Robert à Machin. But the sullen pride 66 So He purposed, but in vain: the ardent youth But hark! The wind is in the shrouds-the cordage sings O retire to rest, [cheek The sad morn Comes forth: but Terror on the sunless wave Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds Bursts frequent, half-revealing his scathed front, Above the rocking of the waste that rolls Boundless around : No word through the long day She spoke :-Another slowly came :-No word The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge, And cheerless rose again :-Ah, where are now Thy havens, France? But yet-resign not yetYe lost sea-farers-oh, resign not yet All hope the storm is pass'd; the drenched sail 66 A distant dusky spot appears; they reach Since first the earth arose, they wind: The voice :: The wild wood opens, and a shady glen Appears, embower'd with mantling laurels high, That sloping shade the flowery valley's side; A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves, Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain, It glances light along its yellow bed. The shaggy inmates of the forest lick The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.— A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade Its trembling top; and there upon the bank They rest them, while the heart o'erflows with joy. Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, Came down a softer sound the circling seas, The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, Her murmurs interposing, tenderness Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Of those who, sever'd far from human kind, Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon Arose-they saw it not-cheek was to cheek Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Witness'd how blissful was that hour, that seem'd Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss Stole on the listening silence; never yet Here heard they trembled, e'en as if the Power That made the world, that planted the first pair In Paradise, amid the garden walk'd,— This since the fairest garden that the world Has witness'd, by the fabling sons of Greece Hesperian named, who feign'd the watchful guard Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit. Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here Thou, dim cloud, That from the search of men, these beauteous vales Thy look was soft, The sweets of summer: Death is on thy cheek, And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns Of him, who, agonized and hopeless, hangs With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight, She faints-she dies! He laid her in the earth, Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb, Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined, Placed the last tribute of his earthly love. He placed the rude inscription on her stone, Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk-yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke; "If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil days, Again the convent's vesper bells, O think Of me! and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far-removed spot, Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chant duly o'er our gravePeace, peace." His arm upon the mournful stone He dropp'd-his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turn'd to the name till he could see no more"ANNA." His pale survivors, earth to earth, Weeping consign'd his poor remains, and placed Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid :Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods, They sought their country o'er the waves, and left Of Enterprise, that spoke, from Sagre's tower, wastes, Speed we to Asia !" DREAMS OF YOUTH. BEREAVE me not of these delightful dreams 'T were not a crime, should we awhile delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, till they forget to weep; And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep. TO TIME. O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear, RETROSPECTION. As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,* AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDsor. THE castle clock had toll'd midnight With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light, His corse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name, that those "Peace to the dead" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave; No prayers were read, no knell was rung, We only heard the winter's wind, As o'er the open grave inclined, We murmur'd, "Dust to dust!" A moonbeam, from the arches' height, And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners then, Without, blew long and loud; We laid the broken marble floor No name, no trace appearsAnd when we closed the sounding door We thought of him with tears. REMEMBRANCE. I SHALL look back, when on the main,- Thy voice, and view thy smile. But many days may pass away Amid the young, the fair, the gay,- In the account of the burial of the king in Windsor Castle by Sir Thomas Herbert, the spot where the body was laid is described minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole account is singularly impressive; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this description existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut off. Soon after, the following lines were written, which I now set before the reader for the first time. Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell And touch'd with softest shade: The imaged form I shall survey, ON THE RHINE. "T WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine,) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go, Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. WRITTEN AT OSTEND. How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark with lessening cadence now they fall, And now along the white and level tide They fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer days, and those delightful years, When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wondering childhood into tears; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more. MATILDA. Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led, A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend: And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where hush'd to long repose the wretched rest. SAMUEL ROGERS. MR. ROGERS was born in London in 1762. On the completion of his university education, he resided a considerable period on the continent, but nearly all his life has been passed in his native city. He is a banker, and a man of liberal fortune; and among those who know him he is scarcely more distinguished as a poet than for the elegance and amenity of his manners, his knowledge of literature and the arts, and his brilliant conversation. In his youth he was the companion of WYNDHAM, FOX, and SHERIDAN, and in later years he has enjoyed the friendship of BYRON, MOORE, SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, and nearly all the great authors and other eminent persons who have been his contemporaries in England. Mr. ROGERS commenced his career as an author with an Ode to Superstition, which was written in his twenty-fifth year. This was succeeded, in 1792, by The Pleasures of Memory, which was received with extraordinary favour by the critics. It had been kept the Horatian period, and revised and rewritten until it could receive no further advantage from labour, guided by the nicest taste and judgment. In 1778 he published An Epistle to a Friend and other Poems, in 1812 The Voyage of Columbus, in 1814 Jaqueline, in 1819 Human Life, and in 1822 the last, longest, and best of his productions, Italy. Lord BACON describes poetry as "having something of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things." This is perhaps the most philosophical description that has been given of true poetry. There have been some poets, as CRABBE and ELLIOTT, whose verse has reflected actual life; but they only who have conformed "the shows of things to the desires of the mind," can look with much confidence for immortality. It is a long time since ROGERS made his first appearance before the world as an author, yet his reputation has probably suffered less decay than that of any of his contemporaries. This is not because he possesses the higher qualities of the poet in a more eminent degree than they, but because he is more than any other the poet of taste, and is guided by the sense of beauty rather than by the convictions of reason. Poetry is in some sort an art, though VIDA was forced to admit the inefficiency of all rules if the ingenia were wanting. If a man be by nature a poet, he must still have much cultivation before he will be able to fulfil his mission. There has never yet been an “uneducated” verse-maker whose works were worth reading a second time. But mere education, or education joined with a philosophic mind and some degree of taste, cannot make a great poet, as one illustrious example in our times will show. ROGERS has not much imagination, not much of the creative faculty, and he lacks sometimes energy and sometimes tenderness, yet he has taste and genuine simplicity: not the caricature of it for which the present laureate is distinguished, but such simplicity as COWPER had, and BURNS. His subjects are all happily chosen; and a true poet proves the possession of the divine faculty almost as much in the selection of his themes as in their treatment. His poetry is always pleasing; its freedom and harmony, its refined sentiment, its purity, charm us before we are aware, and we involuntarily place it among our treasures. Though less read than The Pleasures of Memory, Italy is the best poem Mr. ROGERS has produced. It was published anonymously, and was so different from his previous works that its authorship was an enigma to the critics. The several cantos are descriptive of particular scenes and events which interest a traveller over the Alps and through the northern parts of Italy. Some of these cantos are remarkably spirited and beautiful, as one may see by the extracts in this volume, entitled Venice, Ginevra, and Don Garzia. Within a few years Mr. ROGERS has published in two volumes, illustrated in the most beautiful manner by some of the first artists of England, his Complete Poetical Works. He is now in the eighty-third year of his age, and the oldest of the living poets of his country. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. WHEN, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind Point the green lane that leads thro' fern and flowers; Still must my partial pencil love to dwell When April verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, [quires, From every point a ray of genius flows! Here from the mould to conscious being start But could thine erring friend so long forget Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, Far from the joy less glare, the maddening strife, What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age, |