POETS' CORNER.

The poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansions keep.

DENHAM.

As I was strolling through St. James's Park, one afternoon, shortly after my arrival in London, I caught a glimpse, over the trees, of the gray towers of Westminster Abbey. I cannot tell my feelings at the sight: I looked, and turned away, and looked again, and again withdrew my eyes and fastened them upon the ground, endeavoring to collect my thoughts and calm my feelings, and draw into some kind of order and connection the thousand associations that had been awakened, at beholding with my own eyes that venerable pile, which I had contemplated in thought from my childhood. Ah! Englishmen can never know-they may well envy

-the feelings of an educated American, on first beholding the classic spots in the land of his forefathers. Habit and daily use, with those who live near such places, blunt the feelings of interest and veneration; and the Londoner, as he goes to and from his daily business, carelessly brushes by grand old edifices, which, to the eye of the stranger, are almost hallowed. Like the rustic, in our own country, who, as it is said, spent his whole life

within the sound of Niagara Falls, without ever going to see them,-so, probably, there are numbers of even intelligent Englishmen (I met with one or two), born and brought up within the sound of Bow Bells, who have never yet seen the interior of St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey.

As I contemplated, in the distance, those venerable towers, what various images and associations came thronging through my mind! From Edward the Confessor, who, as my boyhood's readings in English history had informed me, was the founder,-down to Addison, in the "Spectator," and, still later, to our own Irving, the charming describer and sketcher of the place,—a thousand recollections, historical, poetical, and literary, rose before my imagination, filling my mind with thoughts and emotions almost painful from their variety and intensity.

I did not visit the Abbey that afternoon,—I had no inclination to go nearer at that time; it was delight enough for one day, to have seen the old towers in the distance. I preferred giving myself up to the pleasing train of thoughts and memories that had been awakened, and feared to have the charm broken by a nearer view.

A few days after, however, I visited the place, and the first point of interest was the famed "Poets" Corner." Fortunately, that corner of the building is first in position, as well as in interest, to the visitor; for here is the ordinary entrance into the Abbey. You enter by a low door,-and at once are in the charmed circle. I found myself surrounded by busts, and statues, and tombs, of poets. Milton, Spenser, Gray, and "rare Ben Jonson," at once are

before you. Above Spenser is Butler, and below Milton is Gray: the busts are set along the wall promiscuously, without much regard to regularity, and with none at all to literary precedence.

On the right, as you advance towards the interior of the building, is the resting-place of the venerable Chaucer, the "morning-star of English poetry." The tomb bears all the marks of age, and time has nearly effaced the inscription. The poet was buried here in the year 1400 (four centuries and a half ago), though this monument, as we learn from the guide-books, was not erected till a century and a half later. The poet's house was hard by, on the spot where Henry the VII.'s chapel now stands; so that with him, literally, it was but a step from his fireside into his grave. No! not into his grave-I correct the expression: this language, that we use so commonly, is in fact heathenish. Immortal man goes not into the grave at all; his old garment, the body, is laid in the grave, but he himself steps rather into the busy world of spirits, and enters on his new and endless life. And there, at this moment, thought I, is this same Chaucer, no longer "old," but rejuvenated, and enjoying the eternal youth of the spirit, and exerting, we may trust, his purified powers amidst the poets of heaven. For, as we read in the accounts of his life, he bitterly repented of the immoral portion of his writings: as old Wood says, "It grieved him much, on his deathbed; for one that lived shortly after his time maketh report, that when he saw death approaching, he did often cry out, 'Woe is me, woe is me, that I cannot recall and annul those things; but, alas! they are

now continued from man to man, and I cannot do what I desire.'" No wonder that he grieved! What can be more painful to a writer possessed of any conscience and any regard for the welfare of his fellow-men, than the thought, in his last hours, that he had put into circulation irrevocable words of error or of evil, which would go on spreading their baneful influence among men, for years or ages after he himself had departed from the world! The poet Campbell congratulated himself that his writings had, at least, been all of a good moral tendency; and of Thomson, as Johnson has remarked, it was the "highest praise," that his works contained

"No line which, dying, he would wish to blot."

But to return. A little beyond Chaucer's tomb stands the bust of Dryden, on a pedestal, in a very prominent position. And on turning the angle of the wall to the left, you come amongst a crowd of celebrities. The first that caught my eye was a bust of Southey, the marble having a singularly new and white appearance,-which, standing as it did amongst so many time-discolored monuments of comparatively ancient and hallowed names, had somewhat the air of an intruder. However, though not a poet of the highest order, Southey deserves a place in Poets' Corner: many, inferior to him, have long held there an undisputed post. Opposite to Southey, was a niche said to be intended for Wordsworth, though that writer was at the time still living. He has since passed to his place in a higher sphere, and his monument has, I believe, been erected in the place reserved for it.

The bust of Thomson next met my view-the charming poet of the Seasons. Thomson's writings have the good fortune to be based on the firm foundation of nature, and will therefore, I believe, endure longer than others of much greater present celebrity. The lofty hymn, which so nobly crowns his poem of the "Seasons," would alone suffice to keep his memory alive, so instinct is it with truth, beauty, and devotion.

A little farther to the left, stands the monument of Goldsmith. Poor "Goldy!" His friend Johnson should be by his side, but I looked round for him in vain. As Johnson and Goldsmith, it is related, were once visiting Poets' Corner in company, the former, in a spirit of quiet complacency and perhaps just consciousness of merit, uttered the line,

Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis;

"Our names, too, will perhaps find a place here." The prophecy has not, however, been strictly verified. The remains of Johnson were interred, indeed, in the Abbey, but his monument is in St. Paul's. Nor, perhaps, great as his genius was, does he properly deserve a place among the poets, for the little poetry he did attempt is forgotten or at least unread. But, as a general thinker, and an admirable utterer of clear and solid thoughts, and, above all, as a pious moralist, a firm supporter of religion and virtue in a sensual and infidel age, the name of Johnson must ever stand among the foremost in his country's literature. With all his faults, I revere and love the memory of Johnson.

Next, is a statue of Addison, with his delicate