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cockle-shells, or an imitation of them; but the These were, besides those already mentioned, name renders their vegetable descent unequivo- the Tattler, a daily paper of four folio pacal. It is pleasant to observe the simple origin of pleasant things. Some loving peasants, time im-ges, which he wrote entirely.; the True memorial, fall dancing under the trees: they pick Sun, to which he contributed, as also to the up the nuts, rattle them in their hands; and be- Edinburgh and Westminster Reviews ; the hold (as the Frenchman says) the birth of the ac- Monthly Repository, a Unitarian magazine; companiment of the fandango.”

the London Journal, and the Seer, which

now stands as a companion to the Indicator. Settled once again at his beloved Hamp- His dramatic productions were, The Legend stead, our poet found amid English scenery of Florence, The Secret Marriage, Lover's his “ old friend Pastoral, still more pastoral.” Amazements, The Double, and Look to He now strolled about the meadows, with a your Morals,—all of which were failures. “Parnaso,” or a Spenser under his arm, and In addition to these and his volumes of eswondered that he met nobody who seemed says, poems, &c., “I have written,” he says, to love the fields as he did. Toryism was at one more book, small, and still in manuthis time in the ascendant, and Hunt's lite- script, which I can take no pride in, which rary productions were not popular. It was I desire to take no pride in, and yet which not until the rise of Louis Philippe and the I hold dearer than all the rest." This voldecline of Toryism, that the signature of the ume, it appears, is upon the subject of reliquondam editor of the Examiner was greeted gion, and has appended to it his “ Chriswith its former favor. “It is not the best tianism, or Belief and Unbelief Reconciled," trait,” he says, " in the character of the pub- and is promised to be shortly published. lic, that they incline to believe whatever is We cannot better take leave of our old said of a man by the prosperous. I have friend than by quoting a few characteristic since been lauded to the skies for productions words of his own, descriptive of his present which at that period fell dead from the life :press.”

We will not go with Mr. Hunt into the “With the occasional growth of this book, with critical analysis of his own poetical produc- the production of others from necessity, with the

solace of verse, and with my usual experience of tions, though many of his remarks thereon

sorrows and enjoyments, of sanguine hopes and are as racy as the poems themselves. This bitter disappointments, of bad health and almost method of commenting upon one's own pro- unconquerable spirits, (for though my old hypoductions is not altogether unauthorized. Mr. chondria never returns, I sometimes undergo pangs Hunt gives for it the example of the old of unspeakable will and longing, on matters which Italian poets, with Dante at their head. He tered tenor of life, almost the whole lapse of

elude my grasp,) I have now passed, in one sequesregrets that Shakspeare had not been his years since I lost my friend in Italy. The same own commentator, and Spenser given cluci- unvaried day sees me reading or writing, ailing, dations respecting his Platonic mysticisms jesting, reflecting, rarely stirring from home but to on the nature of man. He would have en

walk, interested in public events, in the progress of joyed “ a divine gossip with him about his in things great and small

, in a print, in a plaster

society, in the New Reformation,? (most deeply,) woods, and his solitudes, and his nymphs, cast, in a hand-organ, in the stars, in the scene to his oceans, and his heaven.”

which the sun is hastening, in the flower on my Our author enlarges also upon

his numer

table, in the fly on my paper while I write. (He ous prose works, and the publications for perhaps we all do as much every moment, over

crosses words, of which he knows nothing ; and which he wrote as editor and as contributor. divinest meanings.)"

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Quick at the fount the living waters play,

Then laughing down the verdurous grade they run, Like troops of children, of a holiday,

On a grassed playground, sloping to the sun ; The roguish ripples, dancing with delight, Twinkle and glow likę diamonds in the light.

Then gentlier flow they among isles of grass,

And promontories green, till calm and wide They move reluctant, swaying as they pass

The anchored lilies, that companioned ride With fleets of floating foliage broad and green, And cups of flowery gold that glow between. The scythe-ripe meadows greenly stretched afar,

Where the long waters wound, obscurely shining ; The wakening airs kept up a breezy war

With grass and trees their sudden flights confining; The broad hills billowed in the windy chase Down their green sides, from brow to gloomy base.

Soft came the airs, with leafy murmurs sweet,

And sensuous trill of insects in the grass ; Mild whispers, heard when day and darkness meet,

That move an inborn music as they pass, Tuned by the wheel-strokes of a distant mill, Now plashing loud, and now a moment still.

