2 I so \Qmyi^^ "V o I a O u. CO so I IIVJJO^ ^^OJI ,r\F.r.M!mD/, -c«F.!f; x9 A-.TAIl .a.>( . I ..V • >»a_ai vij''«» i t B' * '-u- » I'r rt r_ .- » (!r\»» i r^s * . ^ MfifS * S\ / '.WEUMIVER%. ^lOS 8% ^10 J= ^ '"«VA;i . 1^ '1£l '^snm " ^ 2 5 o .rtirtujnv^ ^dC il>.i!\/LiJ( .V . ir\< iiircir,^ MY NATIVE VILLAGE; AND OTHER POEMS. BY N. T. CARRINGTON. Author of " Dartmoor." ' LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. MDCCCXXX. DEVONPORT: PRINTED BY W. BYERS, FORE-STREET. TO HENRY WOOLLCOMBE, Esq. PRESIDENT OF THE PLYMOUTH A*rHENjEUM, IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY HIS MUCH OBLIGED, AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, THE AUTHOR. 810781 CJ5= I HAVE not published any new volume since the appearance of " Dartmoor," so many years ago. A severe and protracted ilmess has prevented me from writing a poem of any length, and if the reader should occasionally perceive traces of languor in the present publication, I trust that he will impute it to the proper cause. I am not, however, without hope, that, though this volume was composed in some of the most distressing circumstances that ever fell to the lot of man, the ingenuous critic will tind, in some pages, reason for commendation. CONTENTS Page. MY NATIVE VILLAGE 5 Note ........ 23 The Twins of Lamerton ...... 27 The Martyr Student ...... 32 Domestic Love ...... 36 The Hell weathers ....... 37 Childe the Hunter ...... 4.5 The Captive Lark ....... 55 To a Primrose, presented to me by a Friend, January, 1829 58 Tlie Gamester ...... 60 Mysterious Providence . . . . • 65 The Druids ...... 67 On seeing' a fine Frigate at anchor in a Bay of Mount Edgeumbe 73 Isabel in her Garden ..... 77 The Holiday, (No. 1) 79 On the Death of Julia S .... 82 The Pixies of Devon ..... 84 Lydford Bridge ...... . 89 Christmas Morn ...... . 95 The Lake ...... , 100 Visions of Memory ..... . 103 The Sailor's Fate ...■•• . 106 To a Friend, on his approaching Voyage to Pisa . 112 The Destruction of Tavistock Abbey . 114 Woman. .....•• . 121 The Dead .....•• 122 Vi^ilverley .....•■ . 124 The Holiday, (No. 2) .... • . 131 CONTENTS. Page. On seeing a Lady weeping for the Loss of her Infant . 136 To a Friend leaving England .... 139 Inscription for a Column at Corunna 144 Futurity ....... 146 A Moorland Storm . . ... 147 The Vale 150 The Poet ....... 155 To Cornwall ...... 156 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. Touched by the sunlight of the evening hour, The elm still rises near thy aged tower Dear, pensive Harewood, and in that rich ray E'en thy old lichened battlements seem gay : — Through the bov^red windows streams the golden glow. The beam is sleeping on the tombs below ; While, with its million flowers, yon hedge-row fair Girts with green zone thy lowly House of Prayer. No breeze plays with the amber leafage now. Still is the cypress — still the ivy-bough. And but for that fleet l)ird that glances round Thy spire, or darting o'er the sacred ground s 6 AfY NATIVE VILLAGE. Twitters for very joy, how strange and deep The silence where the lost — the loved ones sleep ! Beside — there is nor lay, nor voice, nor breath, A happy, living thing, where all around is — Death. Dear, pensive Harewood ! let no wanton feet Profane the calmness of thy blessed retreat ; For here dove-eyed Afiection seeks relief. And tastes, unmarked, the luxury of grief. How* sweet to trace where on those hillocks green The sacred hand of Piety has been ! Rich hues are mingling with the pleasant grass. The western gales breathe fragrance when they pass ; The daisy lifts its unassuming head — The jasmine droops above the honoured dead — Around the hawthorn flings its rich perfume — And roses — earliest roses bud and bloom ; — The woodbine clasps the monumental urn. And oft when Friendship hither hastes to mourn. She hears the wild bee hum — the wild bird sing. And all the tenderest melodies of Spring ; MY NATIVE VILLAGE. While one clear silvery rill that hastes along, Chaunts in her ear its own sweet undersong. So should the dead be honoured, so should be Their last dear resting place by brook and tree ; — So should Affection sprinkle round the tomb As Spring awakes, the loveliest flowers that bloom. Sun, shower, and breeze, should quicken, — cherish, here The freshest, fairest verdure of the year ; — The elm with leaf untouched, with bough unriven. Lift his majestic trunk, and soar to heaven ; — The oak of nameless age should proudly wave His hundred hoary arms above the grave ;— While birds of plaintive voice should through the grove Pour the heart-soothing lay of Pity and of Love ! Tree of the days of old— time-honour'd YEW — Pride of my boyhood — manhood — age — Adieu ! 8 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. f Broad was thy shadow, mighty one, but now Sits desolation on thy leafless bough ! That huge, and far-fam'd trunk, scoop'd out by age. Will break, full soon, beneath the tempest's rage ; Few are the leaves lone sprinkled o'er thy breast. There's bleakness, blackness, on thy shiver'd crest ! When Spring shall vivify again the earth. And yon blest vale shall ring with woodland mirth Morning, noon, eve ; — no bird with wanton glee Shall pour, anew, his poetry from thee ; For thou hast lost thy greenness, and he loves The verdure and companionship of groves — Sings where the song is loudest, and the spray. Fresh, fair, and youthful, dances in the ray ! Nor shall returning Spring, o'er storms and strife Victorious, e'er recal thee into life ! Yet stand thou there — majestic to the last. And stoop with grandeur to the conquering blast. Aye stand thou there — for great in thy decay Thou wondrous remnant of a far-gone day. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 9 Thy name, thy might, shall wake in rural song, Bless'd by the old — respected by the young ; While all unknown, iincar'd for, — oak on oak Of yon tall grove shall feel the woodman's stroke ; One common, early fate awaits them all, No sympathising eye shall mark their fall ; And beautiful in ruin as they lie For them shall not be heard one rustic sigh ! One wither'd bough leans o'er an infant's tomb. Yon simple stone records his early doom ! — Sweet Boy ! the winter struck thee, and when Spring Waved o'er the earth his rainbow-tinted wing. The sun gave warmth and music to our vale. And health, we fondly deemed, fill'd every gale ; — In vain ! He pined, although his mother smiled Over a sinking heart, and bless'd her child ; And could not — would not — see that Death was near. But strong in hope, calm'd every rising fear ! And still, through all to Love and Nature true. Bore him Avhere flowers in fairest clusters grew. 10 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. iVnd loitcr'd in the sunny grass, and roved By the clear rills, and pluck'd the gems he lov'd ; — The primrose that hangs o'er a sunny stream. The king-cup with its glossy, golden gleam. And that old favorite — the Daisy — born By millions in the balmy, vernal morn — The child's own flower ; — and these her gentle hands Would join, to cheer him, in sweet verdurous bands. Then he would smile, oh, when that smile would break A moment o'er his worn, and pallid cheek, How she would gaze upon her angel-boy ! How in the mother triumph'd, Love — Hope —Joy ! And then the birds would flutter by, and he Through the calm hour, would watch their motions free ; And when that haunter of green depths — the thrush Flung his full melody from brake and bush, 'Twas beautiful to mark his mute surprise. And the quick glances of his fitful eyes. