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"Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns;

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

"I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.

"What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there;

But in the garden bower the bride
And bridemaids singing are;

And hark the little vesper bell,

Which biddeth me to prayer!

"O wedding-guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide, wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

"O sweeter than the marriage feast,
"Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!-

"To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

"Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding-guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.

"He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."
The mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the wedding-guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd,
And is of sense forlorn :

A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.

LOVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own
My hope my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,

sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace, For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely knight, And that he cross'd the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,

He leap'd amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The lady of the land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;
And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves

A dying man he lay;

His dying words-but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music, and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stept aside,

As conscious of my look she steptThen suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.

She half-enclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd up,

And gazed upon my face.

"T was partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;

And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride.

THE PAINS OF SLEEP.

ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees:
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to love compose,
In humble trust mine eyelids close,
With reverential resignation,

No wish conceived, no thought express'd,
Only a sense of supplication;
A sense o'er all my soul impress'd
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, everywhere
Eternal strength and wisdom are.
But yesternight I prayed aloud
In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,

And whom I scorn'd, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still!
Desire with loathing strangely mix'd,
On wild or hateful objects fix'd.
Fantastic passions: maddening brawl!
And shame and terror over all!
Deed to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know,
Whether I suffer'd, or I did:

For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or wo,
My own or others', still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
So two nights pass'd: the night's dismay
Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me
Distemper's worst calamity.

The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;

And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due

To natures deepliest stain'd with sin,— For aye entempesting anew

The unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,

And whom I love, I love indeed.

CONCEALMENT.

TIME, as he courses onward, still unrolls
The volume of Concealment. In the future,
As in the optician's glassy cylinder,
The indistinguishable blots and colours
Of the dim past collect and shape themselves,
Upstarting in their own completed image
To scare or to reward.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

DR. SOUTHEY was the son of a linen draper | The History of Brazil, The History of the

in Bristol, where he was born on the twelfth of August, 1774. In his sixteenth year he was placed at the Westminster School, and in 1792 at Baliol College, with the design of his entering the church. His career at Oxford was a brief one; his tendency toward Socinianism made the plan marked out for him disagreeable; and he returned to Bristol, where in 1794 he published, in conjunction with ROBERT LOVELL, his first collection of poems. In the autumn of the following year he was married to a sister of the wife of his friend COLERIDGE, and soon after, while he was on his way to Lisbon, appeared his Joan of Arc. It was about this time that he wrote, in three days, his notable drama of Wat Tyler, which was surreptitiously printed some twenty-three years afterward. In the summer of 1796 he returned to England, removed to London, and entered Gray's Inn. A portion of the years 1800 and 1801 were passed in the Peninsula, whence he sent home his romance of Thalaba the Destroyer, which permanently established his reputation as a poet. At the end of a short residence in Dublin, as secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, he went to Keswick, where he lived the rest of his life. In 1805 he published Madoc, which had been brought to a close in 1799; in 1810 the Curse of Kehama, in 1814 Roderick the last of the Goths, in 1821 The Vision of Judgment, and in 1825 The Tale of Paraguay, the latest of his longer poems. Beside these he wrote numerous briefer pieces, all of which are included in the ten volume edition of his poetical works which appeared in London under his own supervision in 1837, and was reprinted by Appleton and Company, in New York, in 1839.

In addition to his poems, Mr. SOUTHEY produced numerous prose works, of which the principal are Amadis de Gaul, from the Spanish; Palmerin of England, from the Portuguese; Letters from England, written under the fictitious name of Espriella; the Chronicle of the Cid, from the Spanish; Omniana,

Peninsular War, The Book of the Church, Vindiciæ Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society, The Life of Nelson, The Life of Wesley, The Life of Cowper, editions, with memoirs of the authors, of The Pilgrim's Progress, The Works of Chatterton, and The Works of Henry Kirke White, numerous contributions to the Quarterly Review, and that remarkable book, The Doctor.

On the death of Mr. PYE, in 1813, SOUTHEY was appointed poet laureate; and in 1821 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws from the University of Oxford. In the spring of 1839 he contracted a second marriage with CAROLINE ANNE, daughter of Mr. CHARLES BowLES, and one of the most pathetic and natural of the living writers of her sex.

