Crumbling away. Masses of ground and trees
Uptorn and floating, hollow rocks, brute cramm'd,
Vast herds, and bleating flocks, reptiles, and beasts
Bellowing, and vainly with the choking waves
Struggling, were hurried out,-but none return'd:
All on the altar of the giant sea
Offer'd, like twice ten thousand hecatombs,
Whose blood allays the burning wrath of gods.
-Day after day the busy death pass'd on
Full, and by night return'd hungering anew;
And still the new morn fill'd his horrid maw
With flocks, and herds, a city, a tribe, a town,
One after one borne out, and far from land
Dying in whirlpools or the sullen deeps.
All perish'd then:-The last who lived was one
Who clung to life, because a frail child lay
Upon her heart: weary, and gaunt, and worn,
From point to point she sped, with mangled feet,
Bearing for aye her little load of love :-
Both died,-last martyrs of a mother's sins,
Last children they of Earth's sad family.
From the Flood of Thessaly.
EFFECT OF SUBLIME SCENERY UPON THE HUMAN
CHARACTER.
I have seen the Alpine sun-set:-oh! how weak
My verse to tell what flash'd across my sight.
Green, blue, and burning red, was every streak:
Like rainbow beams, but trebly, trebly bright;
The earth, the air, the heavens, were living light:
My vision was absorb'd. I trembled—then
Softening his glance, and sinking in his might,
The sun slow faded from the eyes of men,
And died away. Ne'er have I seen the like again.
Yet have I lain in many a leafy nook
Sequester'd, hiding from the summer beam,
Idling, or haply with that charmed book
Writ by the Avon side; and loved to dream
Of pale Cordelia, gentle Imogen:
Or, on some brook that slid, like guilt, away
Hurrying the pilfer'd mosses down its stream,
Ponder'd, and often at the close of day
Gazed on the coming moon, and felt, perhaps, her sway.
It is in high, remoter scenes, that we
Become sublimed, yet humble: there we learn
That still beyond us spreads-infinity,
And we, still clay: or, all admiring, turn
To where those characters of beauty burn,
Which God hath printed on the starry skies:
And haply guess why we alone may learn
The world's vast wonders: why alone our eyes
See far: why we alone have such proud sympathies.
For with creation and its marvels none
Save we, can hold communion. On the earth
Are many stately footsteps, and the sun
Shines on eyes bright as ours: yet hath our birth
(Holy) shed round us an immortal worth,
Beyond the rest: though with the rest we fade,
And are encircled by as frail a girth
To life, as they: and in the deadly shade
Wither as quick, and are as loathsome when decay'd.
But while we live, the air, the fruit, the flower,
Doth own to us a high, superior charm:
And the soul's radiance in our wintry hour
Flings a sweet summer halo round us, warm;
And then, the multitudinous things that swarm
From the brain's secret cells, and never die
(Though mortal born),-Oh! for that boasted balm
Of life, to raise the mighty when they lie
Wrecks, both in frame and mind- —common mortality.
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
And this is man's fidelity!
"Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
Over Babylon's sandy plains
Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns.
A thousand lords at his kingly call
Have met to feast in a spacious hall,
And all the imperial boards are spread,
With dainties whereon the monarch fed.-
Rich cates and floods of the purple grape :
And many a dancer's serpent shape
Steals slowly upon their amorous sights,
Or glances beneath the flaunting lights:
And fountains throw up their silver spray,-
And cymbals clash,-and the trumpets bray
Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung;
And words from the winding horn are flung:
And still the carved cups go round,
And revel and mirth and wine abound.
But night has o'ertaken the fading day;
And music has raged her soul away:
The light in the bacchanal's eye is dim;
And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn.
"Bring forth"-(on a sudden spoke the king,
And hush'd were the lords, loud rioting,)—
Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold,
Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old,
Ravish'd from proud Jerusalem;
And we and our queens will drink from them."
And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold,
Of stone, and of brass and of iron old,
And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine,
And their mouths are all fill'd with the sparkling wine.
Hark! the king has proclaim'd with a stately nod,
"Let a health be drunk out unto Baal, the god."-
They shout and they drink:-but the music moans,
And hush'd are the reveller's loudest tones:
For a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all
To write strange words on the plaster'd wall!
-The mirth is over;-the soft Greek flute
And the voices of women are low-are mute;
The bacchanal's eyes are all staring wide;
And, where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride?—
-That night the monarch was stung to pain:
That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain!-
THE history of this eccentric and distinguished person would form a more amusing work than a novel, for in it the talents of a great original genius, and the acquirements of an accomplished scholar, would be singularly blended with hair-breadth escapes and feats of reckless enterprise. These, however, will form a rich legacy to his literary executors, to whom they may be safely consigned. He was born at the town of Paisley, North Britain, in May, 1789; and after going through a preliminary training at the College of Glasgow, he entered the University of Oxford, where his poetical talents obtained him Newdigate's prize for English poetry, which he won against a numerous and power. ful competition. After he had finished his education, he established his residence in the neighbourhood of Winandermere, where he resided until he was called to the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, in 1820. The first poem which Wilson published was, The Isle of Palms, in 1812. It is a wild and incredible tale, but abounding in rich poetical description, and is said to have been written in his eighteenth year. His City of the Plague, a dramatic poem of still higher merit, appeared in 1816. If his celebrity, however, had depended upon his verses alone, he would probably have been forgotten by this time, as the above-mentioned works are now seldom read; but his chief distinction for these many years has been derived from Blackwood's Magazine, of which he is supposed to be the Editor, as well as principal contributor. As a Professor, Wilson can scarcely lay claim to the character of a profound metaphysician, or systematic philosopher; but there is a kindling power in his eloquence which excites his pupils to reflection and inquiry for themselves, while his wit, cheerfulness, and social excellencies, render him an especial favourite among a wide circle of friends and acquaintances.
LONDON DURING THE PLAGUE.
Know ye what you will meet with in the city?
Together will ye walk, through long, long streets,
All standing silent as a midnight church.
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you: the small voice
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lour with grim delight,
As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shadows of death.
Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark, far off
A tumult like an echo! on it comes,
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer;
And louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets.
But are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your heads, from a window, suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls,
As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones,
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the Pest's triumphal chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb.
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! A miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along
By shrunk steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.
Would you look in? Grey hairs and golden tresses;
Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smiled for years;
And many a rosy visage smiling still;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs,-there lie they all,
Embraced in ghastliness!
From The City of the Plague.
But list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song,
And now it reigns above, around,
As if it call'd the Ship along.
The Moon is sunk; and a clouded grey
Declares that her course is run,
And like a God who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious Sun.
Soon as his light has warm'd the seas,
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze;
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.
No fears hath she:-Her giant-form
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
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