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 11 But harmonics of birds, and lapse of brooks. And calm and silent hours in sun-touch'd nooks. And charms of flowers, and happy birds, and trees. And healthful visitings of vernal breeze Avail'd not; ceaseless gnavv'd that worm which lies So ambush'd in our English hearts, — and dies But with the life it takes. Consumption now Sat all revealed upon his marble brow. And, sometimes, as in fierce derision, threw O'er those fine features an angelic hue — Quick shifting; — that strange, sudden bloom which glows As falsely as those colourings of the rose Which seem so beautiful, and wear so well Health's purest tint, while in its deepest cell — Its depths of loveliest foldings, lurks a foe — A canker that shall lay its splendor low ! lie linger'd thus — this Human Blossom — till The life-gales of the Spring — those airs that fill 12 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. Our veins with fresh, young health, had pass'd away And then " a change came o'er him ;" yet he lay Fixing with unmov'd calm his glassy eye Intense, upon his mother wandering nigh His snow-white couch. And she would bend above Her boy (how quenchless is a mother's love !) And hope, aye against hope, but soon drew near. Chasing all doubt, the hour of mortal fear — He droop'd ; and as the Summer-day grew hot There came a voice of anguish from that cot Like Rachel's. ********* ********* ******** * Sacred is the voice of grief. And tears, that give the heart a sure relief. Must flow uncheck'd. 'Tis Time alone can bring Relief, and pluck from Sorrow its keen sting ; And deaden the fierce feelings of the mind. And shed, at last, the wish and will resign'd. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 13 Years roll'd, — and though within that mourner's door The tones of gladness never enter'd more, Yet pensive peace, and meek content were there. Strong, ardent faith, and solitude, and prayer ; And from her lowly cot, at morn and even The meekly warbled lay arose to Heaven ! Bard of the village! o'er thy peaceful grave The bay should brighten, and the laurel wave ; — Thy lyre no more shall charm the sylvan bower Or soothe the hearth in winter's dreary hour. Harewood ! thy bard's was still the usual lot Of genius, to be praised — and be forgot ; — To pour to wealth and rank the dulcet strain. Yet dwell with penury and shrink with pain ; — With Labour still to live from day to day. And walk with Toil along life's rugged way. Yet when blest freedom came with accents kind And brief repose refresh'd his sinking mind. How many a simple pleasure was his own ! How many a joy to vulgar minds unknown ! 14 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. For Nature op'd to him— her darling child The beautiful, the wonderful, the wild. And he would wander forth where quiet dwells In the dim depths of woods and forest dells. Musing the hour away ; and where the shades Grow darker, and the baffled sun-ray fades. Amid the dark-wove foliage of the grove He ever had a strange delight to rove. Yet sometimes, where our loved Devonia yields The noblest treasures of her southern fields. He stray'd, and gave to memory loveliest themes And swept his lyre to hail— The Land of Streams! Anon the wayward wight would fearless scale The black -brow'd cliff that overhung the dale. And careless resting on that mountain throne, Make the vast wealth of Prospect all his own With rich appropriation. Far below Rush'd the loud moorland torrent, dash'd to snow By the rude rocks, and he would deeply pore On that mad stream, and listen to its roar MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 15 Till haply the bold falcon, sweeping by, "Would scare him from some noon-day phantasy — Some wild and wondrous fancies that retain A strange and deep possession of the brain. Ere Reason reassume her empire there, And dash the mystic visions into air. His wanderings and his musings, — hopes and fears. His keen-felt pleasures, and his heart-wrung tears Are past ; — the grave clos'd on him ere those days Had come when on the scalp the snow-wreath plays ; He perish'd ere his prime ; but they who know What 'tis to battle with a world of woe. From youth to elder manhood, feel too well That grief at last within the deepest cell Of the poor heart will bring decay, and shake So fierce the soul — that Care like Age will make " The grasshopper a burden." Slowly came The mortal stroke, but to the end the flame 16 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. Of Poesy burnt bright. With feeble hand He touch'd his harp, but not at his command Came now the rich, old music. Faintly fell On his pain'd ear the strains he lov'd so well And then his heart was broken. 'Neath yon sward Flower-sprinkled now, rests Harewood's peasant bard; While power and opulence with senseless prate. And useless pity seem to mourn his fate ; With fulsome epitaph insult his grave. And eulogize the man they would not save. The village fane its noble tower uprears. Safe from the tempests of a thousand years ;— Still in their ancient strength these walls arise. And brave the rudest shocks of wintry skies ! And see, within — how beautiful ! — time-proof. O'er aisle and nave light springs the embowcd roof! The massive door is open ; — let me trace With reverential awe the solemn place ; — MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 17 Ah, let me enter, once again, the pew Where the child nodded as the sermon grew ; Scene of soft slumbers ! I remember now The chiding finger, and the frowning brow Of stern reprovers, when the ardent June Flung through the glowing aisles the drowsy noon ; Ah, admonitions vain ! a power was there "Which conquer'd e'en the sage, the brave, the fair, — A sweet oppressive power — a languor deep. Resistless shedding round delicious sleep ! Till, closed the learned harangue, with solemn look Arose the chaunter of the sacred book, — The parish clerk (death-silenced) far-famed then And justly, for his long and loud — Amen ! Rich was his tone, and his exulting eye Glanced to the ready choir, enthroned on high. Nor glanced in vain ; the simple-hearted throng Lifted their voices, and dissolved in song ; Till in one tide deep rolling, full and free Rung through the echoing pile, old England's psalmody. 18 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. See, halfway down the vale whose vagrant stream Rolls its bright waters, oft the poet's theme. True to the call of his own village bells — Sweet call to him, the village* pastor dwells. Shepherd of Harewood, peace has blessed thy days, A calm, half century of prayer and praise ; — The snows of time are on thy honour'd head Yet — is thy step not weak — thy vigour fled ; — Not yet those snows that on thy temples lie Have dimmed the fires that sparkle in thy eye ! Clear are the tones of that persuasive voice Which bids the sinner fear, the saint rejoice ; — How oft to wake the unrepentant, falls The burst of eloquence around these walls ! — How, thronging deep, the listening crowd admire That eye of lightning, and that lip of fire ! Hang on the cheering truths that sweetly flow. Warm with the theme, and share the holy glow. ** One to whom sohtude and peace were given, Calm village silence and the hope of heaven." MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 19 List that love-breathing voice at mom or even A-nd wake the hymn that lifts the soul to heaven. My native village, thou hast still the power To charm me, as in boyhood's far-gone hour ! Years have flown on — "chance, change" have passed o'er me Since last I gambolled on thy peaceful lea ; — Years have flown on — and from the oft-trod brow Of the old hill, I gaze upon thee now ; — And tearful mark each scene, so known, so true. The very picture which my memory drew. Ah, Harewood, early doomed from thee to roam. The sketch was fair which Fancy formed of HOME ! Care — absence — distance — as to thee I turned But fed the Local Fire which inly burned ; And Hope oft whispered that, all perils past. In thy dear bosom I should rest at last. Whence is this wondrous sympathy that draws Our souls to HOME by its mysterious laws 20 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. Wheree'er we wander ; and with stronger love Sways the touched heart, more distant as we rove? Ask of the soldier who, in climes afar. Stands undismayed amid the ranks of war; — Who, with unfaltering foot where thousands fall. Advancing gives his bosom to the ball; — Or with a passive courage nobler still. Undaunted bears of strife the every ill ; — Unmurmuring suffers all that man may bear. Firm to sustain, and resolute to dare ! — Ask of him what has nerved his arm in fight. And cheered his soul in visions of the night ; — That mid the deep, dark gloom — the tempest's wrath. Oft flung a ray of comfort on his path ! 