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The Pauper's Deathbed.

Tread softly-bow the head-
In reverent silence bow-
No passing bell doth toll-
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed-
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state :
Enter no crowds attend-
Enter-no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed-again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

Oh! change-oh! wondrous change
Burst are the prison bars-
This moment there, so low,
So agonised, and now
Beyond the stars!

Oh! change stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod:
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.

Mariner's Hymn.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands--
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel wear-
There swept the blast.

'What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?'
'Cloudy-all quiet-

No land yet-all's right.'
Be wakeful, be vigilant-
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold-
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There let the ingots go-
Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbour's near-
Lo! the red lights!

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It is a place where poets crowned
May feel the heart's decaying-
It is a place where happy saints
May weep amid their praying-
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence languish ;
Earth surely now may give her calm
To whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue

Was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope
A hopeless hand was clinging!
O men this man in brotherhood,
Your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace,
And died while ye were smiling.

And now, what time ye all may read
Through dimming tears his story-
How discord on the music fell,
And darkness on the glory-

And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds
And wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face,
Because so broken-hearted.

He shall be strong to sanctify

The poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down
In meeker adoration;

Nor ever shall he be in praise
By wise or good forsaken;
Named softly as the household name
Of one whom God hath taken!

With sadness that is calm, not gloom,
I learn to think upon him;
With meekness that is gratefulness,

On God, whose heaven hath won him.
Who suffered once the madness-cloud
Towards his love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along,

Where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shattered brain Such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars
Harmonious influences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass
His own did calmly number;
And silent shadow from the trees
Fell o'er him like a slumber.

The very world, by God's constraint,
From falsehood's chill removing,

Its women and its men became
Beside him true and loving!

And timid hares were drawn from woods

To share his home-caresses, Uplooking in his human eyes, With sylvan tendernesses.

But while in darkness he remained,

Unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without
The sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth,
Though frenzy desolated-
Nor man nor nature satisfy
Whom only God created.


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,

But know not what's resisted.

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 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.'

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 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 presenting, 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


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


Then 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.

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 souls to his power. The idea of the poem origi

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, With unconstrained step and spirits free!

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall impedes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played.

The gray and ancient peaks

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth-
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;

For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth
Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee;

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

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;

For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth-earth and sky
To you are tributary; "joys are spread

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 where have you been from me?'
"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see!'

And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?'

"I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.'

And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Hill?'

'I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill.'

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Oh, the poor, blind old widow

Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong!"

And some they brought the brown lintseed,
And flung it down from the Low-
"And this," said they, "by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow!
Oh, the poor, lame weaver,

How will he laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!"

And then upspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin

"I have spun up all the tow," said he,
"And I want some more to spin.

I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another-
A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!"

And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.

And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.

But, as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

And I peeped into the widow's field;
And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.

And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high;
But I saw the weaver at his gate

With the good news in his eye!

Now, this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be!'

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Now that posture is not right, And he is not settled quite; There! that's better than beforeAnd the knave pretends to snore.

Ha! he is not half asleep;
See, he slyly takes a peep.
Monkey, though your eyes were shut,
You could see this little nut.

You shall have it, pigmy brother!
What, another! and another!
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack—
Sit down, and begin to crack.
There the little ancient man
Cracks as fast as crack he can!
Now good-by, you merry fellow,
Nature's primest Punchinello.


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.


It was not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses

We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet;

Oh no!-the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met.

"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses-

We plucked them as we passed!

What else could peer my glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?

And when I asked the like of love,
You snatched a damask bud-

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still blowing to the last;
It was the time of roses-

We plucked them as we passed!

Town and Country.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh 'O rus!'
Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parched, my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust;
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me dust to dust.'

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;
The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney pot!

Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe;
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort-alas!
That makes no hay-called sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip cups-but meet
With very vile rebuffs!
For meadow-buds I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese or only sniff

The turtle made at Cuff's.

How tenderly Rousseau reviewed
His periwinkles!-mine are strewed!
My rose blooms on a gown!

I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

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?
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!
Where are ye linnet, lark, and thrush,
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my tuneful throng.'
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams
And colours of the skies?

My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains
Of calimanco-dyes!

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones:
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,
Though never off the stones.'

Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harinless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

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,
On every hand the sense is shocked

With objects hard to bear:
Shades-vernal shades!-where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers,
And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more:
See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er;
And that bare wood-St John's.

No pastoral scenes procure me peace;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees:

No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers-not with bees.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh O rus!"
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 tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,

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 idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

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,

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

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,

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can:

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,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:
'O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took;

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!


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