Gradual, o'er all, the mountain sent his shade,

Though yet, from western clouds, a ruddy beam Glowed on the waters, playfully delayed

By shallow ripples on th' impatient stream, That would not let the troubled splendor lie In the deep hollow of the nether sky.

Still at each windy lull it sought its rest
In the calm bosom of the blue profound,

Like Faith's clear vision in a peaceful breast, —

Then broke in passion; when with hasty sound The wind awoke, and stirred the leaves, and flew, Trailing his skirt along the trembling blue.

The far wheel ceased, the swelling sluices roared,

The mill-bell tinkled in the twilight air ;
Sweet sounds that o'er the dewy landscape poured

Remission blest of industry and care;
Vespers of labor, when with merriment
The sons of toil all smiling homeward went.
Their children meet them half the pleasant way,

And hand in hand the sons and fathers walk ;
The happy mothers chide their long delay,

While on the grassy lane they, lingering, talk : Young swains and hoary tillers, how the State Should be advanced, and who are truly great.

Then heart of youth and tender sympathy

Drowned the slow rising of those manlier strains
That move me now : for, o lost friend ! to thee

And me alike, the world with its fierce pains,
Its mad ambitions and proud agonies,
Was but a figment of masked tragedies.

We read, or seemed to read, in Nature seen,

An unknown Power; whose hand ästhetical, In beauteous life and leafy concourse green,

In hills and streams, and the far-thundering fall, On wind-worn mountain and tumultuous sea, Moulds the fair earth-shapes it eternally!

It was a mild Philosophy, whose head

Shone with bright hopes like glowing flowers, each day Renewed ; and she her willing votaries led

Through many an antique, long abandoned way,
Amid the o'erthrown primal temples, dim
Inscribed with holy truth, in legends grim.

Or wedding sweet verse to a piteous air,

The daisy-crownéd muse, full innocent, Bewailed in leafy nook some love-sick fair,

Weeping her mate in weary banishment; Sad stops and tearful melodies, that gave An echo to the wind and moaning wave.

Or in a pensive passion pacing slow

Along the margin of a reedy run,
She marked the maiden lily that doth show

Her snow-white, odorous bosom to the sun,
Hot ravisher, that with too ardent beam
Kisses the tender beauty of the stream.

Then came the Druid of soft Windermere,

And charmed us to his pleasant wildernesses ;
Bard of weak passions, impotent to cheer

The strong heart bending under stern distresses.
Poet of silly griefs and witless woes,
Great singer of small joys and mighty shows !

How swift the primal curse, Necessity,

Nipped all your wormy fruits and idle flowers; Searing their roots with acrid poverty,

And blighting their pale leaves with bitter showers : Long fallow time it needed, ere a hand With useful fruitage came and crowned the land.

“ God is in nature.” Aye, but in man most ;

And who would worship, let him not fall down
To seas or mountains, or even to the host

That diadem the night. Man wears the crown
Of the creation, and in him we see
The reflex, sole, of true Divinity.

Nay, worship God alone : be thou a man,

And not man's worshipper, nor Nature's. Show The power of freedom. What young Freedom can,

Were it not worth a martyrdom to know? If thou wilt rhyme, then be thy manly verse Made for a patriot's praise, –a traitor's curse.



Has the New World no passion fit to move

Heroic numbers ? Must the liberal air
Still ring with verse that girls and boys approve,

Melodious lust and musical despair?
Then be despised the idle rhyming art,
Unfit for themes that move a patriot's heart !

Look where the modern epic Manhood stands

Among the people !—mark him, you who deem Heroes a growth of other times and lands,

Or a mere fiction of the poet's dream; Up! to his grandeur, rhymster, if you can! And future times will deem you too a man.

Seest not the noble front,—the shoulders large,

And majesty of motion, that declare
The hero born, not made; on whom the charge

Of empire, inevitable, rests? He goes,
Unconscious, toward his fame, and powerful state,
By character, God's mark, alone made great.

Clad in the dress of toil, he moves a king

Of Nature's crowning : his deep voice more feared, His smile more valued, than the beckoning

Of law-made monarchs; and, penurious reared,
He laughs at wealth, and with rich eloquence
Unlocks all hoards and takes his liking thence.
For all men love him,-aye, all women too;

And every native beauty he will scan
With a moist eye, and tender; and were you
Before him, every mark in you

of man
He would discern, and on the instant trace
The strength, or weakness, written in your face.

Trust him, and he will love you ; do him wrong,

blasts you like a desert wind : Oppose him, he is courteous, and will long!

Contend with bloodless weapons of the mind;
Force him to fight you, not the raging sea
More terrible or pitiless than he.

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