'Twas the sweet wish once more to view the strand Far — far away — his own, blest, native land ; — To live again where first he drew his breath. And sleep, at last, with those he loved — in Death ! . Dear Home, whereever seated, — placed on high Some cot amid the mountains where the cry MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 21 Of the king-eagle mingles with the gale. And the storm shrieks that never scares the vale ; — Or found in dells where glows the southern ray. Flowers bloom, birds sing, and fragrant zephyrs play ;— Dear Home, whereever seated — loveliest, best Of all on earth to him — his hope, his rest, 'Twas thy resistless influence that gave Hope in the field, and comfort on the wave ; — 'Twas that which, doomed an exile yet to be. Attracts my soul, sweet village, thus to thee ! Yes, ye are fair as ever, — field and wood. And cots that gem the calm, green solitude. And harvests ripening in the golden gleam. And flowers, rich fringing all yon wayward stream. The village play-ground lifts its age-worn trees, And flings young voices on the evening breeze ; — The rill which flow'd of old yet freshly flows. The lake yet spreads in beautiful repose ; — 22 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. There waves the very grove whose walks among I oft have strayed to hear the blackbird's song, Long may the wild bird that sweet refuge know ; — Cursed be the axe that lays its foliage low ; — Long, blessed as now with minstrelsy and flowers. Rise, Harewood, rise, among thy blushing bowers; — And as yon stream, its moorland journey past, Glides smoothly through the unechoing vales at last. So, spent with toil, in Life's tumultuous day, A pilgrim fainting from his rugged way. Sweet on thy peaceful bosom let me rest. Like a tired bird in its own quiet nest ; And find (how exquisite to find it) there Life's stormy noon crowned with a sunset fair. N O T E, * page 6, line 9. How sweet to trace where on those hillocks green The sacred hand of Piety has been ! " Sweet" indeed ! This custom of ornamenting with flowers, &c. the graves of the deceased, is still to be found in Wales, in Switzerland, and in several parts of France. It is a beautiful — an interesting — a holy custom ! What truly can be more touching than to behold one friend bending over the grave of another, sprinkling seeds, or inserting lovely plants in the enamelled turf? But such heart-stirring sceneis are almost unknown in England ! THE TWINS OF LAMERTON.* 'TwAS pleasant to behold them — side by side Sunk in soft slumber, with their arms enlaced Around each other's ivory neck — a smil& Playing upon the angel cheek, as swam Delicious fancies through the brain — young joys Renewed in golden dreams ; while now and then The snow-white coverlid, by Love's dear hand * For an historical sketch (juaintly but beautifully written, of these really remarkable brethren, read Prince's Worthies of Devon. " In the parish church of Larnerton," writes the same author, " is a noble memorial erected, not only to these two brothers, but to several others of them, whose imas:es are there lively represented." There were eight sons and eight daughters in this family, of whom six were twins. 28 THE TWINS OF LAMERTON. Spread o'er them carefully, was flung aside By a fair, graceful foot, disclosing half The form of a young Hercules. How sweet. How beautiful in rest, the seraph pair To all who marked them thus ; but, oh, to her— The mother that bent over them — how full Of Heaven the raptured gaze ! And then the morn When, sleep's light visions flown, upon her ear Broke their first, welcome voices, and her lip Revelled on theirs, insatiate ! The earth Through all her millions, such another twain Possessed not — one in feature, and unknown Apart, but that afi'ection on the arm Of the dear younger playfully entwined An azure chaplet. Nor alone in form, In stature, lineaments, wore they the same Perplexing, undistinguishable semblance, — one In soul they lived ; — a sympathy divine Mixed in their wondrous being, and they loved, Disliked, feared, hated, languished, as at once THE TWINS OF LAMERTON. 29 That common spirit swayed. E'en distance had 'Tis said, no power to part them, for they felt — Asunder and remote, the self same moods — Felt mutual hopes, joys, fears, — and ever held Invisible communion ! Thus they grew To their strange manhood ; for they rose to man Unchanged in mien, and oft perplexing still The charmed beholder, — baffling e'en the glance Parental : — thus they grew, and inly moved By the mysterious feeling which had swayed Their infancy. Twin roses were they, nursed " From bud to beauty," by the summer gale And summer sun. Alas that fate should blight Those flowers — the ornament, delight, love, hope. Of their fair, native bower ! But fiercely swept The unexpected gale ! The storm of Life 30 THE TWINS OF LAMERTON. Burst loud and terribly, as calmly flew The love-winged moments of the sacred band Of brethren, and of sisters, who looked on. And, wondering, gazed to ecstacy. Their home Was as a quiet nest embosomed deep In woods of some soft valley where the hand Of plunderer comes not, and the sudden gale But seldom shrieks, and silence kindly spreads O'er all her downy wing. Loud blew the blast Of war, and shook the nations. France unrolled Her lilied flag, and England in the breeze Waved her dread lion banner. Then the cot. The palace, sent its children forth, to fall By thousands, at Ambition's startling voice. And man his brother man infuriate met In the death grapple ; — shedding oft his blood Unmarked, in battle fields, that but to few Give e'en the dear-bought recompcncc to live In stories of the future ! THE TWINS OF LAMERTON. 31 From the arras Of sweet affection — from the dear caress — The agonizing and enduring clasp Of home's beloved circle — forth they came The inseparable brethren, soon to prove Far other scenes than in the rural shade Had blessed their rare existence. Soon, amid The shock of conflict — side by side, they stood. That matchless pair — the beautiful, the brave — Winning all hearts : and, as the two of old, " Lovely and pleasant in their lives," they were In death not separated, for they met (So it should be) one common fate, and sank Together to a soldier's grave ! 32 THE MARTYR STUDENT. THE MARTYR STUDENT. O what a noble heart was here undone, When science' self destroyed her favorite son ! Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,— She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. BYRON. List not Ambition's call, for she has lured To Death her tens of thousands, and her voice Though sweet as the old syren's, is as false ! Won by her blandishments, the warrior seeks The battle-field where red Destruction waves O'er the wild plain his banner, trampling down The dying and the dead ! On Ocean's wave Braving the storm — the dark lee-shore — the fight — The seaman follows her, to fall — at last THE MARTYR STUDENT. 33 In Victory's gory arms ! To Learning's sons She promises the proud degree — the praise Of academic senates, and a name That Fame on her imperishable scroll Shall deeply 'grave. O, there ivas one who heard Her fatal promptings — whom the Muses mourn And Genius yet deplores ! In studious cell Immured, he trimmed his solitary lamp, And morn, unmarked, upon his pallid cheek Oft flung her ray, ere yet the sunken eye Reluctant closed, and Sleep around his couch Strewed her despised poppies. Day with night Mingled, insensibly, and night with day ; — In loveliest change the seasons came — and passed — Spring woke, and in her beautiful blue sky Wandered the lark, — the merry birds beneath Poured their sweet woodland poetry, — the streams Sent up their eloquent voices ; — all was joy And in the breeze was life. Then Summer gemmed The sward with flowers, as thickly strewn as seem 34 THE MARTYR STUDENT. In heaven the countless clustering stars. By day The grateful peasant poured his song, — by night The nightingale ; — he heeded not the lay Divine of earth or sky — the voice of streams — Sunshine and shadow — and the rich blue sky; — Nor gales of fragrance and of life that cheer The aching brow, relume the drooping eye And fire the languid pulse. One stern pursuit — One giant-passion mastered all — and Death Smiled inly as Consumption at his nod Poisoned the springs of life, and flushed the cheek With roses that bloom only o'er the grave ; And in that eye, which once so mildly beamed. Kindled unnatural fires ! Yet hope sustained His sinking soul, and to the high reward Of sleepless nights and watchful days — and scorn Of pleasure, and the stern contempt of ease. Pointed exultingly. But Death, who loves TflE MARTYR STUDENT. 