A LAY OF FAIRY LAND, (From a Volume of POEMS by JOHN WILSON, now in the Press.) It is upon the Sabbath-day, at rising of the sun, That to Glenmore's black forest side a Shepherdess hath gone, Her Widow-mother wept to hear her whispered prayer so sweet, -In the deep mountain-hollow the dreamy day is done, "Oh! why so late!" a footstep-and she knows her child is near; And between her and the crimson light her daughter's beauty glows. The heather-balm is fragrant-the heather-bloom is fair, But 'tis neither heather-balm nor bloom that wreathes round Mhairi's hair ; These flowers by far too beautiful among our hills to grow, "Sit down beneath our elder-shade, and I my tale will tell"- "She laid her hand as soft as light upon your daughter's hair, Then started Mhairi's mother at that wild word of fear, For a daughter had been lost to her for many a hopeless year; The child had gone at sunrise among the hills to roam, But many a sunset since had been, and none hath brought her home. Some thought that Fhaum, the savage Shape that on the mountain dwells, And others said the River red had caught her in her glee, But thoughts come to a mother's breast a mother only knows, Sat crested birds whose plumage seem'd to burn with harmless fire. "And hovering in the Rainbow, and floating on the Wave, And bending down bright lengths of hair that glisten'd in its dew, "Soft the music rose again-but we left it far behind, Though strains o'ertook us now and then, on some small breath of wind; "Then thought I of the lovely tales, and music lovelier still, "Tales of the silent people, and their green silent Land! tr "Then," said the "Luhana! bind thy frontlet upon my Mhairi's brow, "Then near and nearer still I heard small peals of laughter sweet, "But who came then into the Hall? One long since mourned as dead! On me alone she poured her voice, on me alone her eyes, And, as she gazed, I thought upon the deep-blue cloudless skies. "Well knew I my fair sister! and her unforgotten face! "When that the shower was all wept out of our delightful tears, The Sabbath-morn was beautiful-and the long Sabbath-day- ON THE CHURCH OF KRISUVIK IN ICELAND. "There was nothing so sacred in the appearance of this Church, as to make us hesitate to use the altar as our dining-table." Mackenzie's Travels in Iceland, page 114. THOUGH gilded domes, and splendid fanes, And costly robes, and choral strains, And altars richly drest, And sculptur'd saints, and sparkling gems, And mitred heads, and diadems, Inspire with awe the breast; The soul enlarged-devout-sincere, 'Tis not the pageantry of show, Then why th' Icelandic Church disdain, As though God dwelt not there? The contrite heart-the pious mind- There breathes his hopes there plights his VOWS And there, with low submission bows, And to his God appeals. In realms that touch the northern pole, Where streams of burning lava roll Their desolating course; Sulphureous mountains raging boil, Blasting th' already sterile soil, With wild volcanic force; Where cold, and snow, and frost conspire, To curse the barren lands, Oh! scorn it not because 'tis poor, But entering in-that Power adore! Where Zephyr breathes in temper'd gales And herbs, and fruits, and fragrant flowers, Let no presumptuous thoughts arise, Than poor Icelandic swain ; Where much is given-more is requir'd; Enjoy thy happier lot With trembling awe, and chasten'd fear; SIR THOMAS BROWNE. Manchester, Dec. 9, 1819. MR EDITOR, THE character of Sir Thomas Browne, by Mr Coleridge, inserted in your last Number, induces me to trouble you with a few observations on the works of this highly entertaining and original, but now neglected, writer. It is remarkable enough, that, amongst the number of books which the recent republications have contributed to arrest in their journey to oblivion, no reprint has yet been made of the Works of Brown, which perhaps contain more of the force of genius and fervour of imagination, more glowing sentences, and greater and nobler flights of fancy, than can be produced in the writings of any of his contemporary prose authors, not excepting, I VOL. IV. may almost venture to say, Bishop Hall, Jeremy Taylor, and Milton. One reason of this may be, that the works of Browne are not scarce, but though this may be the case, still, as many passages in them are frequently obscure, from the recondite allusions and peculiar manner of the author, and many utterly unintelligible from the blunders of the printer, a new edition, with sensible notes, would confer no small obligation upon the lovers of our old and excellent writers. Browne's first work was his Religio