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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,
Drew with the music of his stringed lute

Behind him wingèd things, and many a tread
And tramp of animal; and, in his hall,
He was a Lord indeed, beloved by all.

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
Drank by his boat, and eyed him without fear.
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,-
No danger daunted, and no pastime drew,
And ever on that fair heart-broken maid,
(Aurora,) who unto the angels flew
Away so early, with grief unallay'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.


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.


Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently as we sometimes glide
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,

Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are We,
O'er life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

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The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born!
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outery wild
As welcomed to life the ocean child!

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;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!


A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast;
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone
Their natural hard, proud strength disown.

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!
Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
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, 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::


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

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