35 To blast Hope's fairest visions, and to dash In unsuspected hour, the cup of bliss From man's impatient lip — with horrid glance Marked the young victim, as with fluttering step And beating heart, and cheek with treacherous bloom Suffused, he pressed where Science oped the gates Of her high temple. There beneath the guise Of Learning's proud professor, sat enthroned The tyrant — DEATH ; — and as around the brow Of that ill-fated votary, he wreathed The crown of Victory — silently he twined The cypress with the laurel : — at his foot Perished the "MARTYR STUDENT." 36 DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC LOVE. O BEAUTIFUL it is to See around The hearth domestic, — parents, children, met In sweet and holiest friendship. Hour on hour Tranquilly flowing — o'er the stream of Time They glide delighted ; — lip, and heart, and hand United ; or if haply aught of strife Breathe on the gentle current of their days, 'Tis as the zephyr comes on summer seas. Rippling — not roughening to a wave — and gone Almost as soon as felt. The Earth has not Among her scanty pleasures, bliss like this So pure — so exquisite ; nor has that Earth Amid her infinite of ills, a state More wretched and debasing than the Hell Of hate domestic. THE HELLWEATFIERS. 37 THE HELLWEATHERS. ** Sir Cloudesly Shovel's ship, the Association, struck upon the Gilstone off Scilly, with so much violence, that in about two minutes the vessel went down and every soul on board but one perished. This man saved himself on a piece of timber, which floated to a rock called the Hell- weathers, where he was compelled to remain some days before he could receive any assistance. Besides the Association, the Eagle of 70, and the Romney of 50 guns, perished with all their crews. The Firebrand fire ship was also lost, but most of her crew were saved. Many persons of rank and about 2,000 seamen perished on this occasion." Dreio's History of Cormcall. The blue wave roll'd away before the breeze Of evening, and that gallant fleet was seen Darting across the waters ; ship on ship Following in eager rivalry, for home Lay on the welcome lee. The sun went down Amid a thousand glorious hues that lived 38 THE HRLLWEATHRRS. But in his presence ; and the giant clouds Moved on in beauty and in power before The day-god's burning throne. But soon was o'er The pomp celestial, and the gold-fringed cloud Grew dark and darker, and the Elysian tints Evanished — swift ; the clear bright azure changed To blackness, and with twilight came the shriek Of the pursuing winds. Anon on high Seen dimly through the shadowy eve, the Chief Threw out the wary* signal, and they paused Awhile upon the deep. Again they gave Their sails to the fresh gale — again the surge Swept foaming by, and every daring prow Pointed to England ; — England ! that should greet With her green hills, and long lost vales, their eyes On the sweet morrow. Beautiful is morn. But, oh, how beautiful the morn that breaks On the returning wanderer, doomed no more * A few hours before the ship struck, Sh' Cloudesly Shovel hove out the signal to lie to, in order to ascertain the situa~ tion of the fleet. THE IIELLWEATHERS. 39 To live on fancy's visions of that spot Beyond all others loved ; — that very spot Now rising from the broad, blue waters, dear To him as heaven. "With fatal speed they flew Through the wide-parting foam. Again the deck Sloped to the billow, and the groaning mast Bent to the rising gale ; yet on that night The voice of the loud ocean rose to them In music, for the winds that hurried by So fierce and swift, but heralded the way To the loved island strand. The jaws of death AVere round them, and they knew it not until (How oft the hapless seaman's knell) burst wild The everlasting cry of waves and rocks From stern Cornubia's isles. Alas to them — • The lost, there blazed no friendly Pharos fire — No star gleamed from the heaven — the sailor heard The roar of the huge clifi", and on his brow 40 THE HELLWEATHERS. Fell the cold dew of horror. On they came — These gallant barks, fate-driven — on they came Borne on the wings of the wild wind to rush In darkness on the black and bellowing reef Where human help avails not. There they struck And sank ; — the hopes, the fears, the wishes all Of myriads o'er at once. Each fated ship One moment sat in all her pride, and pomp. And beauty, on the main ; — the next she plunged Into the " hell" of waves, and from her deck Thrilled the loud death-scream — stifled as it rose By the dark sea; — one shriek — one blow — the grave. And all was silent — save the startlintr voice Of the Atlantic, rising from that shore In anger ever ! Terribly its surge Closed o'er them ; and they perished in that gulf Where the dead lie innumerous, and the depths Are rife with monstrous shapes, and rest is none Amid the infuriate war of waters hurled THE HELLWEATIIERS. 41 la endless, horrible commotion. Heard Alone, amid the pausings of the gale Was one faint human wail. Where thousands sank 07ie rode the vengeful wave preserved to be. As seemed, the sport of the mad billows : now Upflung upon the mountain ridges — now Swift sinking to abysses vast that yawned Almost to Ocean's bed. Yet life fled not. Nor hope, though in the tempest's giant coil He gasped for breath, and often writhed beneath The suffocating Avaters ! Morning came In vain, though on the island rock the sea Had flung the hapless mariner. Around Howled the remorseless surge ; above, the cloud Swept, terror-winged ; — the lightning o'er the day Shed an unnatural glare, and near him broke The thunder with its peal of doom. No aid Came through the long, long day, yet on the clifls 42 THE HELLWEATHERS. Floated the cheering signal ; — from the strand Came voices animating — men were there Impatient as the bounding greyhound held Within the straining leash — a gallant band Nursed in the western storm, familiar long With danger, and with — death, but might not brave The monster, now. And thus the victim hung Upon eternity's dread verge, and gazed Appalled upon its gulf; then backwards shrunk Convulsively to life, and hope renewed Unfroze his blood, and o'er his features threw A light that could not last. For evening came. And the great sun descended to the main. While oft the beautiful, beloved orb The seaman watched, and sighed to see it sink Beneath the wave ; but as the twilight grew Deeper and deeper, and the darkness closed Upon him, and the hungry howling surge Was heard below, loud clamouring for its prey He wept — the lone man wept ! THE HELLWEATHKRS. 43 Again it came. The unchanged, unchanging morning, rising wild Upon a joyless world ; yet did his eye Glisten to see the dawn, though it awoke In tempest ; and that day flew by, and night Once more fell on him, and another morn Broke, and the sufterer lived ! The hand of death Was on him, yet delayed the fatal grasp ; And round the agonizing victim looked. But succour came not ! On the rugged rock Crashed the torn wreck in thunder, and the sea Disgorged the dead — within the black recoil Of w aters dashed the dead ; and on the brave. The loved, he gazed, and at his side Despair Now sat, and pointed to the abyss ! — ********* **.******* A shout Comes from the cliffs — a shout of joy ! Awake, 44 THE riELLWEATHERS. Thou lonely one from death's fast coming sleep ! Arise, the strand is thronging with brave men — A thousand eyes are on thee, and a bark Bursts o'er the breaching foam ! The shifting cloud Flies westward, and away the storm, repelled Reluctant sails ; the winds have backward flung The billows of the Atlantic ! See, — they come, — They come — a dauntless island band — and now A cheer is heard — and hark the dash of oars Among the reefs ! His eye with instant hope Brightens, and all the ebbing tides of life Rush with returning vigour ! Now the spray Flies o'er the advancing pinnace, for the wave Though half subdued, is mighty ; yet her prow Victorious parts the surges, — nearer roll The cheers of that bold crew — -the welcome sounds Thrill on his ear — the deepening plunge of oars Foams round the desert rock — 'tis won, 'tis won ! And —he is saved! CHILDE THE HUNTER. 