mind a gentle melancholy, with now and then touches of strong dramatic power, the whole coloured by the peculiar scenery of that part of England where he has long resided. Any attentive reader of his poetry, who may have been ignorant that he is a dweller amid the fens of Lincolnshire, would soon suspect this to be the case when he found such constant pictures of fens and morasses, quiet meres, and sighing reeds, as he so beautifully introduces. The exquisitely modulated poem of the Dying Swan affords a picture drawn, we think, with wonderful delicacy :

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky
Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept,
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above, in the wind, was the swallow,
Chasing itself at its own wild will;
And far through the marish green and still,
The tangled water-courses slept,

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The ballad of New-Year's Eve introduces similar scenery :

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,

You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night,

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool.

Another characteristic of Mr Tennyson's style is his beautiful simplicity. Let no one underrate so great a merit. The first poetry of barbarism, and the most refined poetry of advancing civilisation, have it in common. As a specimen of great power and great simplicity, we make the following extracts from his poem on the old legend of the Lady Godiva :

She sought her lord, and found him where he stood
About the hall, among his dogs, alone.

* She told him of their tears,

*

And prayed him, If they pay this tax, they starve.'
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
'You would not let your little finger ache

For such as these?' 'But I would die,' said she.
He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul,
Then fillipped at the diamond in her ear:
'Oh ay, oh ay, you talk!'Alas!' she said,
'But prove me what it is I would not do.'
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand,

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So, left alone, the passions of her mind-
As winds from all the compass shift and blow-
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth,
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all
The hard condition; but that she would loose
The people. Therefore, as they loved her well,
From then till noon no foot should pace the street,
No eye look down, she passing; but that all
Should keep within, door shut, and window barred.
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim earl's gift; but ever at a breath
She lingered, looking like a summer moon
Half dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head,
And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee;
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair
Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar, until she reached
The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapped
In purple, blazoned with armorial gold.

Then she rode forth, clothed o'er with chastity;
The deep air listened round her as she rode,
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spouts
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur
Made her cheek flame: her palfrey's footfall shot
Light horrors through her pulses: the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she
Not less through all bore up, till last she saw
The white-flowered elder thicket from the field
Gleam through the Gothic archways in the wall.

Then she rode back clothed on with chastity;
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
The fatal byword of all years to come,
Boring a little auger hole in fear,
Peeped; but his eyes, before they had their will,
Were shrivelled into darkness in his head,
And dropped before him. So the powers, who wait
On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused:
And she that knew not, passed; and all at once,
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon
Was clashed and hammered from a hundred towers
One after one; but even then she gained
Her bower: whence reissuing, robed and crowned,
To meet her lord, she took the tax away,
And built herself an everlasting name."

The ballad of Lady Clara Vere de Vere might also be cited as a specimen of extreme simplicity united with great force; but we prefer making an extract from a poem less known. The Talking Oak is the title of a fanciful and beautiful ballad of seventy-five stanzas, in which a lover and an oaktree converse upon the charms of a sweet maiden named Olivia. The oak-tree thus describes to the

lover her visit to the park in which it grew:

Then ran she, gamesome as the colt,
And livelier than the lark,
She sent her voice through all the holt
Before her, and the park.

And here she came and round me played,
And sang to me the whole

Of those three stanzas that you made
About my "giant bole."

And in a fit of frolic mirth,

She strove to span my waist;
Alas! I was so broad of girth,
I could not be embraced.

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