« ForrigeFortsett »
For which the tyrant of these abject times
Hath given his honourable name on earth,
His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven;
When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood,
The fretful changes of his feverish pride;
His midnight murders and perfidious plots,
Are but a tale of years so long gone by,
That they who read distrust the hideous truth,
Willing to let a charitable doubt
Abate their horror; Grenville, even then
Thy memory will be fresh among mankind;
Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee,
With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom heaven,
To be the apostle of this holy work,
Rais'd up and strengthen'd, and upheld through all
His arduous toil. To end the glorious task,
That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine :
Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death,
Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman's fame
Will fade, the conqueror's laurel crown grow sear,
Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of time
Leaves but a dying echo. They alone
Are held in everlasting memory,
Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence,
Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise
Along the palmy coast, will bless thy name;
And Senegal and secret Niger's shore,
And Calabar, no longer startled then
With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now,
Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville's praise.
Designed for a Monument to be erected in Lichfield Cathedral, agreeably to
the Bequest of the late Miss Anna Seward, to designate the Burial Place of her Father, the Rev. Thomas Seward, a Canon of that Cathedral, in which she is herself interred.
Amid these aisles, where once his precepts
The heaven-ward pathway which in life he trod,
This simple tablet marks ä father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near ;
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.
Still wouldst thou know why o'er the marble spread,
In female grace, the willow droops her head;
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung ;
What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust,
Till waked to join the anthems of the just,-
Lo, one brief line an answer sad supplies,
Honour'd, beloved, and wept, here Seward lies !
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,
Go seek her genius in her living lay.
It is hardly possible to live, even for a short period, in the highlands of Scotland, with
out hearing related some of the many traditionary anecdotes, which are yet floating through the country, and are one distinguishing characteristic of the pastoral life. Some legendary tales, repeated by a shepherd in Glenfinlas, suggested the following lines, which were written nearly extempore. It is earnestly to be wished, that a man of taste and industry could be discovered, who might be induced to devote a few years to the prosecution of literary and poetical research in the more remote regions of this romantic country. In the neighbourhood of Dunstaffnage Castle, and in several of the Western Isles, traditions are probably yet remaining regarding the life of King Robert I., which might prove highly interesting to the historian as well as to the poet. This is mentioned only as one instance of the many advantages which might perhaps be gleaned, but which in a few years more will be wholly lost, in consequence of the change of national character, arising from the increase of civilization, and from various other causes.
THẢt restless fire was in my
Which haunts my path in solitude;
Up the grey mountain's side I prest,
To seek the cavern's shelter rude.
I twined the heathbell's lingering flowers :-
The light which cheers my lonely hours
Was glowing 'mid the autumnal wood,
And charmed the path of solitude.
Where grey Glenfinlas lies, o'erhung
By rocks in wild disorder flung.
“ These are the realms,” she said, " where long
“ Have I with guardian care surveyed
“ The scenes that once awoke the song
“ Of bards divine, that hither strayed.
" The genius of that land am I,
“ Where every pine-clad steep on high,
“ Each lonely sheal, or ruin grey,
• Or even the trembling of a spray,
“ Recalls the marvellous deeds of yore,
“ And legends of mysterious lore.
“ There is not in yon valley wide,
“ A cliff that hoary lichens bind;
“ Scarce in the wild a spot descried,
“ With which a tale is not entwined,
“ That might with lofty strains inspire
“ Each master of the heavenly lyre,
“ And still unfading bloom display,
“ Till woods and rocks themselves decay.
“ There, mid the shaggy solitude,'
“ The voice of a ' diviner age'
“ Exalts the soul to holy mood,
u Or wakes to sympathetic rage.
“ Those martial notes are heard again,
“ That ' ne'er to battle called in vain ;" *
“And ghosts of former heroes glide,
“ Grim beckoning from the mountain's side.
“ But soon the withering grasp of time,
“ Who moves with silent, viewless flight,
“ Shall doom those beauteous themes sublime,
“ Unsung, to never-ending night.
“ Their glories, like the leaves which now
“ Chill frosts are stealing from the bough,
“ Unaided by the poet's lyre,
“ In dark oblivion shall expire. * For the words marked with commas in this stanza, the writer is indebted to the unpublished MSS. of a friend ; and shall rejoice, if the liberty here taken shall induce him to follow, with more assiduity and less diffidence, those poetical avocations for which his talents are eminently adapted.
« O seize their beauties ere they die,
“ While yet the pastoral life remains ;
“ My willing aid shall still be nigh,
“ To prompt for thee the impassioned strains.
“ Even yet the hoary seer may tell
“ The fortunes strange that here befell
“ Full many a mighty chief of old,
“ In legendary fame enrolled :
“ O listen, ere their charms are filed,
" And mixed for ever with the dead !"
I woke ; the lovely dream was gone ;
Yet on the balmy gale of even
Celestial melodies were thrown,
And now retreating, rose to heaven.
Each object in the woodland range,
By moonlight seemed more wild and strange :
The lengthening vale below was lost
In shadowy mist and dazzling frost ;
The silvery beams, with glittering play,
Danced on the waves of Loch Achray;
And, as I hailed the charms of night,
Mine inward gleams were passing bright.
THE GENIUS AND THE BAYADERE.
An Indian Legend. From the German of the celebrated Von Goethe, du
thor of Herman and Dorothea, the Sorrows of Werter, &c.
* MAHADOC, the lord of earth,
Once more quits his blissful state,
Rises in a mortal birth,
Bound to mortals' changeful fate ;
Resolved of human joy and woe
Every sympathy to share,
From human sympathy to know,
When to pity, when to spare.
His ken had all the various city eyed,
From modest worth obscure to glittering pride:
He sets at evening forth, an unknown course to steer.
* The measure is the same with the original German.