45 CHILDE THE HUNTER. Few roam the heath, e'en when the sun — The golden sun is high ; And the leaping, laughing streams are bright. And the lark is in the sky. But when upon the ancient hills Descends the giant cloud, And the lightning leaps from Tor to Tor, And the thunder peal is loud : — G 46 CHILDE THE HUNTER. Heaven aid that hapless traveller then Who o'er the Wild may stray For bitter is the moorland storm. And Man is far away. Yet blithe the highland hunter leaves His cot at early morn. And on the ear of Winter pours The music of his horn : — The eye of highland hunter sees No terrors in the cloud ; His heart quakes not at the lightning flash, Nor the thunder long and loud ! Yet oft the shuddering peasant tells Of him, in days of yore Who in the sudden snow-storm fell — Tlic Nimrod of the moor ! CHILDE THE HUNTER. 47 And when the Christmas tale goes round By many a peat fireside. The children list, and shrink to hear How Childe of Plymstokc died ! The lord of manors fair and broad — Of gentle blood was he — Who loved full well the mountain chacc And mountain liberty. Slow broke the cheerless morn — the cloud Wreathed every moorland hill ; And the thousand brooks that cheered the heath In sunny hours were still. For Winter's wizard hand had checked Their all rejoicing haste; And flung a fearful silence o'er The solitary waste. 48 CHILDE THE HUNTER. When Childe resolved with hound and horn. To range the forest wide ; And seek the noble red-deer where The Plym's dark waters glide. Of sportsmen brave who hunted then The leader bold was he. And full in the teeth of the dread north wind He led that company. They roused the red-deer from his lair. Where those dark waters glide ; — And swifter than the gale he fled Across the forest wide. With cheer and with shout, the jovial rout The old Tor hurried by ; — And they startled the morn, with the merry horn. And the staunch hound's echoing cry ! CHILDE THE HUNTER. 49 The moorland eagle left his cliff — The hawk soared far away — And with that shout and cheer they scared The raven from his prey. They followed through the rock- strewed glen ; — They plunged through the river's bed : — And scaled the hill-top where the Tor Uplifts his hoary head. But gallantly that noble deer Defies the eager throng. And still through wood, and brake, and fen He leads the chace along. Now through the flashing stream he daits The wave aside he flings ; — Now o'er the cataract's bright arch With fearless leap he springs ! 50 CHILDE THE FIUNTER. And many a chasm yawning wide With a desperate bound he clears ; — Anon like a shadow he glances by The rock of six thousand years ! But now swift sailing on the wind The bursting cloud drew near; And there were sounds upon the gale Might fill the heart with fear ! And, one by one, as fast the clouds The face of heaven deform. Desert the chace, and wisely shun The onset of the ^torm. And some there were who deemed they heard Strange voices in the blast; — And some — that on the shudd'ring view A form mysterious passed ; — CIIILDE THE HUNTER. 51 Who rode a shadowy courser, that A mortal steed might seem, — But left no hoof-mark on the ground. No foam upon the stream ! 'Twas fancy all ;— yet from his side, The jovial crew are gone ; And Childe across the darkening heath Pursues his way — alone. He threaded many a mazy bog — He dashed through many a stream ; — But spent — bewildered — checked his steed. At evening's latest gleam. For far and wide the highland lay One pathless waste of snow ; — He paused! — the angry heaven above. The faithless bog below. 52 CHILDE THE HUNTER. He paused ! — and soon through all his veins Life's current feebly ran ; And — heavily — a mortal sleep Came o'er the dying man : — The dying man — yet Love of Life In this his hour of need, Upraised the master's hand to spill The heart-blood of his steed ! And on the ensanguined snow that steed Soon stretched his noble form ; — A shelter from the biting blast — A bulwark to the storm : — In vain— for swift the bleak wind piled The snow-drift round the corse ; And Death his victim struck within The* disembowell'd horse. CIIILDE THE HUNTER. 53 Yet one dear wish — one tender thought Came o'er that hunter brave ; — To sleep at last in hallowed ground. And find a Christian grave — And ere he breathed his latest sigh And day's last gleam was spent. He with unfaltering finger wrote His bloody Testament.f t ^fit tvt^t tIDat fpntrrg ^ firings mt to mi) grabe , * " A Tradition has existed in the moor, that John Childe, of Plyrastock, a gentleman of large possessions, and a great hunter, whilst enjoying that amusement during an inclement season, was benighted, lost his way, and perished through cold, near Fox Tor, in the south quarter of the moor; after taking the precaution to kill his horse, and, for the sake of warmth, to creej) into its belly, leaving a paper denoting that whoever should bury his body, should have his lands at Plymstock. " These circumstances coming to the knowledge of the 54 CHILDE THE HUNTER. monks of Tavistock, they eagerly seized the body, and were conveying it to that pUice, but learning on the w^ay, that some people of Plynistock were waiting at a ford to intercept the prey, they cunningly ordered a bridge to be built, out of the usual track, thence pertinently called Guile Bridge, and succeeding in their object, became possessed of, and enjoyed the lands until the dissolution, when the Hussel family re- ceived a grant of them, and it still retains them." In memory of Childe, a tomb was erected to him in a plain, a little below Fox Tor, which was standing about 1.5 years since, when a Mr. Windeatt, having received a new " take" or allotment, in which the tomb was included, nearly destroyed it, by appropriating some of the stones for huilding, and door steps ! ! Its form is correctly preserved in one of the etchings belonging to the poem, " Dartmoor." The whole, when perfect, wore an antique and impressive ap- pearance. THE CAPTIVE LARK. 55 THE CAPTIVE LARK. In the spring of 1825, I had passed a night of agony, but about four in the morning, the pain became less severe, and sitting up in bed, I beheld the first glorious rays of the sun darting along the fronts of the houses, and at the same moment, the lay of one of the finest larks I ever heard, burst on my ear, I knew his voice well — he was a songster indeed — an old favorite — the property of a cobler, " a bird fancier," who sits like a tyrant in the midst of scores of im- prisoned melodists. A pencil was at hand, and I wrote the following lines : — Minstrel— the city still is wrapp'd in sleep, But through its noiseless streets the level beam Of morn is stealing, and thy wakeful eye Has mark'd the welcome radiance. One faint ray Of light is on thy cage, and has inspir'd That strain — the sweetest which I ever heard 56 THE CAPTIVE LARK. From captive lyrist. Though my hours, to-night. Have pass'd in pain, and this delicious morn Rises upon a sleepless couch, 1 hear Thy voice, refresh'd, thou blessed bird, and dwell Upon thy heavenly tones that have the power To soothe e'en agony. Thy goaler wakes Kaply, to list them too, but lay like thine Should never roll its music on the ear Of him, who stole thee from thy native fields, — Of him, a wretched plunderer, whose heart Soft pity never touch'd, and whose dull eye Ne'er sparkled with a tear ! So let the beam Brighten the silent street, and zephyr fan Thy mottled plumes, and o'er thee bend the sky Of deep and beautiful azure — sing not thou To thy remorseless tyrant — break not thus His slumbers with a burst as fresh and frank. As free-wing'd minstrels pour. Ah, still the strain THE CAPTIVE LARK. 57 Of music flows — the sleeping city rings With heavenly melodies. There is so much Of inspiration in that beam of morn — There is so much of freshness in its breeze — And such a deep — a quenchless love of song In thy young heart, that thou canst not be mute; Thy soul is thrill'd — thy wings are shivering wild With ecstacy ; — thy neck is upward stretch'd. Ruffled with keen desire ; — thine eye is fix'd On the loft heaven ; — yet louder, sweeter, comes The lay ; — then bless thee, bird, sing on, and be For ever happy — thus ! 