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For some are lost in life's bewildering



" Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green! And some have left their sport and tak’n True tears make the grass to grow

to toil, And the grief of the good, I ween,

And some have faced the Ocean's wild Is grateful to him that sleeps below.

turmoil, Strew sweet flowers, free of blight

And some--a very few-their olden ways Blossoms gathered in the dew : By shining lake and river still pursue ; Should they wither before night,

Ah ! one I gaze on 'mid the fancied band, Flowers and blossoms bring anew.

Unlike the rest in years, in gait, in hue-
Uprisen from a dim and shadowy land-

Ask what loved phantom fixes my regard! “ Sorrow, sorrow, speed away,

Yarrow's late pride, the Angler, Shepherd, To our angler's quiet mound,

Bard !”
With the old pilgrim, twilight grey,
Enter thou on the holy ground;

There he sleeps, whose heart was twined “ Thomson ! this quiet stream the song
With wild stream and wandering burn,

of thought Wover of the western wind !

Oft in thy bosom reared, and as I steal Watcher of the April morn!

Along its banks, they to my gaze reveal

The pictures by thy truthful pencil III.

wrought; " Sorrow at the poor man's hearth!

No rash intruder on the rural spot Sorrow in the hall of pride!

I seem, but in that glowing fervour share, Honour waits at the grave of worth, Which on their page thy far-fam'd Seasons And high and low stand side by side.

bear; Brother angler! slumber on :

Nor honour'd less is Nature, nor less Haply thou shalt wave the wand,

sought When the tide of time is gone,

Her still retreats, while with my wand I In some far and happy land.”


O'er Eden's pools the well-dissembling fly, Mr Stoddart_like all the rest of Creating in the Mind's fantastic eye our young poets-must needs try his Castles of lodolence. The sudden spring hand, too, at the sonnet-and here are Of a huge trout assails their air-built five-which, bating his departure from walls, the legitimate verse, are excellent- And to the untrench'd earth each hollow finely felt, and on the whole felicitously fabric falls." composed.


" Of all sweet waters and soul stirring spots, “ Through Luichart's lone expanse, dark Remote from the contentions of mankind, Conan flows,

Oftest repictured by my musing thoughts, Of moorland nature, as its tawny blood

Lies a bright lake among fair trees enshrined, Betokens, and insensibly the flood

Yelept Locb Acbilty. A heath-grown crest Glides onward, while continuous hills

Surnamed the Tor its eastern guardian seems, enclose

While wild Craig Darroch rear's its hill of The quiet lake; at length, this soft repose

dreams The Syren bosom of the pastoral deeps Emprisoning the clear wave on the west. It rudely spurns, and with terrific leaps

Bright mimic bays with weeping birches Descends into the valley. Oft I chose

fringedIn days by-gone the wild and wizard place, An islet ruin-solitary deer Wherein to roam, and from the eddy's rout, And dietant mountains by the sun-ray tinged Lured with bewitching fly, the wary trout; At the Mind's animating beck appear, This scene hath Time's hand shifted, and Nor unremembered in the wizard scene, its face

Against a moss-grown stone, entranc'd two
Rest of the life ; yet, picture-like, to me anglers lean."
It hangs within the Mind's dark gallery."


" A meteor-bearing bark before me made The fellow-anglers of my youthful days, For Tweed's wide current from a wooded (Of past realities we form our dream), bay, I watch them re-assembling by the stream, And under midnight's cover, on its way And on the group with solemn musings Cautiously glider. In its moving shade, gaze ;

On either side the oar's infrequent blade

Dipped flagging, like the heron's wing— wordable ; how few-in comparisonpursued

those that might have been recorded. At every touch by fiery snakes, that play'd Of them, alas! some slipped away like Around the vessel's track. A figure stood sand-some melted like dew-dropsUpon the prow with tall and threat’ning some danced off like sunbeams-some spear,

stalked by like shadows. Yet may Which suddenly into the stream he smote we say, in all humility, that we have Methought of Charon and his gloomy boat not “ lost a day.” “0, mortal man, Of the torch'd Furies and of Pluto drear

that livest here by toil,”—we join Burning the Stygian tide for lamprey vile,

;. with thee in a Hymn written for us That on his bride's dimm'd face, Hell might

3 by Wordsworth.
behold a smile."

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN. “ To the monastic mind thy quiet shade Up to the throne of God is borne Kindly accords, bewild'ring Darnaway! The voice of praise at early morn, Here, those retiring Powers, whose her. And he accepts the punctual hymn mit sway

Sung as the light of day grows dim, The hordes of gross emotions hold obey'd Reign indolent, on bank or flowr'y glade. Nor will he turn his ear aside A deep unusual murmur meets my ear,

From holy offerings at noontide : As if the oak's Briarean arms were sway d Then, here reposing, let us raise Far off in the weird wind. Like timorous

A song of gratitude and praise. deer Caught as he browses by the hunter's horn,

What though our burden be not light, I stop perplex’d, half dreading the career Of coming whirlwind. Then with con

We need not toil from morn till night;

The respite of the mid-day hour quer'd fear Advancing softly through a screen of thorn,

Is in the thankful creature's power. From edge of horrid rock, abruptly bold, Rushing through conduit vast, swart Find

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, horn I behold.”

