And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day arrive For you, in presence of this little band Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have flowers Of every clime, to till the lonely field, Be happy in himself? The law of faith, made Your very poorest rich in peace of thought Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve? Which the salvation of his soul requires. "Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake, Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. On us the venerable pastor turn'd His beaming eye that had been raised to heaven, Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove, shrieks appease Of human victims, offer'd up t' The thing that hath been as the thing that is, And full assemblage of a barbarous host; changed These barren rocks, your stern inheritance; Th' existing worship! and with those compared, Of those celestial splendours; gray the vault, paced The dewy fields; but ere the vicar's door To enfeebled power, To seek, in degradation of the kind, And pure, from further intercourse ensued; This (if delightful hopes, as heretofore, Inspire the serious song, and gentle hearts Cherish, and lofty minds approve the past)My future labours may not leave untold. THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby; and the liberty is taken of inscribing it to him as an acknowledgement, however unworthy, of pleasure and instruc tion derived from his numerous and valuable writings, illustrative of the piety and chivalry of the olden time. You have heard "a Spanish lady How she loved a Christian slave, and told her pain By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love again. "Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," Ere it wither and grow pale." "Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take From twig or bed an humbler flower, e'en for your sake." "Grieved am I, submissive Christian! (May they not?) th' unfortunate." "Yes, kind lady! otherwise man could not bear Life, which to every one that breathes is full of care." "Worse than idle is compassion, If it end in tears and sighs; Thee from bondage would I rescue Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree, Look up-and help a hand that longs to set thee free." "Lady, dread the wish, nor venture In such peril to engage; Think how it would stir against you Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with shame, Should troubles overflow on her from whom it came." "Generous Frank! the just in effort Are of inward peace secure ; If Almighty Grace through me thy chains unbind, My father for slave's work may seek a slave in mind." "Princess, at this burst of goodness, * See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, "The Spanish Lady's Love;" from which poem the form of stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is adopted. Our faith hath been,-0, would that eyes could see the heart!" "Tempt me not, I pray; my doom is These base implements to wield; Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield! Never see my native land, nor castle towers, Nor her who thinking of me there counts widow'd hours." "Prisoner! pardon youthful fancies; Blessed is and be your consort; Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose free, "Wedded love with loyal Christians, Body, heart, and soul in union, "Humble love in me would look for no return, Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot burn." "Gracious Allah! by such title Do I dare to thank the God, Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven dost wear? What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt? where am I? where?" Here broke off the dangerous converse: Less impassion'd words might tell Tears not wanting, nor a knell Of sorrow in her heart while through her father's door, And from her narrow world, she pass'd for ever more. But affections higher, holier, Urged her steps; she shrunk from trust Little be the wonder then, the blame be none, Judge both fugitives with knowledge: Mighty were the soul's commandments Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, But nothing from their inward selves had they to fear. Thought infirm ne'er came between them, With accordant steps, or gathering Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon beam Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal stream. On a friendly deck reposing, They at length for Venice steer; There, when they had closed their voyage, Watch'd for tidings from the east, beheld his lord, Fell down and clasp'd his knees for joy, not uttering word. Mutual was the sudden transport; "Hie thee to the countess, friend! return with speed, And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was freed. "Say that I, who might have languish'd, For a crowning recompense, the precious grace "Make it known that my companion Is of royal Eastern blood, Innocent, and meek, and good, Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will Holy Church disperse by beams of gospel light." Swiftly went that gray-hair'd servant, Charged with greetings, benedictions, For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way, Fancy (while, to banners floating The devout embraces still, while such tears fell Through a haze of human nature, Look'd the beautiful deliverer On that overpowering sight, While across her virgin cheek pure blushes stray'd, On the ground the weeping countess Pledge of an eternal band: Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie, Constant to the fair Armenian, Christian meekness smooth'd for all the path of life, Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife. Mute memento of that union Where a cross-legg'd knight lies sculptured Figures with armorial signs of race and birth, THE SOMNAMBULIST. LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's tower* Doth Aira force, that torrent hoarse, Fit music for a solemn vale! And holier seems the ground Not far from that fair site whereon As story says, in antique days, A stern-brow'd house appear'd; There set, and guarded well; To win this bright bird from her cage, Sir Eglamore was he; Full happy season, when was known, Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen, Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where passion caught what nature taught, That all but love is folly; Where fact with fancy stoop'd to play, Doubt came not, nor regret; To trouble hours that wing'd their way, As if through an immortal day Whose sun could never set. But in old times love dwelt not long Best throve the fire of chaste desire, And proves the lover true;" A pleasure house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is the word used in the Lake District for waterfall. They parted. Well with him it fared On woman's quiet hours; Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needle-work and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard Her champion's praise recounted; Though brain would swim, and eyes grows dim, And high her blushes mounted; She warbled from full heart; Born only to depart. Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Received the light hers loses. He comes not back; an ampler space He ranges on from place to place, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted knight?" The tear in answer flows; Month falls on month with heavier weight; In sleep she sometimes walk'd abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale queen whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood, The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood Her melancholy lure! While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, In white array'd, glides on the maid, By whom on this still night descried? A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight, Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see! What means the spectre? Why intent Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, Of valour, truth, and love. So from the spot whereon he stood, He recognised the face; And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall,- Soul-shatter'd was the knight, nor knew Or boding shade, or if the maid He touch'd, what follow'd who shall tell? Of slumber-shrieking, back she fell, In plunged the knight! when on firm ground Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, Confusion pass'd away; She heard, ere to the throne of grace Her faithful spirit flew, His voice; beheld his speaking face, So was he reconciled to life; Brief words may speak the rest; And there was sorrow's guest; Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, Where clouds that spread in solemn shade Though minister of sorrow; WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire-a parish of which his father was vicar-on the 24th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The poet received his early education at Winchester school; and he rose to be the senior boy. He was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 1792, he took his degree. On quitting the university he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire; soon afterwards he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire; in 1803 he became a prebend of Salisbury; and the Archbishop Moore presented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where he has since constantly resided,-only now and then visiting the metropolis,-enjoying the country and its peculiar sources of profitable delight; performing with zeal and industry his paro-reputation as a critic was considerably enhanced. chial duties; and beloved by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of his residence. comparison with those of Dr. Watts, and which are admirably calculated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed. Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by his controversy with Byron on the subject of the writings of Pope. He advanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered him "no poet," and that, according to the "invariable principles" of poetry, the century of fame which had been accorded to the "Essay on Man" was unmerited. Campbell opened the defence; and Byron stepped forward as a warm and somewhat angry advocate. A sort of literary warfare followed; and a host of pamphlets on both sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, the question remains precisely where it did. Bowles, however, though he failed in obtaining a victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to his "invariable principles," manifested during the contest so much judgment and ability, that his The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popularity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments than for any loftiness of thought or richness of fancy. He has never dealt with themes that "stir men's minds;" but has satisfied himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has considered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, "tender yet manly;" and he has undoubtedly brought the accessories of harmonious versification and graceful language to the aid of "right thinking" and sound judgment. His poems seldom startle or astonish the reader: he does not labour to probe the heart, and depict the more vio The Sonnets of Bowles (his first publication) appeared in 1793. They were received with considerable applause; and the writer, if he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found ample recompense in the fact that they contributed to form the taste and call forth the genius of Coleridge, whom they "delighted and inspired." The author of "Christabel" speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from several perilous errors "by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly,-so natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, how-lent passions of human kind; but he keeps an ever, satisfied with expressing in prose his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out his gratitude to his first master in minstrel lore: "My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains, In 1805 he published the " Spirit of Discovery by Sea." It is the longest of his productions, and is by some considered his best. The more recen, of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse Book;" a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by " even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture. The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beautiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignificant. The topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are such only as are naturally excellent. 491 |