58 TO A PRIMROSE. TO A PRIMROSE, PRESENTED TO MB BY A FRIEND, JANUARY, 1820. Sweet herald of the ever-gentle Spring, How gently waved o'er thee the winter's wing ! Around thee blew the warm Favonian gale, Devonia nursed thee in her loveliest vale. Beneath she rolled the Plym's pellucid stream, And Heaven diffused around its quickening beam ! But, ah ! the sun, the shower, the zephyr bland. Made thee but fair to tempt the spoiler's hand ! I cannot bear thee to thy bank again. And bathe thy breast in soft refreshing rain ; Nor bid the gentle zephyr round thee play. Nor raptured eye thee basking in the ray ; TO A PRIMROSE. 59 But snapped, untimely, from thy velvet stem. Be thou my daily care, my " bonnie gem ;" And when thus severed from thy native glade, The radiance of thy cinque-rayed star shall fade. And pale decay come creeping o'er thy bloom, A sigh, dear flower, shall mourn thy early doom. GO THE GAMESTER. THE GAMESTER. Loud howled the winter storm, — athwart the sky Rushed the big clouds, — the midnight gale was high ; O'er the proud city sprang th' avenging flash, And tower and temple trembled to the crash Of the great thunder-peal. Again the light Swift tore the dark veil from the brow of night; — And, ere the far chased darkness, closing round As the flame vanished, fell still more profound. Again the near-heard tempest, wild and dread. Spake in a voice that might awake the dead ! Yet while the lightning burned — the thunder roared — And even Virtue trembled — -and adored — THE GAMESTER. 61 Alone was heard within the gamester's hell The gamester's curse — the oath — the frantic yell ! Fixed to one spot — intense — the burning eye Marked not the flash— saw but the changeful die !— And, deaf to heaven's high peal, — one demon vice Possessed their souls — triumphant avarice ! Loud howled the winter storm : — night wore away Too slow, and thousands watched, and wished for day; And there was one poor, lonely, lovely thing. Who sat and shuddered as the wild gale's wing Rushed by — all mournfully. Her children slept As the poor mourner gazed — and sighed — and wept! Why sits that anguish on her faded brow ? Why droops her eye? — Ah, Florio, where art thou? Flown are thy hours of dear domestic bliss — The fond embrace — the husband's — father's — kiss — Blessed tranquil hours to Love and Virtue given, Delicious joys that made thy home — a heaven ! Flown — and for ever ; — love — fame — virtue — sold For lucre — for the sordid thirst of gold ; — I 62 THE GAMESTER. The craving, burning wish that will not rest. The vulture-passion of the human breast — The thirst for that which — ^granted or denied — Still leaves — still leaves — the soul unsatisfied ; Just as the wave of Tantalus flows by. Cheating the lip and mocking the fond eye ! Yet oft arrayed in all their genuine truth. Rose the sweet visions of his early youth ; — More bright — more beautiful those visions rise. As cares increase, on our regretful eyes ; And when the storms of life infuriate roll. Unnerve the arm, and shake th' impassive soul. Then Memory, always garrulous, will tell The glowing story of our youth too well ; And scenes will rise upon the pensive view. Which Memory's pencil will pourtray too true ! Thus when Repentance warmed his aching breast, He turned him, tearful, to those scenes so blessed And fresh they came, — a dear, departed throng Of joys that wrung the heart, by contrast strong;— THE GAMESTER. 63 Lost, loved delights that forced the frequent sigh. And chilled the life-blood while they charmed the eye! Could he forget when first — O thrilling hour! He wooed his Julia in her native bovver? Forget? — the tender walk — the gate — the cot — The impassioned vow, — ah, could they be forgot ? Sweet noons — sweet eves — when all — below — above. Was rapture — and the hours were winged by love ! But chief one dear remembrance — one more bright Than all, though cherished, rushed upon his sight — The morn that — blushing in her virgin charms. Gave the wronged Julia to his eager arms ! — Ah, wronged — for though Remorse full deeply stung His bosom, to the damning vice he clung ; And she, poor victim, had not power to stay The wanderer on his wild and desperate way ; — While round her, ever, sternly — fiercely — sweep Views of the future, — gloomy — dark — and deep ! Prophetic glances ! — he has left again His sacred home, to seek the gamester's den ! — 64 THE GAMESTER. Ah, aptly termed a hell, for oft Despair And Suicide, twin brothers, revel there ! Awake, infatuate youth, for Death is nigh Guides the dread card, and shakes the fateful die ! Awake, ere yet the monster lay thee low. All that thou lovest perish in that blow ! The strong temptation — firmly — nobly — spurn: Home — children — wife — may yet be thine ; — return To virtue and be happy ; — but, 'tis o'er — Stripped of his all — he may return no more ! Ruined he stands, — the tempter plies his part — As the head reels, and sinks the bursting heart ! With fell Despair his glaring eyeballs roll. And all the demon fires his maddened soul ; The bullet speeds — upon the blood-stained floor He lies — and PLAY has one pale victim more ! MYSTERIOUS PROVIDENCE. 65 MYSTERIOUS PROVIDENCE. A SWORD — The sword of Damocles hangs o'er the head For ever of the flower- wreathed boy that gives His hours to pomp and pleasure. Nor alone The air-hung weapon threatens in its fall The cheek of wantonness and pampered pride, There is a blow that comes — we know not why Mysterious — sudden — on the wondering GOOD- The just who in his singleness of soul And love of virtue, fill'd his noiseless hour With unreproved, calm and temperate bliss. 66 MYSTERIOUS PROVIDENCE. And feared not — conscience proof! Restrain thy love Of earth, and earthly joys, and still walk through This mortal vale as one prepared to meet Submissively the worst. As with a rein Hold in thy warm affections ;— let them not Too closely twine around thy yielding soul Lest thine heart break when suddenly are torn Sweet human ties away. But most suspect Joy at the overflow, for woe is near Full oft when on the soft, luxurious cup Trembles the tempting drop. THE URUIDS. G7 THE DRUIDS. WRITTEN ON TilE BORDERS OF DARTMOOR, 1S20. How beautifully hangs The leaf of the old wood above the rocks That strew the moorland border. Every bough Is grasped by the devouring moss, and Time, Age after age, has thinned the verdurous locks Of the hoar foresters ; — the scalp is bare Of many a noble oak, but from the glance Intense, of summer, there is shelter yet. And the red deer amid the temperate shade Delights to stray ; — the while a gentle brook. That from an inexhaustless moorland fount 63 THE DRUIDS. Descends, is music to his car. The beam Which struggles through the amber leafage, plays Fitfully on the pleasant grass, and holds Divided empire wi.h the grateful gloom All the long, listless day. And in the glades — The rich suniighted glades that lie around. Like islands in this leafy ocean, rise. Of every hue, sweet flowers, that bud and bloom And die by thousands ; scarcely seen or blessed Save by some wanderer who comes to gaze On Nature's holiest sanctuaries, where The wind, the shower, the sun delight to shed Their influences all divine, amid The everlasting, silent sabbath held On moor and mountain. In yon vale, a stream Is singing to the birds — the answering birds That in the underforest safely build Their innocent, quiet homes. E'en now their lays THE DRUIDS. 69 Full-hearted roll, and in the sunshine grow ' Louder and louder : — chief the speckled thrush — First, best musician of the thicket — he Who loves the hawthorn, and from that sweet bower Of fragrance and of beauty flings his note Upon the morning gale, is heard above The feathered myriads. But not always thus Came on the ravished ear the mingled strains Of stream and bird : — The unhallowed hymn arose E'en from this very spot (so legends say) To Jupiter.* The oak that nobly stood * The fairest and tallest oak which the forest coidd produce, was the symbol of Jupiter, and when properly consecrated and prepared, became his actual representative. Sometimes their sacred groves were fenced in with rude palisades, and at other times the hill was inclosed with a mound of earth to mark the limits of consecration, to awe the profane, and to prevent all intrusion on their sacred mysteries. Within the precincts of this enclosure, every tree was sprinkled with human blood. 