The Pauper's Deathbed. Tread softly-bow the head- Stranger! however great, Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state : That pavement damp and cold No mingling voices sound- Oh! change-oh! wondrous change Oh! change stupendous change! Mariner's Hymn. Launch thy bark, mariner! 'What of the night, watchman? No land yet-all's right.' At an hour when all seemeth How! gains the leak so fast? It is a place where poets crowned O poets! from a maniac's tongue Was poured the deathless singing! And now, what time ye all may read And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds He wore no less a loving face, He shall be strong to sanctify The poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down Nor ever shall he be in praise With sadness that is calm, not gloom, On God, whose heaven hath won him. Where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shattered brain Such quick poetic senses, As hills have language for, and stars The pulse of dew upon the grass The very world, by God's constraint, Its women and its men became And timid hares were drawn from woods To share his home-caresses, Uplooking in his human eyes, With sylvan tendernesses. But while in darkness he remained, Unconscious of the guiding, MARY HOWITT. nated,' she says, 'in a strong impression of the immense value of the human soul, and of all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part-in a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my motto. What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and commiseration. It is necessary, for the acquisition of that charity which is the soul of Christianity, for us to descend into the depths of our own nature; to put ourselves into many imaginary and untried situations, that we may enable ourselves to form some tolerable notion how we might be affected by them; how far we might be tempted-how far deceived-how far we might have occasion to lament the evil power of circumstances, to weep over our own weakness, and pray for the pardon of our of what we might do, suffer, and become, we may apply the rule to our fellows, and cease to be astonished, in some degree, at the shapes of atrocity into which some of them are transformed; and learn to bear with others as brethren, who have been tried tenfold beyond our own experience, or perhaps our strength.' This lady, the wife of William Howitt, an industrious miscellaneous writer, is distinguished for her happy imitations of the ancient ballad manner. In 1823 she and her husband published a volume of poems with their united names, and made the following statement in the preface: The history of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been our youthful amusement, and our increasing daily enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of our national literature, we have revelled with grow-crimes; that, having raised up this vivid perception ing and unsatiated delight; and, at the same time, living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we have watched the changing features of nature; we have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unostentatious images which she is perpetually presenting, and given full scope to those workings of the imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and scenes.' A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert : Away with the pleasure that is not partaken! On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes, To see my delight is partaken by thee! And when, as how often, I eagerly listen To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, And feel that affection has sweetened the lay. How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth, read! Then away with the pleasure that is not partaken! I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken Mrs Howitt again appeared before the world in 1834, with a poetical volume entitled The Seven Temptations, representing a series of efforts, by the impersonation of the Evil Principle, to reduce human souls to his power. The idea of the poem origi Mrs Howitt has since presented several volumes in both prose and verse, chiefly designed for young people. The whole are marked by a graceful intelligence and a simple tenderness which at once charm the reader and win his affections for the author. Mountain Children. Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee? Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirits free! No crowd impedes your way, No city wall impedes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played. The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; These are your joys! Go forth- For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, The voice of hidden rills Ye sit upon the earth And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth-earth and sky Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread! The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend. 'And where have you been, my Mary, And what did you see, my Mary, "I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And what did you hear, my Mary, 'I heard the drops of the water made, Oh, the poor, blind old widow Though she has been blind so long, And some they brought the brown lintseed, How will he laugh outright, And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin "I have spun up all the tow," said he, I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And an apron for her mother!" And with that I could not help but laugh, And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, But, as I came down from the hill-top, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go! And I peeped into the widow's field; And down by the weaver's croft I stole, With the good news in his eye! Now, this is all I heard, mother, Now that posture is not right, And he is not settled quite; There! that's better than beforeAnd the knave pretends to snore. Ha! he is not half asleep; You shall have it, pigmy brother! THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD has come before the world chiefly as a writer of comic poetry; but several compositions of a different nature show that he is also capable of shining in the paths of the imaginative, the serious, and the romantic. He was born in London in 1798, the son of a member of the well-known bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharp. The poet was bred in the profession of an engraver, which he in time forsook, when he found that he could command the attention of the public by his whimsical verses. His first publication was a volume entitled Whims and Oddities, which attained great popularity soon after, he commenced The Comic Annual, the success of which was not less remarkable. A novel entitled Tylney Hall, published in 1834, was a variation of the poet's labours, which the public did not encourage him to repeat. The comic poetry of Hood was usually set off by drawings executed in a peculiar style by himself, and to which they were in some degree indebted for their success. The most original feature of these productions was the use which the author made of puns a figure usually too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. Of the serious poems of our author, his Plea for the Midsummer Fairies, and The Dream of Eugene Aram, are the most popular. Song. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet; Oh no!-the world was newly crowned "Twas twilight, and I bade you go, We plucked them as we passed! What else could peer my glowing cheek, And when I asked the like of love, And oped it to the dainty core, We plucked them as we passed! Town and Country. Oh! well may poets make a fuss What joy have I in June's return? My sun his daily course renews But down a chimney pot! Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe; The dewy meads among! Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! The turtle made at Cuff's. How tenderly Rousseau reviewed I hunt in vain for eglantine, That marks the Bell and Crown. Or mourn in thickets deep? My blackbird is a sweep! My rills are only puddle-drains Sweet are the little brooks that run Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, And skin-not shear-the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, Sweetly-here soundeth not; But merely breathes unwholesome fumes; The rank weed-' piping hot.' All rural things are vilely mocked, With objects hard to bear: An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, Wherein the zephyr wons? No pastoral scenes procure me peace; No cot set round with trees: No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; With brokers-not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamblike frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown,) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) The Dream of Eugene Aram. [The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.] "Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Away they sped with gamesome minds, To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; So he leaned his head on his hands, and read Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book Much study had made him very lean, At last he shut the ponderous tome; Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And lo he saw a little boy That pored upon a book! 72 |