And gather up all fancifulest shells O hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, The many that are come to pay their vows, Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven, Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen Ode to a Nightingale. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness paine One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm south, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Away! away! for I will fly to thee Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused thyme, To take into the air my quiet breath: Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades KEATS] ENGLISH LITERATURE. Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep Was it a vision or a waking dream? To Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind: Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Or by a cider-press with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies; Sonnets. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: When a new planet swims into his ken; On England. Happy is England! I could be content To feel no other breezes than are blown And half forgot what world or worldling meant. Beauties of deeper glance and hear their singing, DR. REGINALD HEBER. DR. REGINALD HEBER, bishop of Calcutta, was born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, where his father had a living. In his seventeenth year he was admitted of Brazen-nose College, Oxford, and soon distinguished himself by his classical attainments. In 1802 he obtained the university prize for Latin hexameters, his subject being the Carmen Seculare.' Applying himself to English verse, Heber, in 1803, composed his poem ofPalestine,' which has been considered the best prize-poem the university has ever produced. Parts of it were set to music; and it had an extensive sale. Previous to its recitation in the theatre of the university, the young author read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford; and Scott observed, that in the verses on Solomon's Temple, one striking circumstance had escaped him-namely, that no tools were used in its construction. Reginald retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the beautiful lines: No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung; Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen and desolate state, is pathetic and beautiful: Palestine. Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, Mourn, widowed Queen! forgotten Sion, mourn! Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne, Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone? White suns unblest their angry lustre fling, And wayworn pilgrims seek the scanty spring? Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed? No suppliant nations in thy temple wait; No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, He has also given a striking sketch of the Druses, the hardy mountain race descended from the Crusaders: The Druses. Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine, Oh, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed, What though no more for you the obedient gale Though now no more your glittering marts unfold Though not for you the pale and sickly slave Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, In 1805 Heber took his degree of B.A., and the same year gained the prize for the English essay. He was elected to a fellowship at All Souls' College, and soon after went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea. On his return he took his degree of A.M. at Oxford. He appeared again as a poet in 1809, his subject being Europe, or Lines on the Present War.' The struggle in Spain formed the predominating theme of Heber's poem. He was now presented to the living of Hodnet; and at the same time he married Amelia, daughter of Dr. Shipley, dean of St. Asaph. The duties of a parish pastor were discharged by Heber with unostentatious fidelity and application. He also applied his vigorous intellect to the study of divinity, and in 1815 preached the Bampton Lecture, the subject selected by him for a course of sermons being the Personality and Office of the Christian Comforter. He was an occasional contributor to the 'Quarterly Review;' and in 1822 he wrote a copious life of Jeremy Taylor, and a review of his writings, for a complete edition of Taylor's works. Contrary to the advice of prudent friends, he ac cepted, in 1823, the difficult task of bishop of Calcutta, and no man |