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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 whatSomething to hallow that lone burial spot.
He grew familiar with the bird, the brute
Knew well its benefactor; and he'd feed And make acquaintance with the fishes mute;
And, like the Thracian Shepherd, as we read,
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
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
Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night
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 In vain man's heart is soothed by every tone Of pity, saying, "he's not quite alone."
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
Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings;
Lies in simple things.
The waves were white, and red the morn,
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
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,
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,
For the mariner curseth the warning bird
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 point in Macbeth. It was this: the knocking at the gate, which succeeds to the murder of Duncan, produced to my feelings an effect for which I never could account. The effect was, that it reflected 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. Cowner. Collins. Akenside. Grav. Pollok, Coleridge, and a host of others, had written