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THE SEQUESTRATION OF A BEREAVED LOVER.
He lived in solitude,
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 winged things, and many a tread
None were admitted, would he muse, when first The young day broke; perhaps because he there
Had in his early infancy been nursed,
Or loved to see the Great Apollo burst
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.
Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night
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.
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,
O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save
Borne to his shallow grave: the bearers trod
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod: On the rough boards the earth way 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.
Let us glide adown thy stream
Through a quiet dream !
We've not proud nor soaring wings ;
Lies in simple things.
A PRAYER IN SICKNESS.
Send down thy winged angel, God!
Amid this night so wild;
And breathe upon our child !
And moans within her sleep,
And striveth not to weep.
She is, we know too well,
Than our weak words can tell.
To aid, when need may be ;
But now we turn to Thee!
Amid the darkness wild,
And heal our gentle child!
The sea ! the sea! the open sea !
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,
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 sonso, 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 Worl: worth from any thing that has appeared since the death of Shakspeare!" Such extravagunt, 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