I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- To toll me back from thee to my sole self! As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? · To Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; [On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.] That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien. [The Human Seasons.] Four seasons fill the measure of the year; Happy is England! I could be content To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or wordling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me; Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about their summer waters. Lines. ['The poet Keats walked in the Highlands, not with the joyousness, the rapture, of the young Rousseau, but in that hallowed pleasure of the soul which, in its fulness, is akin to pain. The following extract of a poem, not published in his works, proves his intensity of feeling, even to the dread of madness. It was written while on his journey, soon after his pilgrimage to the birthplace of Burns, not for the gaze of the world, but as a record for himself of the temper of his mind at the time. It is a sure index to the more serious traits in his character; but Keats, neither in writing nor in speaking, could affect a sentiment-his gentle spirit knew not how to counterfeit.'—New Monthly Magazine, 1822.] There is a charm in footing slow Across a silent plain, Ay, if a madman could have leave To tell his forehead's swoon and faint One hour half idiot he stands But in the very next he reads His soul's memorial. He reads it on the mountain's height, DR REGINALD HEBER, DR REGINALD HEBER, bishop of Calcutta, was born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, where his father had a living. In his seventeenth year he was admitted of Brazen-nose college, Oxford, and soon distinguished himself by his classical attainments. In 1802 he obtained the university prize for Latin hexameters, his subject being the Carmen Seculare. Applying himself to English verse, Heber, in 1803, composed his poem of Palestine, which has been considered the best prize poem the university has ever produced. Parts of it were set to music; and it had an extensive sale. Previous to its recitation in the theatre of the university, the young author read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford; and Scott observed, that in the verses on Solomon's temple, one striking circumstance had escaped him-namely, that no tools were used in its construction. Reginald retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the beautiful lines— No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung; He has also given a striking sketch of the Druses, the hardy mountain race descended from the Crusaders : Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed, So when, deep sinking in the rosy main, Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, admired, and all looked forward to the maturity of While his poem of 'Palestine' was universally studies with unabated industry. He made considera genius so rich in promise, Heber continued his able progress in mathematics and in the higher classics. In 1805 he took his degree of B. A., and the same year gained the prize for the English essay; the subject, The Sense of Honour. He was elected to a fellowship at All Souls college, and soon after went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea. On his return he took his degree of A. M. at Oxford. He appeared again as a poet in 1809, his subject being Europe, or Lines on the Present War. The struggle in Spain formed the predominating theme of Heber's poem. He was now presented to the living of Hodnet; and at the same time he married Amelia, daughter of Dr Shipley, dean of St Asaph. The duties of a parish pastor were discharged by Heber with unostentatious fidelity and application. He also applied his vigorous intellect to the study of divinity, and His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen and deso- in 1815 preached the Bampton Lecture, the subject late state, is pathetic and beautiful: Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, selected by him for a course of sermons being the Personality and Office of the Christian Comforter. He was an occasional contributor to the Quarterly Review; and in 1822 he wrote a copious life of Jeremy Taylor, and a review of his writings for a complete edition of Taylor's works. The same year he was elected, by the benchers of Lincoln's Inn, preacher to their society. Here he had chambers in London, an addition of about £600 to his yearly income, and his duty was only preaching thirteen sermons in the year. An office so honourable, from the high character and talents of the electors, and the eminent persons by whom it has been held, is usually considered a stepping-stone to a bishopric. To this honour in its highest formthat of a spiritual peer of the realm-Heber might now have looked forward with confidence; but a strong sense of duty and desire of Christian usefulness prevented the prospect being realised. It was under such feelings, and contrary to the advice of prudent friends, that he accepted, in 1823, the difficult task of bishop of Calcutta. With his family Heber's Parish Church. he arrived safely at his destination on the 10th of October; and no man could have entered on his mission with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. During the ensuing year, he was engaged in visiting the several European stations in Bengal and the upper provinces of Hindostan. In January 1825 he made a similar tour to the stations under the Bombay government, consecrating churches at various places. In May 1825 he held his episcopal visitation at Bombay. During this progress he laid the foundation of two central schools. He also visited the Deccan, Ceylon, and Madras, on his return to Bengal, performing at each station the active duties of his sacred office. His whole energies appear to have been devoted to the propagation of Christianity in the East. In 1826 the bishop made a journey to Travencore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. He preached, confirmed, and visited his Christian communities with his usual affection and ardour. On the 1st of April he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on the day following. He went the next day, Monday, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native Christians in the fort, and attend divine service. He then returned to the house of a friend, and went into the bath preparatory to his dressing for breakfast. His servant conceiving he remained too long, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a public man, equally beloved and venerated, was mourned by all classes, and every honour was paid to his memory. Much might have been anticipated, from the zeal and learning of Heber, in elucidation of the antiquities of India, and the moral and religious improvement of its people, had his valuable life been spared. At the time of his death he was only in his forty-third year-a period too short to have developed those talents and virtues which, as one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his course in life, from the moment that he was crowned with academical honours till the day of his death, one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of India. The widow of Dr Heber has published a Memoir of his Life, with selections from his letters; and also a Narrative of his Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay. In these works the excellent prelate is seen to great advantage, as an acute and lively observer, graphic in his descriptions both of scenery and manners, and everywhere animated with feelings of Christian zeal and benevolence. As a poet, Heber is always elegant, and often striking. His hymns are- peculiarly touching and impressive, and musical in versification. The highest honours of the lyre he probably never could have attained; for he is deficient in originality, and is more rhetorical than passionate or imaginative. Passage of the Red Sea. [From 'Palestine."] For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, rode ! Decked in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. the main?' Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them or cheerless came the night. Still in their van, along that dreadful road, Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God. Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave 'Fly, Misraim, fly!' The ravenous floods they see, And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 'Fly, Misraim, fly! From Edom's coral strand Oh! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. Hymn.-Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity. Lo, the lilies of the field, Say, with richer crimson glows One there lives, whose guardian eye Pass we blithely then the time, Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains, What though the spicy breezes In vain, with lavish kindness, Shall we whose souls are lighted [From Bishop Heber's Journal.] If thou, my love, wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn or eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay An Evening Walk in Bengal. Our task is done!-on Gunga's breast The sun is sinking down to rest; And, moored beneath the tamarind bough, Come, walk with me the jungle through- A truce to thought-the jackal's cry 1 A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium. The Mucharunga. know that soul-entrancing swell, It is it must be-Philomel! Enough, enough, the rustling trees Announce a shower upon the breeze, The flashes of the summer sky Assume a deeper, ruddier dye; Yon lamp that trembles on the stream, From forth our cabin sheds its beam; And we must early sleep, to find Betimes the morning's healthy wind. But oh with thankful hearts confess E'en here there may be happiness; And He, the bounteous Sire, has given His peace on earth-his hope of heaven. CHARLES WOLFE. The REV. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied, with considerable closeness, from a prose account of the incident which it relates. Reading in the Edinburgh Annual Register a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battlefield of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive -the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions in arms-and the poet himself dying when young, be loved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published || anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelley considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right be yond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Fame, like wealth, is sometimes pursued with unprincipled covetousness; but, unless directed by proper motives, the chase is never honourable, and very seldom safe. The great duties of life-its moral feelings and principles-are something more important than even the brightest wreaths of fame! Wolfe was a curate in the esta blished church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with an interesting memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell, one of his early college friends. The Burial of Sir John Moore. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, |