HE MIGHT HAVE BUILT A PALACE AT A WORD,

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

474

For whether thou sole-sittest on thy throne,
Or leadest choral dances of thy peers,

Thou and all nature, saving man alone,
Fulfil with music sweet your Maker's ears.
[From "Poems, Collected and Arranged Anew," ed. 1865.]

TIME WAS, AND HE WHO NOURISHED CROWDS WITH BREAD WOULD NOT ONE MEAL UNTO HIMSELF AFFORD:

AUTUMN.

HINE, Autumn, is unwelcome lore-
To tell the world its pomp is o'er:

To whisper in the Rose's ear
That all her beauty is no more;

And bid her own the faith how vain,
Which Spring to her so lately swore.

A queen deposed, she quits her state:
The nightingales her fall deplore;

The hundred-voiced bird may woo
The thousand-leafèd flower no more.
The jasmine sinks her head in shame-
The sharp east wind its tresses shore;
And robbed, in passing, cruelly
The tulip of the crown it wore.
The lily's sword is broken now,
That was so bright and keen before:
And not a blast can blow, but strews
With leaf of gold the Earth's dank floor.

The piping winds sing Nature's dirge,
As through the forest bleak they roar ;

WHO SOMETIMES HAD NOT WHERE TO LAY HIS HEAD:

oh, self-denYING LOVE, WHICH FELT ALONE FOR NEEDS OF OTHERS, NEVER FOR ITS OWN."-TRENCH.

OF SOME SWEET FUTURE, WHICH WE AFTER FIND BITTER TO TASTE, OR BIND THAT IN WITH FEARS,-(TRENCH)

["Thine, Autumn, is unwelcome lore-
To tell the world its pomp is o'er."]

Whose leafy screen, like locks of eld,
Each day shows scantier than before.

THE PRESENT WE FLING FROM US LIKE THE RIND

WE LIVE NOT IN OUR MOMENTS OR OUR YEARS:

AUTUMN.

475

AND WATER IT BEFOREHAND WITH OUR TEARS-VAIN TEARS FOR THAT WHICH NEVER MAY ARRIVE."-TRENCH.

[From "Poems, Collected and Arranged Anew," ed. 1865.]

"O RIGHTEOUS DOOM, THAT THEY WHO MAKE PLEASURE THEIR ONLY END,-TRENCH)

WRITTEN DURING THE RUSSIAN WAR.
HIS, or on this ;-Bring home with thee this shield,
Or be thou, dead, upon this shield brought home."
So spake the Spartan mother to the son
Whom her own hands had armed. O strong of heart!
Yet know I of a fairer strength than this-
Strength linked with weakness, steeped in tears and fears,
And tenderness of trembling womanhood;
But true as hers to duty's perfect law.

And such is theirs, who in our England now,
Wives, sisters, mothers, watch by day, by night,
In many a cottage, many a stately hall,

For those dread posts, too slow, too swift, that haste
O'er land and sea, the messengers of doom;
Theirs, who ten thousand times would rather hear
Of loved forms stretched upon the bloody sod,
All cold and stark, but with the debt they owed
To that dear land who bore them duly paid,
Than look to enfold them in strict arms again,
By aught in honour's or in peril's path
Unduly shunned, for that embrace reserved.

[From "Poems, Collected and Arranged Anew," ed. 1865.]

THAT HARDEST OF ALL PRECEPTS-TO REJOICE."-TRENCH.

ORDERING THE WHOLE LIFE FOR ITS SAKE, MISS THAT WHERETO THEY TEND."-TRENCH.

"NOW IS THE TIME IN SOME MEEK SOLITUDE TO HOLD COMMUNION WITH THOSE INNOCENT THOUGHTS-(PROFESSOR WILSON)

66

HOW BEAUTIFUL THE PASTIME OF THE SPRING!"-WILSON.

["A WRITER of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters."

It is in these terms that Mr. Hallam describes Professor Wilson-the illustrious "Christopher North" of Blackwood's Magazine-and no impartial critic will deny their truth. As essayist, lecturer, novelist, and poet, the Professor held a high rank among his contemporaries; and though, from the fugitive character of most of his productions, and their local and personal allusions, as well as from a certain exuberance which is displeasing to a refined taste, his fame will be less with posterity, yet some of his higher work will assuredly live. The fire and profuse energy,-the dash and impetuous flow,-of his prose style are, however, wholly wanting in his poetry, which, indeed, is remarkable for an almost excessive sweetness, and, as Jeffrey observes, by reason of this sweetness acquires a certain monotony and languor apt, after awhile, to pall upon the reader. He is felicitous in his landscape-painting, and strikes with success a tone of tender sentiment; dealing always with the gentler sympathies of our nature-never rising to the heights of thought, nor penetrating into the depths of passion.

John Wilson was the son of a Paisley manufacturer, and born on the 18th of May 1785. At the age of thirteen he was sent to the University of Glasgow, and afterwards-in 1804-removed to Magdalene College, Oxford, where he carried off the Newdegate gold medal for the best English poem. Later in life he entered the Scottish bar, but derived his principal distinction from his numerous and varied contributions, under the nom de plume of Christopher North, to Blackwood's Magazine. These extended over a long series of years, and by their vivacity, fire, prodigal strength, richness of humour, lavish fancy, and impetuous eloquence, attracted an everincreasing circle of admiring readers. In 1820 Wilson was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh;-a post he held until his death, which took place on the 3rd of April 1854.]

THAT BLESSED OUR EARLIER DAYS; TO LIST THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE MURMURING FROM HER INMOST SHRINE."-WILSON)

THE SHIPWRECK.

IST! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song,
And now it reigns above, around,

As if it called the ship along :
The moon is sunk; and a clouded gray
Declares that her course is run,

A GENTLE PLEASURE TO SOME GENTLE HEART."-WILSON.

478

"TO ME MOST AWFUL IS THY HOUR OF REST,-(WILSON)

PROFESSOR WILSON.

And like a god who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious sun.

Soon as his light has warmed the seas,
From a parting cloud fresh blows the breeze;
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel in joy to sail along.
No fears hath she;-her giant form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm would go

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow.

"SOULS OF HOLIEST BIRTH DWELL BUT A MOMENT WITH THE SONS OF EARTH:-(PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON)

TO THIS DIM SPHERE BY GOD'S INDULGENCE GIVEN, THEIR FRIENDS ARE ANGELS, AND THEIR HOME IS HEAVEN."-WILSON.

["Fast the miserable ship becomes a lifeless wreck."]

But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast-
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!
Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread,

Are hurried o'er the deck;