Intense labour in every department of literature-in poetry, philosophy, history, biography and criticism-continued for so many years, at length obscured SOUTHEY's genius, and reduced him to a state of mental darkness. For three years before his death his intellect was nearly gone, and in the last year of his life he could not recognise the dearest members of his family. He died at Keswick on the twenty-first of March, 1843, in the sixtyeighth year of his age.

SOUTHEY's prose is hardly exceeded in the English language. English language. It is clear, vigorous, manly, and graceful, worthy of the elder and greatest writers. In his poems, especially his longer ones, we rather admire the author than the works; his energy seems rather force of character than of mind, and we are more struck by the resistless daring of his temper than the boldness of his faculties. His effusions are not instinctive or spontaneous; he does not seem to have "fed on thoughts that voluntary move harmonious numbers:" he urges his genius rather than is mastered by it. The goal perhaps is reached in good time, but it is by application of the spur. His poems unquestionably have that pulchritude which bars dispraise; the dulcia sunto which should kindle enthusiasm is lacking. Yet, after every

abatement, his name will remain one of the these, in exclusion of the rest; and the popu

greatest in modern poetry.

To master and wield the colossal forms of oriental superstition, to animate them with human and familiar interests, to render them ductile to all the demands of art, was a task which only the extravagance of youth would have undertaken, and only the rarest and most remarkable genius could accomplish. This SOUTHEY did, and with entire success. With the exception of BECKFORD, he was the first to invade the gorgeous East: and no man has followed him in any new attempt to construct epics from materials derived only from dictionaries and bibliothèques, and to inspire modern poetry with the faith, the fears and passions of a people extinct for thousands of years.

The influence of these extraordinary works upon the literature and taste of England has been much greater than is generally acknowledged. They shattered the sceptre of that bastard empire of decency and imbecility which POPE's successors had set up. If WORDSWORTH has been called the poet of poets in respect to feeling, SOUTHEY may more truly be termed the study of artists in respect to imagination. It was a spark from SOUTHEY'S ardour which kindled in ScoTT the ambition to reconstruct the crumbled temple of Scottish chivalry; and he led BYRON and MOORE to the orient. While the languid tints of HAYLEY and DARWIN and BEATTIE were gathering in the evening of its glory over the once splendid sky of British literature, his spirit suddenly arose above the horizon, and streamed over the scene like "a thunderstorm against the wind." From that time the aspect and the elements of English poetry were changed. We should feel that a man wanted something to a complete insight into the character of modern art who had not read Thalaba and Kehama.

When we look at the great poets who commonly appear about the time that a nation is passing from the dominion of sense to that of reason,-to HOMER, DANTE, Spenser,-we find them in possession of all the faculties of art,-invention, construction, decoration, passion, sentiment, moral sense. Their successors, severally, have some one or two of

larity of any poet will depend upon which quality he possesses. But it by no means follows that this popularity will be a test of the value and dignity of the order of the gift which the poet has; for some of the rarest and highest capacities of the artist are those which are not the most highly appreciated by the multitude. SOUTHEY had, in an eminent degree, a power which, with the exception of SCOTT, almost all his contemporaries wanted, construction,-the power of giv ing form to a work,-the architectural faculty of the mind. This is the most uncommon of the poet's powers, and is in itself a great merit, without which there is no art. It is almost the only faculty which JONSON had; and while the lower benches of critics have held JONSON cheap, those in the highest seats have always deemed that his title to a place among the great authors of his country was unquestionable.

SOUTHEY'S smaller poems, written generally at a later period of life, are very different from the longer ones; and the difference is characteristic of the great and singular change which took place in him in his progress from youth to age. In them he delights chiefly to illustrate and beautify the domestic affections. The spirit that once soared almost beyond following, here loves to nestle in the very bosom of social feeling. Humanity in its genuine sympathies, in its truest and most native interests, in its most sincere and deepborn sentiments, is the sphere around which his fancy makes its willing yet controlled and gentle circuit. Those subjects which most other writers have felt as a dead weight upon their powers, as duty, piety, temperance, and fidelity, seemed to inspire him. To the last his genius always warmed into the beauty of its youthful ardour whenever a good affection was to be expressed, a friend to be commemorated, or a virtue to be praised.