That, drawn from this one hour of CHRISTOPHER IN HIS Cave-that

rest, was among the mountains the mag

c. Are with a ready heart bestow'd nificent mountains of our Highlands : Upon the service of our God ! CHRISTOPHER IN HIS ALCOVE- this is amid the Fields—the beautiful fields Why should we crave a hallow'd of our Lowlands—within the policy spot :. of Buchanan Lodge_in the distance

An altar is in each man's cot, "stately Edinburgh throned on Crags,"

A church in every grove that spreads

Its living roof above our heads. “In soft aerial perspective displayed;" nor is it easy, in the gloaming hour, Look up to Heaven !-the industrious to distinguish the city from the clouds. sun

Here have we been a lifetime-like Already half his race hath run; day-and shall another sun rise on the He cannot halt nor go astray, Ephemeral! The Neophyte has eva. But our immortal spirits may. nished-and can it be that he was with us but in the spirit? Have we Lord! since his rising in the east, been communing all the while with If we have faltered or transgressid, a creation of our own fancy and our Guide, from thy love's abundant own heart? Yet the voice was fami. source, liar to our ear, and had its own tones What yet remains of this day's course : appropriate to the character of the visitant of our waking dreams. Help with thy grace, through life's May we say, in all humility, that

short day, we have not “ lost a day?" Our word. Our upward and our downward way; less thoughts were innumerable--and And glorify for us the west, not one of all the multitude without When we shall sink to final rest. its own feeling that made it un.

Elinburgh : Printed by Ballantyne and Ilughes, Paul's Work.

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6. BARD of The Fleece, whose skilful genius made

That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of sunshine" deep embayed
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled ;'
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced ;
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flocks shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill."

Gray, somewhere in bis letters, the bookseller, was one day mentionplaces Dyer at the head of the poets ing it to a critical visitor, with more of his day; and though the list enu. expectation of success than the other merated contains no name above me. could easily admit. In the conversa. diocrity, declares him to be a man of tion the author's age was asked ; and genius. Akenside, who Dr Johnson being reported as advanced in life, allows, " on a poetical question, had a •He will,' said the critic, be buried right to be heard," said, “ that he in woollen.'" " This witticism," would regulate his opinion of the saith Thomas Campbell, "has probareigning taste by the fate of Dyer's bly been oftener repeated than any Fleece ; for if that were ill-received, passage in the poem.” Many a he should not think it any longer rea wretched witticism has had wide cursonable to expect fame from excel rency-and this is the most wretched lence." The pleasant sonnet you have of the wretched—the little meaning now read expresses the sentiments of it had at the time having been, someWordsworth,

how or other, we believe, dependent " In 1757," quoth Dr Johnson, on the repeal of a tax affecting grave“Dyer published The Fleece, his chief clothes. "The “ critical visitor," like poetical work; of which I will not most of his tribe-must have been an suppress a ludicrous story. Dodsley, ignorant fellow-for Grongar Hill had VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXXIII,


been popular for thirty — and The Which to those who journey near, Ruins of Rome well known for twenty Barren, brown, and rough appear; years.

Still we tread the same coarse way, “ Of The Fleece," saith Samuel, The present's still a cloudy day." " which never became popular, and is The images here are natural and now universally neglected, I can say impressive, but the expression is poor, little that is likely to recall it to atten- with the exception of tion. The woolcomber and the poet “ As yon summits soft and fair, appear to me such discordant natures,

Clad in colours of the air ;'' that an attempt to bring them together,

and the contrast between the present is to couple the serpent with the fowl.

and the future is feebly and obscurely When Dyer, whose mind was not

set forth. How serenely beautiful the unpoetical, has done his utmost, by interesting his reader in our native

opening of Campbell's immortal poem: commodity, by interposing rural ima

“At summer eve, when heaven's aërial bow gery, and incidental digressions, by

Spans with bright arch the glittering hills

below, clothing small images in great words,

Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, and by all the writer's art of delusion,

Whose suplit summit mingles with the the meanness naturally adhering, and

sky? the irreverence habitually annexed to

Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear trade and manufacture, sink him un.

More sweet than all the landscape smiling der insuperable oppression; and the

near? disgust which blank verse, incumber

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the ing and incumbered, superadds to an view. unpleasing subject, soon repels the And robes the mountain in its azure hue. reader, however willing to be pleased.” Thus, with delight we linger to survey

True that the poem has fallen into The promised joys of life's unmeasured oblivion, and, we fear, by its own way; weight, for it is heavy, and frequently Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered liable to some of the objections here scene, urged; but it is worthy of revival. As More pleasing seems than all the past has to the miserable stuff about “the mean- been, ness naturally adhering, and the irre. And every form that fancy can repair, verence habitually annexed to trade and From dark oblivion glows divinely there." manufacture," it would be shameful Let poets be just to one another ; even to seek to refute it. A powerful but alas! we fear it is among the and original genius has done that by greatest that jealousy or some upanblows on an anvil, heard far up Par- alysable feeling towards their living nassus—aye, Ebenezer Elliot has illu. compeers has ever prevailed. minated the town of Sheffield with a light that will outlive the blazing of

Yes we shall recite a bit of Gron.

gar : all her forges.

