FAMILIAR THINGS ENOUGH TO YOU AND ME,—(a. Smith) Sing to the Spring—but through the Spring I look And hear a sad, unmated redbreast wail, For I am tortured by a boding eye That, gazing on the morning's glorious grain, Sweet is thy song, O merle! and sweetly sung [From "Last Leaves," by Alexander Smith. This bright lyric, full of spring-time glow and music, is characterized by a thoughtful critic in the Spectator as "clear, sweet, and beautiful, quite the finest thing Smith ever wrote."] "CHRIST MADE ALL, AND LAYS HIS EAR SO CLOSE UNTO THE WORLD-(ALEXANDER SMITH) B SONNET. EAUTY still walketh on the earth and air: As ere the Iliad's music was outrolled; The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant when blue skies are o'er us bending TAKE A STRANGE GLORY FROM THE POET'S MIND.' -SMITH. THAT, IN LONE DESERT, PERIL, OR THICK NIGHT, A WHISPERED PRAYER CAN REACH IT."-SMITH. "THE NOBLE ARTIST FINDS ENOUGH REWARD, WHILE THE PURE NYMPH IS GROWING FROM THE STONE, "THAT TERRIBLEST OF VIRTUES, TRUTHFULNESS."-ALEXANDER SMITH. To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this to me [From "Poems," edition 1856.] IN THE SWEET SMILE WITH WHICH SHE BLESSES HIM FOR LOVELINESS AND IMMORTALITY."-A. SMITH. Robert Southey. [THE poetical character of this most able and laborious writer has not unfairly been summed up by Lord Jeffrey :-Southey, he says, is a poet undoubtedly, but not of the highest order. There is rather more of rhetoric than of inspiration about him; and we have oftener to admire his taste and industry in borrowing and adorning, than the boldness or felicity of his inventions. He has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting, but uses it, we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or unaffectedly simple; and is so much bent upon making the most of everything that he is perpetually overdoing. "HONEY IN WHICH THE BEES HAVE LEFT THEIR STINGS. -A. SMITH. "ALL THAT HE WILLS IS RIGHT; AND DOUBT NOT THOU, HOWE'ER OUR FEEBLE SCOPE OF SIGHT "VAIN HOPE THAT PUTS ITS TRUST IN HUMAN LIFE!"-SOUTHEY. THE FUNERAL PROCESSION. 419 It is for this reason that, as a poet, he is nowadays little read; and that, in spite of great and rare gifts of description, sentiment, and pathos, his works are mostly relegated to the bookshelves of the student and the critic. Yet the reader will find much to interest him, and much to call forth his admiration, in his epic poems of " The Curse of Kehama," "Thalaba," "Joan of Arc," "Madoc," "A Tale of Paraguay;" and his last and finest, "Roderick, the Last of the Goths," a work abounding in lofty thoughts and splendid imagery. Many of his minor poems are gracefully written; some of his ballads are spirited; and in his Eclogues runs a vein of quiet humour which is very diverting. Southey was a man of great and varied learning, and of extraordinary industry. His whole life, till clouded over in old age with the dark shade of mental disease, was devoted to literary labour. He loved work for its own sake, and poured out book upon book with astonishing profusion— especially astonishing when we remember their uniform excellence. His lives of "John Wesley" and "Lord Nelson" are model biographies. In the latter, says Mr. Hannay, the tale of that hero's doings is told "with infinite clearness and grace, in a beautiful yet simple English style, glowing all over with noble feeling." His semi-fictitious colloquial narrative, "The Doctor," abounds in quaint erudition, genial philosophy, and admirable portraiture of character. Robert Southey was born at Bristol, August 12, 1774; was educated at Westminster School, and afterwards at Baliol College, Oxford. He commenced authorship in 1794. His later years were spent at Greta Hall, Keswick, among the beautiful scenery of the Lakes. Here he died, March 21, 1843. He had held the office of poet-laureate from the year 1813.] MAY FAIL US NOW, HIS RIGHTEOUS WILL IN ALL THINGS MUST BE DONE."-ROBERT SOUTHEY. THE FUNERAL PROCESSION. IDNIGHT, and yet no eye Through all the imperial city closed in Behold her streets ablaze With light that seems to kindle the red sky, Clustered with women, who throw back their veils "LET THE FUTURE FOR THE PAST ATONE."-ROBERT SOUTHEY, "THE LIGHT OF FAITH HATH RISEN TO US: THE VANQUISHED GRAVE TO US THE GREAT 420 66 MAN CREATES THE EVIL HE ENDURES."-ROBERT SOUTHEY. ROBERT SOUTHEY. With unimpeded and insatiate sight To view the funeral pomp which passes by, As if the mournful rite Were but to them a scene of joyaunce and delight. Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night, Your feeble beams ye shed, Quenched in the unnatural light which might outstare And thou from thy celestial way Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath! At once ten thousand drums begin, You hear no more the trumpet's tone, Swell with commingled force the funeral yell. * Imitated from Milton. "THE WICKED WORK THE RIGHTEOUS WILL OF HEAVEN."-IBID. CONSOLATORY TRUTH PROCLAIMED THAT HE WHO WOUNDS WILL HEAL."-R. SOUTHEY. "HOW BEAUTIFUL IS NIGHT! A DEWY FRESHNESS FILLS THE SILENT AIR-(ROBERT SOUTHEY) "BEHOLD THE FRAUDFUL ARTS, THE COVERT STRIFE,SOUTHEY) THE FUNERAL PROCESSION. 421 But rising over all in one acclaim Is heard the re-echoed and re-echoed name, From all that countless rout: Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan! Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout The death-procession moves along; With quick rebound of sound, The universal multitude reply. Would ye awake the dead? A glow is on his face. . . a lively red; It is the crimson canopy Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed; As the body, borne aloft in state, Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight. Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, THE JARRING INTERESTS THAT ENGROSS MANKIND."-SOUTHEY. NO MIST OBSCURES, NOR CLOUD, NOR SPECK, NOR STAIN, BREAKS THE SERENE OF HEAVEN."-SOUTHEY. |