The Pauper's Deathbed. Tread softly-bow the head- Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state: That pavement damp and cold No mingling voices sound An infant wail alone; A sob suppressed-again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. It is a place where poets crowned O poets! from a maniac's tongue And now, what time ye all may read He shall be strong to sanctify In meeker adoration; With sadness that is calm, not gloom, And wrought within his shattered brain The very world, by God's constraint, And timid hares were drawn from woods But while in darkness he remained, MARY HOWITT. This lady, the wife of William Howitt, an industrious miscellaneous writer, is distinguished for her happy imitations of the ancient ballad manner. In 1823 she and her husband published a volume of poems with their united names, and made the following statement in the preface: 'The history of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been our youthful amusement, and our increasing daily enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of nated,' she says, 'in a strong impression of the immense value of the human soul, and of all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part-in a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my motto. What's done we partly may compute, Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and commiseration. It is necessary, for the acquisition of that charity which is the soul of Christianity, for us to descend into the depths of our own nature; to put ourselves into many imaginary and untried situations, that we may enable ourselves to form some tolerable notion how we might be affected by them; how far we might be tempted-how far deceived-how far we might have occasion to lament the evil power of circumstances, to weep over our own weakness, and pray for the pardon of our our national literature, we have revelled with grow-crimes; that, having raised up this vivid perception ing and unsatiated delight; and, at the same time, living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we have watched the changing features of nature; we have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unostentatious images which she is perpetually present ing, and given full scope to those workings of the imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and scenes.' A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert: Away with the pleasure that is not partaken! There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en: I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes, To see my delight is partaken by thee! And when, as how often, I eagerly listen To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten, And feel that affection has sweetened the lay. Yes, love-and when wandering at even or morning, Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white, I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning, Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight. And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth, And we fain would express what there might not be said, How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth, And how sweet is the thought that is secretly read! Then away with the pleasure that is not partaken! Mrs Howitt again appeared before the world in 1834, with a poetical volume entitled The Seven Temptations, representing a series of efforts, by the impersonation of the Evil Principle, to reduce human of what we might do, suffer, and become, we may apply the rule to our fellows, and cease to be astonished, in some degree, at the shapes of atrocity into which some of them are transformed; and learn to bear with others as brethren, who have been tried tenfold beyond our own experience, or perhaps our strength.' Mrs Howitt has since presented several volumes in both prose and verse, chiefly designed for young people. The whole are marked by a graceful intelligence and a simple tenderness which at once charm the reader and win his affections for the author. Mountain Children. Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, No crowd impedes your way, Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; These are your joys! Go forth- The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirits finds; Ye sit upon the earth And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, souls to his power. The idea of the poem origi-Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. ۱۰ Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; Then go forth-earth and sky Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread! The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend. 'And where have you been, my Mary, 'And what did you see, my Mary, 'And what did you hear, my Mary, 'Oh, tell me all, my Mary- 'Then take me on your knee, mother, And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, 'And what were the words, my Mary, And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; "And this," they said, "shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill; For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! And some they seized the little winds, "And there," said they, "the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn: Oh, the poor, blind old widow- And some they brought the brown lintseed, Oh, the poor, lame weaver, And then upspoke a brownie, I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And an apron for her mother!" And with that I could not help but laugh, And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, But, as I came down from the hill-top, And how merry the wheel did go! And I peeped into the widow's field; And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were high; Now, this is all I heard, mother, Now that posture is not right, And the knave pretends to snore. Ha! he is not half asleep; You shall have it, pigmy brother! There the little ancient man THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD has come before the world chiefly as a writer of comic poetry; but several compositions of a different nature show that he is also capable of shining in the paths of the imaginative, the serious, and the romantic. He was born in London in 1798, the son of a member of the well-known bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharp. The poet was bred in the profession of an engraver, which he in time forsook, when he found that he could command the attention of the public by his whimsical verses. His first publication was a volume entitled Whims and Oddities, which attained great popularity: soon after, he commenced The Comic Annual, the success of which was not less remarkable. A novel entitled Tylney Hall, published in 1834, was a variation of the poet's labours, which the public did not encourage him to repeat. The comic poetry of Hood was usually set off by drawings executed in a peculiar style by himself, and to which they were in some degree indebted for their success. The most original feature of these productions was the use which the author made of puns a figure usually too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. Of the serious poems of our author, his Plea for the Midsummer Fairies, and The Dream of Eugene Aram, are the most popular. Song. It was not in the winter We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned Oh no! the world was newly crowned 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, We plucked them as we passed! What else could peer my glowing cheek, And oped it to the dainty core, We plucked them as we passed! Town and Country. Oh! well may poets make a fuss What joy have I in June's return? My sun his daily course renews Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe; Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! With very vile rebuffs! How tenderly Rousseau reviewed That marks the Bell and Crown. Where are ye, birds, that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing Or mourn in thickets deep? Where are ye linnet, lark, and thrush, Sweet are the little brooks that run Though never 'off the stones.' And skin-not shear the lambs. 1 The pipe whereon, in olden day, The Arcadian herdsman used to play Sweetly-here soundeth not; But merely breathes unwholesome fumes; Meanwhile the city boor consumes The rank weed-' piping hot.' All rural things are vilely mocked, An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, No pastoral scenes procure me peace; No cot set round with trees : No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; With brokers-not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss Of city pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades-my eyes detest This endless meal of brick! A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou merry, laughing sprite! Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamblike frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown,) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) The Dream of Eugene Aram. [The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.] 'Twas in the prime of summer time, And four-and-twenty happy boys There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin; Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man! His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees! Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, At last he shut the ponderous tome; Then leaping on his feet upright, Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook: And lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book! 72 |