70 THE DRUIDS. Lovely in age, sole monarch of the grove, Was his, and on the mighty stem, inscribed In mystic characters, the Druid fixed His name tremendous. On the sacred trees That rose, as these now rise, in all their strength And loveliness, his hands polluted flung A baptism unholy ; — aye that priest Sprinkled upon the beautiful foliage — blood ! — And Time has not yet flung to earth the rude Romantic altar, where he ruthless shed Life's purple current to appease the gods Revengeful! Still the awful circle stands Majestic — venerable — time-worn — hung But beside the sacrifice of beasts, which was common to the Druids, they had a custoiu, which in point of crueUy and detestation surpasses all that we have hitherto surveyed. This consisted in the offering of human victims at the pol- luted shrines of their imaginary gods. At these altars their enemies were sacrificed, and their friends were offered. Sometimes the vigorous youth and comely virgin were im- molated on these sanguinary altars, and sometimes the smiling infant was carried from the bosom of its mother to the flames, wliich terminated its life. THE DRUIDS. 71 With wreaths of the gloss'd ivy, drooping on In fanciful festoons from stone to stone ; And waving in the melancholy breeze That moans through the lone moorland. Pale, depressed Trembling, beneath yon giant pillars passed. Haply, the Druid's victims. Not unmoved I tread where erst, fierce darting to the skies, Quivered the flame of the dread Moloch, gorged With blood e'en to the full. O here the fair. The brave — the mother and her spotless babe — The maid, blooming in vain, — the wise, the good. Felon and captive — age and shuddering youth. In one vile holocaust, to fancied gods Poured out their souls in fire ; amid the blastf * While they were performing these horrid rites, the drums and trumpets sounded without mterraission, that the cries of the miserable victims might not be heard, or distinguished by their friends ; it being accounted very ominous if the lamen- tations of either children or parents were distinctly heard while the victim was burning. Drew's History of Cornwall. 72 THE DRUIDS. Which the loud trumpet flung — the deafening clash Of cymbal — and the frantic, frenzied yell Of an infuriate priesthood, drowning deep In one infernal burst of sounds, the shriek Of suffering humanity ! ON A FRIGATE AT ANCHOR 73 ON SEEING A FINE FRIGATE AT ANCHOR IN A BAY OF MOUNT EDGCUMBE. " She walk'd the waters hke a thing of life And seem'd to dare the elements to strife." Is she not beautiful ? " reposing there " On her own shadow,"* with her white wings furled ; Moveless, as in the sleepy sunny air. Rests the meek swan in her own quiet world. * An expression of Mr. Canning's, after his return from an excursion in Hamoaze. 74 ON A FlllGATE AT ANCHOR. Is she not beautiful ? her graceful bow Triumphant rising o'er the enamoured tides That, glittering in the noon-day sunbeam, now Just leap and die along her polished sides. And on the stern magnificent, recline Old forms that many a classic eye regale ; From fair and fabled lands, and streams divine. The sculptor's hand pourtrays a classic tale. There is nor voice nor murmur on the land ; Still fiercer glows the ray on tower and tree ; There is nor surge nor ripple on the strand. And not an air is stealing o'er the sea. A thousand eyes are on her ; for she floats Confessed a queen upon the subject main ; And hark ! as from her decks delicious notes Breathe, softly breathe, a soul-entrancing strain. ON A FRIGATE AT ANCHOR. 75 Music upon the waters ! far more sweet On the thrilled ear the liquid accents fall. Than in our inland fields the senses greet. Or wake from lip and lute, in bower and hail. Music upon the waters ! pouring soft. From sliore to shore along the charmed wave; The seaman's dreariest toils beguiling oft. And kindling high the ardour of the brave. Yet, wafted by the morning's favouring breeze. Far from that slumbering flood and leaf-hung bay, That matchless bark upon the faithless seas Shall wend her wild and solitary way. There, haply tempest-borne, far other sounds Than those shall tremble thro' her quivering form ; And as from surge to mightier surge she bounds. Shall swell, toned infinite, the midnight storm ! 76 ON A FRIGATE AT ANCHOR. In vain ! she spurns the ignoble calm, and loves To front the tempest in his gathering hour ; Waked as to life, the fleet-winged wonder roves Where loudest lift the winds a voice of power ! Then go, deceitful beauty ! Bathe thy breast For ever where the mountain billows foam. Even as thou wilt. — This hour of peace and rest Is not for thee. — The ocean is thy home! ISAHEL IN HER GARDEN. 77 ISABEL IN HER GARDEN It is a morn of spring, and she has left Her couch at dawn, and now amid the flowers Delighted wanders. Thus should ever wake Young Beauty, and adorn her laughing cheek With vermeil hues ; for health is in the breeze. And life. The azure eye of Isabel Sparkles with new-born fires ; her lip has caught The ruby's deepest tint ; and as her form — Her sylph-like form, is seen sweet gliding there Amid the bud — the bloom of that fair world Which May has quickened round her, earth holds not A lovelier vision. 78 ISABEL IN HER GARDEN. She has stooped to kiss The rose, and o'er the queen-flower now she bends In ecstasy ; and see her ivory hand Wanders between its buds, but with a touch Gentle as that of the bland spring-breeze. Then Her eye roams o'er that paradise of hues. That world of loveliest forms assembled there ; And with a sweet uncertainty she strays Among them, charmed with all, and listening oft To the musicians of the woods — the birds — Pouring their first, best lays, the -while the breeze Is playing with her radiant locks. THK HOLIDAY. 79 THE HOLIDAY. Let it not be supposed that the author of these lines is inimical to occasional Holidays. He has had too few inter- vals, himself, of leisure, and of rest from the incessant demands of Labour, not to wish more of these for others. On the day of the public festival to which this piece refers, he saw myriads of his fellow-beings, happy and smiling under the influence of a Midsummer sun, and he was delighted ; — reflections, however, on the mutability of all sublunary enjoy- ment would force themselves : — Pass some few years, and all this human stream Which now, deep, full, and strong, impetuous flows Along the crowded street, shall pour itself By thousand channels, silent, unpcrccived. Into the Ocean of Eternity ! Awake, 80 THE HOLIDAY. Arouse thee, — be thou young and gay. And beautiful as Hebe, or as rich As the famed Lydian ; — thou shalt disappear With this now living torrent, and thy course Through Life shall be as difficult to trace As the cloud-track in heaven ! Thy race, thy name. Thy very memory shall die, for they Who shall come after thee will never scare The dreams of pleasure with those thoughts austere That dwell upon the dead ! The city still Shall swarm \vith life when thou and thy compeers Are lost to human vision. Still the trump Of vain ambition will be sounded ; — soft AVill breathe the lyre of luxury, as now. Luring its multitudes ; — and wealth will wake Desires intense ; — and men will still exchange Their souls for gain; — and vice will have its shrines In the " high places" of the faithless earth ; — THE HOLIDAY. 81 And toil and care, and stern Adversity Destroy their thousands, and Prosperity Its tens of thousands ! But my mind has stray 'd In a most fitful mood, to muse on things Mysterious, and severe on day like this So bright and cheerful. O thou boundless sky. And sun, that art the glory of that sky. And thou all worthy of them — thou great sea. And ye magnificent woods, and mighty clifi's Rushing to heaven, ye fields and woods and streams. Let me look on, and love you ; — beautiful things And vast ; — for ye have power to bless the soul Contemplative, that ponders on your charms Divine ; the while the angel Hope shall dart A ray upon the distance, and dispel Each dark foreboding ! Let me gaze on you. And drink delight. — I cannot long be sad When ye are near — and smiling ! 