For fashion's sake merely I went t'other day
To see, not to hear, a most tragical play,
Of one Mr. All fiery, who wrote his strange life,
And resided Lung "Arno, and married the wife
Of Charles, the Pretender, who caus'd so much strife.
The prince and the poet are both of them dead,
Without a successor to shine in their stead;
And their lady has set up a court of her own,
Where all are presented who aim at bon ton
When at night I return'd, I was delug'd with rain,
And well may our coachman and footman complain
That over their heads "all the wide waters meet"
And tumble straight down in the midst of the street.
Sweet violets and roses no longer appear,
And the winter we shunn'd has o'ertaken us here;
But the Tuscans declare it is ages ago
Since Florence put on such a garment of snow;
And to prove it they point to their salle without grate,
Where they hold conversations and shiver in state.
We too must retire to our unchimney'd room,
And o'er a dull brazier lament our hard doom.
Father Christmas is come, but without his good cheer,
And I'd rather work hard than keep holiday here.
Fine pictures and statues I do not require,
But I long for roast beef and an English coal fire,
And the beautiful view of my own village spire;
For believe me, dear Susan, wherever we roam,
There is nothing like England, there's nothing like HOME!
We add the following lines from another Epistle, not merely on account of their poetical merit, though they are simple and touching, but for the truth and excellent tendency of the sentiment.
That De Profundis o'er the wave
Seem'd like an echo from the grave:
And on my terrace near the flood,
In self-communion long I stood.
"O were this night my soul required,
Is my lamp trimmed, my spirit fired?
I wander on mid scenes of beauty,
But am I in the path of duty?
Were it not worthier to appear
The centre of my little sphere;
To frown on vice, and lend my store,
To aid industrious English poor,
Than thus a talent to possess,
And wrap it up in idleness?
Is no one pining to behold me?
When will a mother's arms enfold me?
When will my aged sire caress me?
And does he still exist to bless me?
O quickly, quickly, let me fly,
Lest sorrow rise to agony.
O'er Appenines and Alps I go,
Nor shudder at the wint'ry snow.
O it were sweet to dwell at Rome,
But sweeter far my welcome home!"
Such thoughts, dear Friend, will sometimes steal
Amid the joys that travellers feel:
A tune, a flower, recal the scene
Where tender hearts have happiest been;
And native songs that once were dear,
Awaken memory's sudden tear:
Then harps are "hung upon the willow,"
And Beauty sighs on sleepless pillow.
Sometimes when youthful friends declare
They hate old England's solid fare,
And cannot breathe her humid air;
That France and Switzerland are fine,
And Florence "perfectly divine !"
I quickly check the giddy sneer,
By touching chords to memory dear;
And thus half-sportively enquire,
"You surely love an English fire?"
And when Italian suns are shining,
Is there no latent fond repining
For balmy dews and fresher glades,
Impervious grots and native shades?
In winter's bright inspiring morn,
Sighs not the youth for hound and horn?
Does no one wishfully remember
The pleasant trophies of September?
And do not female wishes flee
To friends or children o'er the sea?
And do not home felt joys appear
More precious than the pastimes here?
Yes, minds and hearts with rapid bound
Return to one dear spot of ground,
Endear'd by youthful dreams of love,
Or joys that virtue may approve.
Then memory pauses to portray
The history of the rural day;
With some belov'd-one arm in arm,
The visit to the school or farm;
The cool retreat in sultry hours,
Mid friendship, music, books, and flow'rs;
The social board with plenty crown'd,
The cheerful converse circling round;
The blooming boy with eager eyes,
Who claims an apple for his prize;
The friendly chat from dusk till dark;
The moon-light ramble in the park:-
These bounties of indulgent heav'n, "Can man resign and be forgiv'n ?"
Oft when the bell with frequent toll
Comes heavy to the traveller's soul,
Does he not think of former times,
And sigh to hear his village chimes,
That drew him to the house of pray'r,
The gayest and the earliest there?
But now the rustic grieves to view
The worthy Squire's deserted pew;
And prays with lifted heart and hand,
For travellers, both by sea and land;
And mainly wishes he could trace
His Honour in his usual place.
The aged and the sickly poor
No longer linger at the door;
Nor bow and curtsey in the aisle,
To catch his notice and his smile;
Nor urchins run with joy elate
To open wide the church-yard gate.
Where now the succour prompt, tho' brief,
That sav'd the poor in days of grief
From parish dole of scant relief?
Where now the merry Christmas dinner
Bestow'd alike on saint and sinner?
Alas! the Lazarus at the gate
Laments his chang'd unpitied fate;
Or wanders round the empty hall,
And sighs for crumbs, that do not fall!
