beloved Holland convalescent from its French fever and showing signs of its original sturdy constitution. Here, in the summer of 1825, he received what proved a protracted visit from Robert Southey. In the course of a tour the laureate was laid up with an inflamed foot at Leyden. Madame Bilderdijk had translated into Dutch Southey's "Roderick," and the poets had already corresponded. Hearing of the illness of the English traveller, the hospitable pair brought the invalid to their dwelling, and nursed him for three weeks with the most generous devotion. Writing to Bishop Jebb, Southey gives the following account of his friend:

"Bilderdijk is one of those men whose openness of heart you perceive at first sight; and when I came to know them both, if I had sought the world over, it would not have been possible for me to have found two persons with whom I should have felt myself more entirely in unison, except, indeed, that my host stands up, like a true Hollander of the old stamp, for the Synod of Dort. He is above seventy years of age, and considering what he has gone through in mind and body, it is marvellous that he is alive. From infancy he has been an invalid. His pulse is always that of a feverish man. He has never slept more than four hours in the four-and-twenty, and wakes always unrefreshed and in a state of discomfort, as if sleep exhausted him more than the perpetual intellectual labour in which he is engaged. None of his countrymen have written so much, or so variously, or so well; this is admitted by his enemies; and he has for his enemies the whole body of Liberals and timeHis fortune was completely wrecked in the Revolution; and having been the most confidential and truest friend of the Stadtholder, he has received the usual reward of fidelity after a Restoration. . A small pension of about 1407. is all that he has; and a professorship, which

servers.

.

the king had promised, is withheld, lest the Liberals should be offended. His wife is four-and-twenty years younger than himself, and in every respect worthy of him. I have never seen a woman who was more to be admired for everything womanly; no strangers would suppose that so unassuming a person was in high repute as a poetess. Bilderdijk's intellectual rank is at once indicated by his countenance; but he is equally high-minded and. humble, in the best sense of those epithets; and both are so suited to each other, so resigned to their fortunes, so deeply and quietly religious, and therefore so contented, so thankful, and so happy, that it must be my own fault if I am not the better for having known them."

Bilderdijk died December 18th, 1831. We are not aware that any of his poems have been translated into English: nor has a collective edition appeared in his own country. A tinge of his youthful melancholy runs through most of them, and glances out in the very titles, such as "Autumnal Flowers," "One Foot in the Grave," "A Prospect of my Death." But they are noble compositions, full of beautiful imagery, elevated sentiment, and fervid inspiration. Some of them are wonderful achievements in their mastery of rhyme and metre. The following attempt to render one of his shorter pieces may possibly convey to the reader some notion of one or two of the author's characteristics :

:

"PARENTAL SOLICITUDE.

As shiv'ring in our Northern May,
Th' exotic brood cowers bare and callow,
And from her plumes the parent swallow
Sheds summers gathered far away:

With flaming eye and flickering tongue,
As when the serpent scales her dwelling,
With beak and wing th' assault repelling,
The gentle dove defends her young :

So throbs my heart for thee, my child,
In foresight of life's various error,
And future storms with all their terror,
With yearnings fond and anguish wild.
Alas! what boots foreboding woe?—
With angel-plumes his scales disguising,
And sweetest scenes with death surprising,
Transfigured comes your crafty foe.

Even now as your first flight you take
Through buoyant air on bending pinion,
Exulting in the new dominion,

You fear no snake in bush or brake.

Yet watch, amidst this joyous clang ;-
With sharpened beak and talons gleaming,
On the tall crag the eagle dreaming,
Has waken'd in the cobra's fang.

Mistrust the elm-tree's massive shade,
Suspect where aspens shake and shiver;
For where the coolest shadows quiver,
The hydra hides his oozy head.

The daisy-spangled turf beware;

Fly where the vineyard's ripeness flushes;
And, where the rose-tree sheds her blushes
On violet beds, fond youth, take care.

Of every golden trap be shy;
Suspect a bait in earthly beauty;

"Twill steal your soul from God and duty:
-'Tis treason all which tempts the eye.

No! let your flight be upward given,
The serpent and his hiss defying,

A bird of Paradise still flying

To his evening rest in God's own heaven."

H. J.

THE POET OF POETS.

Αὐτου ἐσμεν ποιημα.

We know there once was One on earth
Who penetrated all He saw,

To whom the lily had its worth,

And Nature bared her utmost law.
And when the mountain-side He trod,
The Universe before Him shone
Translucent in the smile of God,

Like young leaves in the morning sun ;-
Glory, which Phidias never won
To consecrate his Parthenon.

Nature her fine transmuting powers
Laid open to His piercing ken,

The life of insects and of flowers,

The lives and hearts and minds of men;

Depths of the geologic past,

The mission of the youngest star:

No mind had ever grasp so vast,

No science ever dived so far.
All that our boldest guess sees dim
Lay clearly visible to Him.

Had He but uttered forth in song

The visions of His waking sight,

The thoughts that o'er his soul would throng Alone upon the hills at night;

What poet's loftiest ecstasies

Had stirred men with such rapturous awe As would those living words of His,

Calm utterance of what he saw? All earth had on those accents hung, All ages with their echoes rung.

But He, we know, came not to speak;
He came to live, He came to die-
To heal the sick, the lost to seek,

And, dying, raise the fallen high.
And, save some few familiar words,
Uttered in calm and friendly tone,
Graved on the hearts of those who heard,
And written down when He was gone;
He left no written words behind,

No volume to record His mind.

But where those scattered seeds were flung,
Like raindrops on the parched green,
A living race of poets sprung,

Who dwelt amongst the things unseen;

Who loved all men, who sought the lost,

Yet saw beneath earth's masks and shrouds ;

Whose life was one long sacrifice,

Death but the breaking in the clouds.

His volume as the world was broad,

His Poem was the Church of God.

E. C.