Medici, a work written in the full vigour of his faculties, when his fancy was at the highest, which, rendered still more eccentric by his original way of thinking, imbrowned by learning, and deepened by enthusiasm, 3 I communicated to every subject which it touched upon, all the attractions of paradoxical subtlety, and fantastic and often highly impressive sublimity. The style of this book, it is observable, is much more easy and unembarrassed, less perplexed and abrupt, than that of his late productions, the phraseology less latinized and exotic, breathing all the vivacity of conversation, without losing any of the dignity of composition; and indeed, I hardly know any work till the end of the seventeenth century which can be compared to it, for the purity of the language, the swell and flow of the diction, the boldness of the expression, and the harmony of the cadences. Perhaps no line is better remembered in the Bride of Abydos, than that in the description of Zuleika: "The mind, the music breathing from her face." To vindicate which bold expression, the noble author subjoins a note, appealing to the feelings of his readers. But the same thought had long before occurred to Sir Thomas Browne, as will appear from the following beau tiful passage. "It is my temper, and I like it the better, to affect all harmony, and sure there is music even in beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument. For there is music in whatever there is harmony, or der, or proportion; and, thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres: For those well ordered motions and regular paces, though they give no sound to the ear, yet to the understanding, they strike a note more full of harmony.' Rel. Med. edit. 12mo. 1736. page 180; which is a remarkable coincidence, to call it no more, between these two eminent writers. And I may observe by the way, that had Dr. Ferriar, in his illustrations of Sterne, been equally diligent in examining the works of Browne, he would have found out more of the plagiarisms of that universal pillager, than he has detected from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. The next work of Browne, his Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Vulgar Errors, is, I believe, better known than any of his writings. The variety of the learning, the novelty of the design, the acuteness of the observations, and the peculiarity of disquisition which it displays, have contributed to make it one of the most entertaining philosophical productions of which our literature has to boast. It, however, experienced the fate of many other works; and its celebrity, if not destroyed, was at last diminished by the downfall of the system of Descartes, to which Browne was a firm adherent. It is in this book chiefly that his fondness for exotic phraseology appears; and the following extract from the preface will shew what were then his ideas of perfection in language: "If elegancy still proceedeth, and English pens maintain that stream we have of Îate observed to flow from many, we shall, within a few years, be fain to learn Latin to understand English, and a work will prove of equal facility in either." To which desirable end, it must be confessed, Browne has, in this work, used his best endeavours. But the productions which principally develope his singular turn of mind are his Hydriotaphia, or Urnburial, and Letter to a friend on the death of an intimate friend. The dissolution of the soul and body was to him a favourite topic; and he delighted to dwell, not entirely with the joyful expectation of one who, trusting in the hope of future bliss, looked to death as the end of his labours, and the commencement of his felicity, but with the scrutinizing anxiety of an inquirer, who loved to illumine the dark, to pierce through the obscure, and to gaze on dread and fearful objects, till his mental vision was bewitched by a species of fascination. Like the female magician, in the Arabian Nights Entertainments, he loved to leave the habitations of the living, and take his repast amid the charnel houses of the dead. To him tombs and sepulchres, urns and ossuaries, obelisks and monuments, were the necessary food of his imagination, and acted like charms to call forth the wild and sombre reveries of his fancy, with all their fervid effervescences of awful solemnity and gloomy magnificence. The light of his genius illuminated the dark and dismal subjects on which it expatiated with a sickly splendour, and arose from the superincumbent mass of mortality, like the shining vapours which are said to * Published in his Posthumous Works |