THE SEQUESTRATION OF A BEREAVED LOVER. He lived in solitude, And scarcely quitted his ancestral home. Though many a friend and many a lady woo'd, Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam Beyond the neighboring hamlet's churchyard rude; And there the stranger still on one low tomb May read "Aurora;" whether the name he drew From mere conceit of grief, or not, none knew. Perhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past; Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive Themselves with words, until they grow at last Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve; Such madness in its wiser mood will cast, Making its fond credulity believe Things unsubstantial. 'Twas-no matter what- He grew familiar with the bird, the brute Behind him wingèd things, and many a tread In a high solitary turret, where None were admitted, would he muse, when first The young day broke; perhaps because he there Had in his early infancy been nursed, Or that he felt more pure the morning air, Or loved to see the Great Apollo burst From out his cloudy bondage, and the night Hurry away before the conquering light. But oftener to a gentle lake, that lay Cradled within a forest's bosom, he Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away; And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free, There would he loiter all the livelong day, Tossing upon the waters listlessly. The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer It was a soothing place: the summer hours Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night The moon ran searching by the woodbine bowers, And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright, O'er lemon blossoms and faint myrtle flowers; And there the west wind often took its flight, While heaven's clear eye was closing; while above, Pale Hesper rose, the evening light of love. 'Twas solitude he loved where'er he stray'd,- He thought; and in the sky's eternal blue Would look for shapes, till at times before him she Rose like a beautiful reality. A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. It is a chilling thing to see, as I Have seen a man go down into the grave Without a tear, or even an alter'd eye: Oh! sadder far than when fond women rave, Or children weep, or agèd parents sigh, O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save I saw a pauper once, when I was young, Borne to his shallow grave: the bearers trod Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung; And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod: On the rough boards the earth was gayly flung; Methought the prayer which gave him to his God Was coldly said;-then all, passing away, Left the scarce coffin'd wretch to quick decay. It was an autumn evening, and the rain Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek, And call'd the deluging tempest back again; The flag-staff on the churchyard tower did creak, And through the black clouds ran a lightning vein. And then the flapping raven came to seek Its home its flight was heavy, and its wing Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering. A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three (One is lost-an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings Our ambition, our content, Humble voyagers are We, A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. Send down thy wingèd angel, God! And bid him come where now we watch, She lies upon her pillow, pale, How gentle and how good a child And dearer to her parents' hearts We love we watch throughout the night, We hope and have despair'd, at times; Send down thy sweet-soul'd angel, God! And bid him soothe our souls to-night, THE SEA. The sea! the sea! the open sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions round; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea!-I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go: If a storm should come, and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh! how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, The waves were white, and red the morn, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sigh'd for change; THE STORMY PETREL. A thousand miles from land are we, The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, Up and down! Up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amid the flashing and feathery foam The stormy Petrel finds a home A home, if such a place may be, For her who lives on the wide wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing! O'er the deep! O'er the deep! Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain, For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard! Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still! Yet he ne'er falters :-So, Petrel! spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing! THOMAS DE QUINCEY. THOMAS DE QUINCEY, the author of the celebrated "Confessions of an English Opium Eater," has treated the events of his early life in a manner which makes that subject for ever his own. Though possessed of a very extensive knowledge of German literature, his style, so far from being Germanized, is eminently English-masculine, clear, and logical. He has written much for various periodical publications, and contributed several masterly articles in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Metaphysical discussion, philosophical criticism, and biography are the classes of subjects in which Mr. De Quincey excels; though at times he exhibits such extravagances of opinion as we should think, from his usual good sense, he could not be guilty of, unless under the influence of his early and longcherished friend-"opium." Witness his essay on Pope, in which he most unjustly depreciates that great poet; and his remarks on Wordsworth so extravagantly, if not absurdly eulogistic. The following extracts, however, present specimens of his best manner-the former of his able and astute criticism, the latter of his lively and graphic description: : THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE, (IN MACBETH.) From my boyish days I had always felt a great perplexity on one It was this: the knocking at the gate, which point in Macbeth. succeeds to the murder of Duncan, produced to my feelings an effect The effect was, that it reflected for which I never could account. back upon the murder a peculiar awfulness and a depth of solemnity; yet, however obstinately I endeavored with my understanding to For instance, he says:-"Meditative poetry is perhaps that which will finally maintain most power upon generations more thoughtful; and in this department, at least, there is little competition to be apprehended by Wordsworth from any thing that has appeared since the death of Shakspeare!" Such extravagant, if not absurd eulogy of a poet, defeats its own end. As if Milton, (shade of the world's great bard, pardon the profane Ir!) as if Milton, Young, Cowper, Collins, Akenside, Gray, Pollok, Coleridge, and a host of others, had written Besides, our critic goes upon the certainly false assumption, that no meditative poetry." the time will come when meditative poetry will take the highest rank. This never will, never can be, till the nature of man is changed. Man is not all "meditation." He loves, indeed, at times to "meditate," but he also loves to be moved. He has a soul as well as a mind. He has a heart to feel, sympathies to be excited, admiration to be aroused, tears to shed. His fancy is to be warmed, his imagination to be kindled by the magic touch of the poet's pen. Man, too, has taste; has a sense of the beautiful, the tender, the grand: and that poet who takes the deepest and strongest hold upon the HEART, who excites the feelings of pity, of love, or of admiration; who inspires the soul with the feeling of the grand, the terrific, the sublime; who shows the power of the true poet, (the MAKER,) giving "to airy nothing a local habitation and a name,"-he it is who will be most read and loved and admired while the world lasts. |