Departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore Thou storied'st thy sad hours! Silence ensued, Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, Echo to the bleat of flocks (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells Has social Quiet loved thy shore ! Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni. O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink! And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! For ever shattered, and the same for ever? And who commanded-and the silence came- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 6 Utter forth God,' and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breastThou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest like a vapoury cloud To rise before me-Rise, oh, ever rise; Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Love. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, My own dear Genevieve! Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, 77 She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the knight that wore I told her how he pined; and ah! She listened with a flitting blush, Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; 78 That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once, In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, And how she wept and clasped his knees, The scorn that crazed his brain. And that she nursed him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and delight, I heard her breathe my name. She fled to me and wept. She half inclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace, And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride! From Frost at Midnight? Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, And momentary pauses of the thought! Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Heard only in the trances of the blast, Love, Hope, and Patience in Education. O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces; Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies; Yet haply there will come a weary day, Youth and Age. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, When I was young! Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, objects of the senses must stimulate the mind; and the mind must in turn assimilate and digest the food which it thus receives from without. Method, therefore, must result from the due mean or balance between our passive impressions and the mind's reaction on them. So in the healthful state of the human body, waking and sleeping, rest and labour, reciprocally succeed each other, and mutually contribute to liveliness, and activity, and strength. There are certain stores proper, and, as it were, indigenous to the mind-such as the ideas of number and figure, and the logical forms and combinations of conception or thought. The mind that is rich and exuberant in this intellectual wealth is apt, like a miser, to dwell upon the vain contemplation of its riches, is disposed to generalise and methodise to excess, ever philosophising, and never descending to action; spreading its wings high in the air above some beloved spot, but never flying far and wide over earth and sea, to seek food, or to enjoy the endless beauties of nature; the fresh morning, and the warm noon, and the dewy On the other hand, still less is to be expected, towards the methodising of science, from the man who flutters about in blindness like the bat; or is carried hither and thither, like the turtle sleeping on the wave, and fancying, because he moves, that he is in progress.. ... eve. It is not solely in the formation of the human understanding, and in the constructions of science and literature, that the employment of method is indispensably necessary; but its importance is equally felt, and equally acknowledged, in the whole business and economy of active and domestic life. From the cottager's hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace or the arsenal, the first merit-that which admits neither substitute nor equivalent-is, that everything is in its place. Where this charm is wanting, every other merit either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one by whom it is eminently possessed we say, proverbially, that he is like clock-work. The resemblance extends beyond the point of regularity, and yet falls far short of the truth. Both do, indeed, at once divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time; but the man of methodical industry and honourable pursuits does more; he realises its ideal divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the idle are described as killing time, he may be justly said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience. He organises the hours, and gives them a soul; and to that, the very essence of which is to fleet and to have been, he communicates an imperishable and a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodised, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than that time lives in him. His days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, and remain extant when time itself shall be no more. REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. The REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850) enjoys the distinction of having delighted and lication was a small volume of sonnets published inspired' the genius of Coleridge. His first pubin 1789, to which additions were made from time to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a ninth edition. Various other poetical works proceeded from the pen of Mr Bowles: Coombe Ellen and St Michael's Mount, 1798; Battle of the Nile, 1799; Sorrows of Switzerland, 1801; Spirit of Discovery, 1805; The Missionary of the Andes, 1815; Days Departed, 1828; St John in Patmos, 1833; &c. None of these works can be said to have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse. Mr Bowles had the true poetical feeling and imagination, refined by classical taste and acquirements. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most devoted admirers. A volume of Mr Bowles's sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic young poet, converted him from some 'perilous errors' to the love of a style of poetry at once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. Mr Bowles, in 1806, edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy, in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; 'every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope occupied a middle position, inclining to the artificial side of life. Mr Bowles was born at King'sSutton, Northamptonshire, and was educated first at Winchester School, under Joseph Warton, and subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his death he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral. He is described by his neighbour, Moore the poet, as a simple, amiable, absentminded scholar, poet, and musician. Sonnets. To Time. O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear Winter Evening at Home. Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December, through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light, Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night! Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze, I think around me in this twilight gloom, I but remark mortality's sad doom; In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere. Hope. As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, He the green slope and level meadow views, Bamborough Castle. Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, And turns her ear to each expiring cry, Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave. South American Scenery. Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows, Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by ; There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white Sun-dial in a Churchyard. So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade, And have not they, who here forgotten lie- Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound- While memory wept upon the good man's bier. Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells Ring merrily when my brief days are gone; While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, And strangers gaze upon my humble stone! Enough, if we may wait in calm content The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O God. BLANCO WHITE. It is a singular circumstance in literary history, that what many consider the finest sonnet in the English language should be one written by a Spaniard. The REV. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE (1775-1841) was a native of Seville, son of an Irish Roman Catholic merchant settled in Spain. He was author of Letters from Spain by Don Leucadoin Doblado (1822), Internal Evidence against Catholicism (1825), and other works both in English and Spanish. A very interesting memoir of this remarkable man, with portions of his correspondence, &c. was published by J. H. Thom (London, 3 vols. 1845): Sonnet on Night. Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife? If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? ROBERT SOUTHEY. One of the most voluminous and learned authors of this period was ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D., the poet-laureate. A poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, and historian, Southey wrote more than even Scott, and he is said to have burned more verses between his twentieth and thirtieth year than he published during his whole life. His time was entirely devoted to literature. Every day and hour had its appropriate and select task; his library was his world within which he was content to range, and his books were his most cherished and constant companions. In one of his poems, he says: My days among the dead are passed; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old : It is melancholy to reflect, that for nearly three years preceding his death, Mr Southey sat among his books in hopeless vacuity of mind, the victim of disease. This distinguished author was a native of Bristol, the son of a respectable linendraper of the same name, and was born on the 12th of August 1774. He was indebted to a maternal uncle for most of his education. In his fourteenth year he was placed at Westminster School, where he remained between three and four years, but having in conjunction with several of his school associates set on foot a periodical entitled The Flagellant, in which a sarcastic article on corporal punishment appeared, the head-master, Dr Vincent, commenced a prosecution against the publisher, and Southey was compelled to leave the school. This harsh exercise of authority probably had considerable effect in disgusting the young enthusiast with the institutions of his country. In November 1792 he was entered of Balliol College, Oxford. He had then distinguished himself by poetical productions, and had formed literary plans enough for many years or many lives. In political opinions he was a democrat; in religion, a Unitarian; consequently he could not take orders in the church, or look for any official appointment. He fell in with Coleridge, as already related, and joined in the plan of emigration. His academic career was abruptly closed in 1794. The same year, he published a volume of poems in conjunction with Mr Robert Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion. About the same time he composed his drama of Wat Tyler, a revolutionary brochure, which was long afterwards published surreptitiously by a knavish bookseller to annoy its author. 'In my youth,' he says, 'when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education-when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue's end-I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and following those opinions with ardour wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for their root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote Wat Tyler, as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen, and it was treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty in such times, who regarded only one side of the question.' The poem, indeed, is a miserable production, and was harmless from its very inanity. Full of the same political sentiments and ardour, Southey, in 1793, had composed his Joan of Arc, an epic poem, displaying fertility of language and |