These poems, indeed, possess a charm beyond the scope of criticism. They belong to the now justified excellence of one of the loveliest characters of which literary history bears record. They show us the heart of one of the best men that modern England has contained.

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ODE,

WRITTEN DURING THE NEGOTIATIONS WITH BONAPARTE, IN JANUARY, 1814.

WHO Counsels peace at this momentous hour, When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd, And to the injured power?

Who counsels peace, when vengeance, like a flood,
Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd;
When innocent blood

From the four corners of the world cries out
For justice upon one accursed head;
When freedom hath her holy banners spread
Over all nations, now in one just cause
United; when, with one sublime accord,
Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd,
And loyalty, and faith, and ancient laws
Follow the avenging sword!

Wo, wo to England! wo and endless shame,
If this heroic land,

False to her feelings and unspotted fame,
Hold out the olive to the tyrant's hand!
Wo to the world, if Bonaparte's throne
Be suffer'd still to stand!

For by what name shall right and wrong be known,

What new and courtly phrases must we feign For falsehood, murder, and all monstrous crimes, If that perfidious Corsican maintain Still his detested reign,

And France, who yearns even now to break her chain,

Beneath his iron rule be left to groan?

No! by the innumerable dead, Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed,

Death only can for his foul deeds atone; That peace which death and judgment can bestow, That peace be Bonaparte's,-that alone!

For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, Or from the leopard shall her spots depart, Than this man change his old, flagitious heart. Have ye not seen him in the balance weigh'd, And there found wanting? On the stage of blood Foremost the resolute adventurer stood; And when, by many a battle won, He placed upon his brow the crown, Curbing delirious France beneath his sway, Then, like Octavius in old time, Fair name might he have handed down, Effacing many a stain of former crime. Fool! should he cast away that bright renown! Fool! the redemption proffer'd should he lose! When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the way

To good and evil lay

Before him, which to choose.

But evil was his good,

For all too long in blood had he been nursed, And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant cursed. Bold man and bad,

Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, And black with murders and with perjuries, Himself in hell's whole panoply he clad;

No law but his own headstrong will he knew, No counsellor but his own wicked heart. From evil thus portentous strength he drew, And trampled under foot all human ties, All holy laws, all natural charities.

O France! beneath this fierce barbarian's sway Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times; Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way,

All loathsome, all unutterable crimes.

A curse is on thee, France! from far and wide
It hath gone up to heaven. All lands have cried
For vengeance upon thy detested head!
All nations curse thee, France! for wheresoe'er,
In peace or war, thy banner hath been spread,
All forms of human woe have follow'd there.
The living and the dead

Cry out alike against thee! They who bear,
Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke,
Join in the bitterness of secret prayer
The voice of that innumerable throng,
Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke
The everlasting Judge of right and wrong,
How long, O Lord! Holy and Just, how long!

A merciless oppressor hast thou been,
Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime;
Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain
Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime,
And rivet faster round thyself the chain.
Oh! blind to honour, and to interest blind,

When thus in abject servitude resign'd
To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave
God's justice, and the heart of human-kind!
Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world,

Thyself the while a miserable slave. Behold, the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd! The dreadful armies of the North advance; While England, Portugal, and Spain combined, Give their triumphant banners to the wind, And stand victorious in the fields of France.

One man hath been for ten long, wretched years The cause of all this blood and all these tears;

One man in this most awful point of time
Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime.
Wait not too long the event,

For now whole Europe comes against thee bent;
His wiles and their own strength the nations know:
Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent,
The people and the princes, with one mind,
From all parts move against the general foe;
One act of justice, one atoning blow,
One execrable head laid low,
Even yet, O France! averts thy punishment.
Open thine eyes!-too long hast thou been blind;
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind!

France! if thou lovest thine ancient fame,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame!
By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's beach;
By the blood which on Domingo's shore
Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore;
By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain,
Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain

Of frozen Moscovy;

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