Grongar Hill is a very pleasing ef. Now I gain the mountain's brow, fusion, and we have half a mind to

What a landscape lies below! · recite some remembered passages

No clouds, no vapours intervene ; though you might, perhaps, be tempted

But the gay, the open scene,

Does the face of nature show, to cry « pshaw !” We once heard a

In all the lines of heaven's bow : poet say that the opening of the Plea.

And, swelling to embrace the light, sures of Hope was borrowed — we

we Spreads around beneath the sight. fear he said stolen from it. That is " Old castles on the cliffs arise, not true_begging his pardon. Dyer Proudly towering in the skies ! writes :

Busking from the woods, the spires " See on the mountain's northern side, Seem from hence ascending fires ! Where the prospect opens wide,

Half his beams Apollo sheds
Where the evening gilds the tide ; On the yellow mountain heads !
How close and small the hedges lie! Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
What streaks of meadow cross the eye! And glitters in the broken rocks!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream, “ Below the trees unnumber'd rise,
So little distant dangers seem.

Beautiful, in various dyes :
So we mistake the future's face

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, Eyed through Hope's delusive glass ; The yellow beech, the sable yew, As yon summits, soft and fair,

The slender fir, that taper grows, Clad in colours of the air,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; And beyond the purple grove,

Draggle-Tail," with an antidote to Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!

the rod of Morpheus. Gaudy as the opening dawn,

By and by the poet seeks the shade, Lies a long and level lawn,

and seems disposed to imitate the On which a dark bill, steep and high, swain : Holds and charms the wandering eye!

“ A little onward and I go Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,

Into the shade that groves bestow ; His sides are clothed with waving wood,

And on green moss I lay me down, And ancient towers crown his brow,

That o'er the root of oak has grown. That cast an awful look below;

There all is silent, but some flood Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,

That sweetly murmurs in the wood; And with her arms from falling keeps :

And birds that warble in the sprays, So both a safety from the wind,

And charm even silence with their lays." In mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ;

We are easily pleased—but we call 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ;

that pretty poetry - and so does And there the fox securely feeds;

Wordsworth. John Dyer does not And there the poisonous adder breeds,

fall asleep--but, on the contrary, adConceald in ruins, moss, and weeds ;

dresses silence with much animation. While ever and anon, there falls

“ Oh powerful silence ! how you reign Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls. In the poet's busy brain! Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, His numerous thoughts obey the calls And level lays the lofty brow,

Of the tuneful waterfalls; Has seen this broken pile complete, Like moles, whene'er the coast is clear, Big with the vanity of state ;

They rise before thee without fear, But transient is the smile of fate!

And range in parties here and there." A little rule, a little sway,

We have such love for moles that no A sunbeam in a winter's day,

man can mention them amiss, and the Is all the proud and mighty have

image is good ; but we are sorry to Between the cradle and the grave.”

find that we are not so well acquainted The Country Walk is almost with their habits as we had fondly Grongar Hill over again, with varia. imagined; for never has it been our tions--but it has some pictures more good fortune to meet with parties of touching to the heart. It opens glad. moles ranging here and there, not somely

even on the hills or holms of Yarrow, “ I am resolved this charming day,

where the dear, sweet, soft, sleek civil In the open field to stray;

engineers have, from time immemorial, And have no roof above my head,

loved to pitch their pastoral tents, disBut that whereon the gods do tread.”

tinguishable but by finest eyes from

those of the fairies. These lines are followed somewhat

We love thee, “ excellent and ami. unexpectedly by

able Dyer"-as thou art rightly called “ Before the yellow barn I see

in a note to The Excursion-for this A beautiful variety,

picture : Of stiutting cocks, advancing stout,

“I rouse me up, and on I rove, And Airting empty chaff about ;

'Tis more than time to leave the grove, Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their The sun descends, the evening breeze

Begins to whisper through the trees : And turkeys gabbling for their food,

And as I leave the sylvan gloom, While rustics thresh the wealthy floor, As to the glare of day I come, And tempt them all to crowd the door.”

An old man's smoky nest I see, As he saunters through the fields, Leaning on an aged tree; " Here finding pleasure after pain,

Whose willow walls and furzy brow, Sleeping I see a wearied swain,

A little garden sways below. While his full scrip lies open by

Through spreading beds of blooming green, That does his healthy food supply."

Matted with herbage sweet and clean, We wonder what has wearied the

A vein of water limps along,

And makes them ever green and young. swain-tne nour appears to be ante. Here he pust's upon his spade, meridian-and were we to find any And digs up cabbage in the shade ; swain on our farm asleep, with a full His tattered rags are sable brown, scrip lying open by, we should infal. His beard and bair are hoary grown; libly fling it over the hedge, and rouse The dying sap descends apace, him from his dream of “ Dorothy And leaves a withered band and face.”


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