NO. XVII. One touch of Cant makes all the world akin, That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, Tho' they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust that is a little gilt, Hamlet says truly "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so;" yet folk now-a-days give opinions good and bad without thinking; a plague, therefore, of opinion!-a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin.” As I anticipated, the omission of the Author's NAME to "The St. John's-wort" of the 15th Dove, produced considerable discussion; it was laid at the door of the GREAT living Poets, and brushed away among the rubbish of the little: some exclaimed 'twas exquisitely beautiful, and others protested 'twas execrably silly: all, of course, holding up themselves equally competent to judge, and complacently hugging themselves in the sagacious accuracy of their judgment, and incorruptible purity of their taste.-This I get from hearsay: but I have two letters through my publisher, both from persons who themselves chop prose into lengths (as a facetious friend once told me I did, when I wrote poetry) wherein one calls it" brazen," the other the truly "golden" St. John's-wort. Now this is very funny, and just as it should be. My experiment has proved the utility of occasionally withholding the Author's name, to obtain more attention, at least, if not applause; and the necessity of him who publishes (be it Sermon or Song) to abide the judgment of every man, every woman, and every child. MUSIPHILUS. 3d July, 1822. Did ye see the red rose on its bonny green stem As it open'd its lips to the dew? The newly fledg'd birds, did ye look upon them Just fluttering their wings as they flew Did yo mark the young light dawning dim in the east, With the clouds cold and silent above? Did ye bear the bells ring at the village spread feast, And see the young bride and her love? Oh! the rose it has bloom'd, it is wither'd, it's dead, And its leaves blown away with a breath. Oh! the birds, they are grown, they are strong, they are fled, And the fowler has done them to death. Ob! the light brighten'd forth over woodland and dell, Then it faded and faded away. Ob! the bells they arc ringing, are knolling a knell, And the bride and ber love-where are they? NO. XVIII. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In Life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! Of these two Sonnets, the first was com posed by a young person on the wearisome bed of dangerous illness, when recovery was doubtful: the second on the resolution he formed to leave off writing Poetry. He yet feels grateful for life and its blessings, to the Being addressed in the first; and there may be some who wish his re covery from so wearisome a resolution as produced the second. 10th July, 1822. MUSIPHILUS. I. Oh not in fear, Great Author of my days! lays, Asks not in pray'r, nor tells its thanks in praise, Yet finds support and comfort ever near; Its gratitude a smile, its pray'r a tear, And, still receiving gladness, still repays. Thus in the bosom of thy tender care I rest, O God, this perishable dust, Silent and blessed, nor with praise or pray'r Profane my pure unalterable trust; Where'er I am, enough that Thou art there, Enough for me. Thou art-and Thou art just. II. Mortal! at last what will it thee bested To stand aloft in Fame's proud vestibule, When thou has buffeted the long misrule Of change and trouble, and abroad bask spread Thine earthly glory? Hath it profited That to the Brave of old a laurel weed The hand of Fame held forth, and did areed The myrtle leaves to wreathe the Poet's head? Within the Grave's dark cell how soon con sume Those myrtle leaves, and wreaths of va nity, When Death's cold breath has suck'd their rathe perfume, But in the blessed climate of the sky Thou may'st attain those flow'rs that over bloom, And pour their fragrance thro' Eternity. NO XIX. The verie places where the Grete have sojourn'd Hold a swete sanctitude, as if their manes Hover'd in bliss and beautie there. Beshrewe me Not for Pactolus' dust, or gawds of Inde Would I possesse a herte that did not glowe, Aye, lepe with extacie, to conn at Maie morne The brighte fresh woods, and daisie-powdred knolles Of Woodstoke; and in everie littel byrde Agnize a note of magicke; and beholde Knyghts, Dames, and Fayes in everie flour and lefe. Ludlow Castle was the seat of composition, and scene of presentation to COMUS; |