ing away into the distance, and the far-off hills mingling with the clouds, until we knew not which was earth or which was sky.

Very pleasant was that sojourn by the Thames side. And among the pleasures that I most value, one of those which I brought home with me and trust never to lose, must be reckoned the becoming acquainted with Mr. Noel's "Rymes and Roundelayes," and forming, not an acquaintance, for we have never met, but a friendship with the author.

Mr. Noel resides in a beautiful place in that beautiful neighborhood, leading the life of an accomplished but somewhat secluded country gentleman;—a most enviable life, and one well adapted to the observation of nature and to the production of poetry, but by no means so well calculated to make a volume of poems extensively known. Hence it is that the elegant and . graphic description of Thames scenery which I subjoin, although it has been published nearly ten years, will probably have the charm of novelty to many of my readers.

A THAMES VOYAGE.

Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark
On the bosom of Father Thames,
And before her bows the wavelets dark
Break into a thousand gems.

The kingfisher not straighter darts

Down the stream to his sweet mate's nest,
Than our arrowy pinnace shoots and parts
The river's yielding breast.

We have passed the chalk-cliff on whose crown
The hermit's hut doth cling,

And the bank, whose hanging woods look down
On the smile of Cliefden spring.

We are come where Hedsor's crested fount
Pours forth its babbling rill,

And where the charmed eye loves to mount
To the small church on the hill.

On, like a hawk upon the wing,
Our little wherry flies;
Against her bows the ripples sing,

And the wavelets round her rise.

In view is Cookham's ivied tower;
And, up yon willowy reach,
Enfolding many a fairy bower,
Wave Bisham's woods of beech.

O'er Marlow's loveliest vale they look,
And its spire that seeks the skies;
And afar, to where in its meadow-nook
Medmenham's Abbey lies.

Still on, still on, as we smoothly glide,
There are charms that woo the eye,-
Boughs waving green in the pictured tide,
And the blue reflected sky.

Swift dragon-flies, with their gauzy wings,
Flit glistening to and fro,

And murmuring hosts of moving things
O'er the waters glance and glow.

There are spots where nestle wild flowers small

With many a mingling gleam;

Where the broad flag waves, and the bulrush tall Nods still to the thrusting stream.

The Forget-me-not on the water's edge
Reveals her lovely hue,

Where the broken bank, between the sedge,
Is embroidered with her blue.

And in bays where matted foliage weaves

A shadowy arch on high,

Serene on broad and bronze-like leaves,
The virgin lilies lie.

Fair fall those bonny flowers! O how
I love their petals bright!

Smoother than Ariel's moonlit brow!
The Water-Nymph's delight!

Those milk-white cups with a golden core,
Like marble lamps, that throw

So soft a light on the bordering shore,
And the waves that round them flow!

Steadily, steadily, speeds our bark,

O'er the silvery whirls she springs;
While merry as lay of morning lark
The watery carol rings.
B*

Lo! a sailing swan, with a little fleet
Of cygnets by her side,
Pushing her snowy bosom sweet
Against the bubbling tide!

And see-was ever a lovelier sight?

One little bird afloat

On its mother's back, 'neath her wing so white,

A beauteous living boat!

The threatful male, as he sails ahead,
Like a champion proud and brave,
Makes with his ruffling wings outspread,
Fierce jerks along the wave.

He tramples the stream, as we pass him by,
In wrath from its surface springs,

And after our boat begins to fly,

With loudly-flapping wings.

Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark,

And the curling current stems,

Where the willows cast their shadows dark,
And the ripples gleam like gems;

Oh! there's many a charming scene to mark
From the bosom of Father Thames.

The following powerful lines are better known, and serve to show the variety of Mr. Noel's talent.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;

To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:-

Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none;
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone;
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man:-
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din!
The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they spin!

How the dirt right and left o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.
Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach;
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last,
But it will not be long if he goes on so fast!
Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

The author tells me that this incident was taken from the life. He witnessed such a funeral :-a coffin in a cart driven at full speed.

But a truce to this strain! for my soul it is sad
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear softly his bones over the stones,

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

IV.

OLD AUTHORS.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

As in the case of Ben Jonson, posterity values his writings for very different qualities from those which obtained his high reputation among his cotemporaries, so it has happened to Cowley.

Praised in his day as a great poet, the head of the school of poets called metaphysical, he is now chiefly known by those prose essays, all too short and all too few, which, whether for thought or for expression, have rarely been excelled by any writer in any language. They are eminently distinguished for the grace, the finish, and the clearness which his verse too often wants. That there is one cry which pervades them-vanity of vanities! all is vanity!—that there is an almost ostentatious longing for obscurity and retirement, may be accounted for by the fact that at an early age Cowley was thrown among the cavaliers of the civil wars, sharing the exile and the return of the Stuarts, and doubtless disgusted, as so pure a writer was pretty sure to be, by a dissolute Court, with whom he would find it easier to sympathize in its misery than in its triumph. Buckingham, with the fellowfeeling of talent for talent, appears to have been kind to him ; and when he fled from the world (not very far, he found his beloved solitude at Chertsey), it is satisfactory to know that he so far escaped the proverbial ingratitude of the Restoration as to carry with him an income sufficient for his moderate wants. He did not long survive a retirement which, Sprat says, in a curious life prefixed to the edition of his works in 1719, "agreed better with his mind than his body."

It is difficult to select from a volume so abundant in riches ; but I will begin by his opinion of theatrical audiences contained in "The Preface to the Cutter of Coleman Street :"