Travellers! forgive my honest speech,
To you and to myself I preach.
Let us not spend life's little day
"In gath'ring rose-buds" by the way!
Nor be our temples idly bound
By garlands wove on foreign ground.
Let us reject, ere yet too late,
The weeds of every foreign state;
Nor hate and censure Vice the less,
Because array'd in foreign dress;
But shun at once her artful face,
"Lest we be tempted to embrace."
'Twas Pope's good counsel ere the time
That morals alter'd with the clime;
As if a diff'rent code were lent
To island and to continent.
Still let us love our sea-girt strand
And Sion's songs in foreign land;
Not like the out-cast people sent
In stranger plains to pitch their tent;
But pilgrims, waiting to depart
With staff in hand, and ready heart;
And blessing God, where'er we roam,
That Britain is our native home!!
The Author must excuse us for thus pilfering the best things in his volume. It has, we confess, pleased us not a little; not the less on account of its wearing the appearance of an epistolary negligence and ease; as if these metrical sketches were really written for the amusement of friends at home, under the warm impression of the living scene, and their publication were an after-thought. We should judge from the manner in which the volume is put together, that it consists of selections from the porte-feuille of one who has been accustomed to write chiefly for his own amusement, in the spirit of his motto:
En écrivant pour charmer tes loisirs,
Entoure toi de plaisants souvenirs.'
Some of the shorter pieces are evidently let in. Among these is one which is of so superior a cast both in style and sentiment, that we cannot but believe its Author capable of achieving still better things than these nuga. We should not do him justice in withholding it.
In many a mountain path I've trod,
And hail'd the majesty of God!
I've heard the mountain cataract pouring;
I've heard the mountain thunder roaring;
I've travers'd the tempestuous sea,
And shudder'd at Eternity!
But never did my spirit bow
Before the Deity as now!
And I will raise my Bethell here,
For of a truth the Lord is near.
He rais'd yon mountains, blue and bare,
Like visions in the middle air:
He flung the mists about their feet,
Like clouds around his mercy-seat.
I ask not for a roscate glow,
To blend them with our world below.
Still let them seem to fancy's eye,
Fair planets in the azure sky,
Self-balanced from eternity!
Still let a light and floating wreath
Dispart them from the earth beneath.
I ask no poet's tranced eye,
To paint those visions in the sky;
Those floating clouds, those meeting hosts,
Young armed knights, mysterious ghosts,
Gay minarets, or gothic walls,
Great Tell and Ossian in their halls.
No,-let me muse in holy mood,
On days coeval with the flood.
The rifted rocks, from chaos hurl'd,
Seem remnants of a ruin'd world.
Where vales and caverns now are dry,
The waves of wrath went foaming by:
Where oaks for centuries have grown;
Where nature's ramparts are o'erthrown;
In many a flow'ry green retreat,
Where lovers now are wont to meet;
In scenes that Gesner sweetly fabled,-
"Sea monsters may have whelp'd and stabled."
And mountains now in middle air,
Might form the refuge of despair.
Methinks on yonder topmost crest,
I trace the precious Ark of Rest.
Ev'n now the beauteous covenant Bow
Is circling o'er the realms of snow;
The valleys smile beneath its span,
And bless God's pledge to sinful man:
And all the Alps that tow'r on high,
Seem deck'd by angel ministry:
"The world, and they that it inherit,"
But trammels to the immortal spirit,
That longs to journey with the dove,
And reach the ark of rest and love.-
Poor fancy, ere that goal be won,
Go on rejoicing in the sun;
Tho' brief thy day, and brief thy page,
Pursue thy pleasant pilgrimage.'
pp. 32-5. Art. VII. Time's Telescope for 1822; or a complete Guide to the Almanack containing an Explanation of Saint's Days and Holidays, with Illustrations of British History and Antiquities, Notices of obsolete Rites and Customs, &c. &c. To which are prefixed, Outlines of Conchology. 12mo. pp. lxiv. 320. Price 9s. London,
HIS work seems to be kept up with equal spirit and success. Some of the former volumes were noticed in our Journal with the approbation due to the merits of the compilation; and we need do little more than repeat our recommendation of the Author's labours in reference to the present volume, as containing a highly entertaining selection of scientific and miscellaneous information, enlivened by truly elegant extracts. As the Introductions prefixed to the preceding volumes comprise the outlines of Astronomy, Botany, Zoology, Geology, Chemistry, Entomology, and British Ornithology, the Editor now presents to his readers outlines of Conchology. The poetical selections, chiefly from contemporary writers, do great credit to his taste.
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