A carpet is thy daisied sod,

A narrow street thy boundless wood,
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,-
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines:
I sing of thee in sadness; where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair!

Child of the country! on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring;
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree-
For climbing's sake,-'tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,

Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five lòng miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak;
And thou art cabin'd and confined,
At once from sun, and dew, and wind,
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone.
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,

A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb o'er which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.1

Oh! ny love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain;

1 Some beautiful lines of yours in a former number of the "Literary Souvenir" introduced me to your wife, and inade me feel much interested in her. Pray, offer her my kind remem brances.-Mrs. Hemans to Allan Cunningham.

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As, when beneath Arbigland tree,

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon,

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet,
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time and care and birthtime woes
Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old, To silver, than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower: 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit of Fortune's tree; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for that brow of thine: A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower;
Oh then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine

The best of all things not divine.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.1

THE MARINER.

Ye winds, which sweep the grove's green tops,
And kiss the mountains hoar,

Oh softly stir the ocean-waves

Which sleep along the shore!

For my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea;

Oh bend his masts with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.

Oh leave nae mair the bonnie glen,

Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,

Where first we walk'd in gloaming gray,
And sigh'd and look'd of love;

For faithless is the ocean-wave,

And faithless is the wind:

Then leave nae mair my heart to break
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.

THIS distinguished poet and prose writer was the son of a linen-draper in Bristol, and was born in that city on the 12th of August, 1774. After going through the ordinary preparatory course of study, he entered Baliol College, Oxford, in

1 I look upon "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," as one of the best songs going.-SIR WAL TER SCOTT: Diary, 14 Nov. 1826.

1792, with the design of entering the church; but as his religious views underwent a change, inclining to Unitarianism, he left the university in 1794, and in the same year published his first poems, in conjunction with Mr. Lovell. Of his appearance and character at this time, Joseph Cottle thus speaks: "One morning, Robert Lovell called on me, and introduced Robert Southey. Never will the impression be effaced produced on me by this young man. Tall, dignified, possessing great suavity of manners; an eye piercing, with a countenance full of genius, kindliness, and intelligence. I gave him at once the right hand of feilowship, and, to the moment of his decease, that cordiality was never withdrawn."1

About this time he took part in the famous Pantisocratic scheme,2 "to which all the eager contributors brought golden theories, but so little of the more tangible coin that the Utopian project was necessarily relinquished." In November of the following year, (1795,) he married Miss Fricker, of Bristol, the sister of Mrs. Coleridge. In the winter of the same year, while he was on his way to Lisbon, "Joan of Arc" was published. In the following summer he returned to Bristol, and in the next year removed to London, and entered Gray's Inn. He passed part of the years 1800 and 1801 in Portugal, and from Lisbon wrote to Joseph Cottle the following poetical letter, which, for ease, vivacity, and vigorous description, stands at the head of that class of compositions:

LISBON, May 9th, 1800.

Dear Cottle, d'ye see, in writing to thee,
I do it in rhyme, that I may save time,
Determined to say, without any delay,
Whatever comes first, whether best or worst.
Alack for me when I was at sea!

For I lay like a log, as sick as a dog;

And whoever this readeth, will pity poor Edith:

Indeed it was shocking, the vessel fast rocking,

The timbers all creaking; and when we were speaking,
It was to deplore that we were not on shore,

And to vow we would never go voyaging more.

The fear of our fighting did put her a fright in,

And I had alarms for my legs and my arms.

When the matches were smoking, I thought 'twas no joking,
And though honor and glory and fame were before me,
'Twas a great satisfaction that we had not an action,
And I felt somewhat bolder

When I knew that my head might remain on my shoulder.
But oh! 'twas a pleasure, exceeding all measure,

On the deck to stand, and look at the land;
And when I got there, I vow and declare,

The pleasure was even like getting to Heaven!

I could eat and drink, as you may think;

I could sleep at ease, except for the fleas;

1 "Reminiscences of Coleridge and Southey." p. 4. Read "North British Review," xii. 371, and xiii. 225; “Edinburgh," lxxxvii. 391; "Gentlemen's Magazine," April, June, and September, 1850; "London Athenæum," March, 1850.

2 See an account of this in the notice of Coleridge.

But still the sea-feeling-the drunken reeling-
Did not go away for more than a day:

Like a cradle, the bed seem'd to rock my head,
And the room and the town went up and down.

My Edith here thinks all things queer,
And some things she likes well;

But then the street she thinks not neat,

And does not like the smell.

Nor do the fleas her fancy please,
Although the fleas like her;

They at first view fell merrily to,
For they made no demur.

But oh the sight! the great delight!
From this my window, west!

This view so fine, this scene divine!
The joy that I love best!

The Tagus here, so broad and clear,
Blue, in the clear blue noon-

And it lies light, all silver white,
Under the silver moon!

Adieu, adieu, farewell to you,
Farewell, my friend so dear;

Write when you may, I need not say

How gladly we shall hear.

I leave off rhyme, and so next time
Prose writing you shall see;

But in rhyme or prose, dear Joseph knows
The same old friend in me.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Soon after Southey's return to England, he established himself at Keswick, in the Lake country, where he lived for the remainder of his life. In 1805, he published his "Madoc," and in 1810 the "Curse of Kehama." In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, Southey was appointed poet laureate. In 1814, he published "Roderic, the Last of the Goths," and in 1821 "The Vision of Judgment." The same year he received his doctor's degree from the University of Oxford. In 1825, appeared "The Tale of Paraguay," the latest of his longer poems. Besides these, he wrote a great number of smaller pieces of poetry, and numerous prose works, which have given him the character of one of the best prose-writers in the language, for a clear, vigorous, manly, and graceful style. Of these, the most important are the "Book of the Church," the "History of the Peninsular War," the "History of the Brazils," and the Lives of "Nelson," " "Wesley," "Cowper," "Chatterton," and "Henry Kirke White." He was a regular contributor for many years to the "Quarterly Review," and was the author of that remarkable book, "The Doctor."

In his "Life of Nelson," I regret to say, there are some most exceptionable sentimentssentiments utterly at variance with the spirit and teachings of Christianity.

2 The following is a list of his articles in the "London Quarterly," as given by Joseph Cot tle in his "Reminiscences," up to 1825: In No. 1, Baptist Mission in India; 2, Portuguese Literature; 3, South Sea Missions-Lord Valentia's Travels; 4, American Annals; 5, Life of Nelson; 6, Season at Tongataboo-Graham's Georgics; 7, Observador Portuguez; 8, Feroe Islands-On the Evangelical Sects; 11, Bell and Lancaster; 12, The Inquisition-Montgo