82 ON THE DEATH OF JULIA S~. ON THE DEATH OF JULIA S * Safe from the thousand throes of pain, Ere sin or sorrow breath'd a stain. Upon thine opening rose. ALARIC A. WATTS. Farewell ! Oh ! I have seen the magic beam Of Julia's eye its lovely lightning play; But never more shall that all-powerful stream Of liquid lustre dart its conq'ring ray. For o'er that eye has crept the mortal sleep. And paleness o'er the cheek's transparent bloom ; Ah, Lady, there are eyes will wake and weep, While thou art slumb'ring in the dreamless tomb. * Poetical Sketches, 4tli edition. ON THE DEATH OF JULIA S — . 83 Sweet maidj whom living, ev'ii Envy's breath Acknowledged fair as her that Zeuxis drew ; Who can look on thee, beautiful in death, And, Julia, without anguish, say — Adieu ? 84 THE PIXIES OF DEVON. THE PIXIES OF DEVON. The enthusiast gaz'd, like one bewildered And breathless with immortal visitings, — He sat in chill delight; nor stirr'd his head, Lest all should pass away like shadowy things : Now would his eye be dazed with the wings Of spangled fay, hovering o'er blossoms white; — And now he listen'd to lone thrilling strings Of magic lutes — and saw the harebell, bright In its blue veins, for there nestled a form of light. Romance of Youth. They are* flown. Beautiful fietions ! Hills, and vales, and woods. Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost The enchantments, the delights, the visions all — The elfin visions that so blessed the sight THE PIXIES OF DEVON. 85 In the old days, romantic. Nought is heard Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains — Sounds, yet most sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook. And waterfall ; the day is voiceless else, And night is strangely mute ! — the hymnings high, The immortal music men of ancient times Heard ravished oft, are flown ! O ye have lost, Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs. That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy Intense; — with a rich mystery that awed The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths Divincst tales, that through the enchanted year Found passionate listeners ! The very streams Brightened with visitings of these so sweet Etherial creatures ! They were seen to rise 86 THE PIXIES OP DEVON. From the charmed waters which still brighter grew As the pomp passed to land, until the eye Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes Looked on their revels all the luscious night ; And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms Gazed, wistfully, as in the dance they moved Voluptuous, to the thrilling touch of harp Elysian ! And by gifted eyes were seen Wonders — in the still air, — and beings bright And beautiful — more l>eautiful than throng Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale Of the sweet summer-noon. — Anon they touched The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades Seemed greener, fairer, — and the enraptured woods THE PIXIES OF DEVON. 87 Gave a glad, loafy murmur, — and the rills Leaped in the ray for joy; and all the birds Threw into the intoxicating air their songs All soul. — The very archings of the grove, Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age. Lightened with living splendours ; and the llowers Tinged with new hues, and lovelier, upsprung By millions in the grass, that rustled now To gales of Araby ! The seasons came In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade, The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased Those potent elves. They steered the giant cloud Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash Came down in death or sport ; aye, when the storm Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings The tempest, and, anon, they reined its rage In its fierce, mid career. But ye have flown. Beautiful fictions of our fathers ! — flown 88 THE PIXIES OF DEVON. Before the wand of Science, and the hearths Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, Are passionless and silent ! * The age of pixies, like that of chivalry, is gone. There is, perhaps, at present, scarcely a house where they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes which they fornaerly frequented seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard ; and they appear to have forgotten to attend to their ancient midnight dance. Dretv's Cornwall. LYDFORD BRIDGE. 89 *LYDFOHl) BRIDGE. Stream of the mountain ! never did the ray Of the high summer pierce the gloom profound Whence rise the startling and eternal sounds Of thy mad, tortured waters ! Beautiful Are all thy sister streams — most beautiful — And rill and river lift their sweet tones all Rejoicing; but for thee has horror shaped A bed, and cursed the spot with cries that awe * For the incident upon which this poem is founded, the reader is referred to " Warner's Walk in tlie Western Counties." 90 LYDFORD BRIDGE. The soul of him who listens ! From the brink The traveller hies, and meditates, aghast. How e'en when winter tenfold horrors flunjj Around the gulf, a fellow being — here — Through darkness plunged to death ! His fate is still Fresh in the memory of the aged swain. And in the upland cottages the tale Is told with deep emotion ; for the morn Of life rose o'er that suicide in rich And lovely promise, as the vernal day O'er nature oft; though thus it closed, abrupt As the shades drop upon Ausonian fields When rains the black volcano ! Hapless youth ! The daemon that in every age has won Millions of souls — won thine. If gaming hold On high her fascinating lure, let man Beware ; — to conquer is to flee. He heard Who perished here, — he heard the tempter's tale LYDFORD BRIDGE. 91 Bewitching; and from PLAY'S short dream awoke To misery. Swift through the burning brain Shot the dread purpose, and remorse and shame Heated his blood to madness. Should he dare The world's dread sneer, and be a loathed mark For its unsparing finger? — rather rush To death and to forgetfulness ; — thus breathed The lying fiend. In vain that fatal night Raged the loud winter storm, — the victim fled From friends and Home. The lightning o'er his path Flashed horribly— the thunder pealed — the winds Mournfully blew ; yet still his desperate course He held ; and fierce he urged his gallant steed For many a mile. The torrent lifted high Its voice, — he plunged not yet into the breast Of the dark waters ! By the cliff" he passed He sprang not from it — gloomier scenes than these And death more terrible, his spirit sought — Tlie caverns of the Lyd ! 92 LYDFORD BRIDGE. Why seeks the man A-weary of the world to quit it thus? — To leap through horrors to the vast unknown. And haste to dread eternity by ways That make the heart-blood of the livin<^ chill To think on? — To the destined goal he swept With eye unflinching, and with soul unawed. Through the wild night ; by precipice and peak Tremendous, — over bank, and bridge, and ford — Breasted the torrent — climbed the treacherous brink — Scaled the rock-crested hill, and burst anon Into the valley, where a thousand streams, Born of the mountain storm, with arrowy speed Shot madly by. His spirit scorned them all — Those dangers and those sounds — for he was strong To suffer ; and one master aim possessed With an unnatural and resistless power. That lost, lost victim ! — On he sternly plunged Amid the mighty tumult ; — o'er his brow LYDFORD BRIDGE. 93 Quicker and brighter streamed the lightning ; — loud And louder spoke the thunder ; still, unnerved. He pressed his steed — the frightful gulf,* at last. Was won, — the river foamed above the dead ! * The scenery round Lydford is singularly picturesque and romantic ; but the most prominent objects of curiosity and admiration are, the Bridge and two Cascades. The former bears great analogy, in situation and character, to the celebrated Devil's Bridge in Wales. It consists of one rude arch, thrown across a narrow rocky chasm, which sinks nearly eighty feet from the level of the road. At the bottom of this channel the small river Lyd is heard rattling through its con- tracted course. The singularity of this scene is not perceived in merely passing over the bridge : to appreciate its character, and comprehend its awfully impressive eftects, it is necessary to see the bridge, the chasm, and the roaring water, from different projecting crags which impend over the river. A litde distance below the bridge, the iissure gradually spreads its rocky jaws ; the bottom opens ; and instead of the dark precipices which have hitherto overhung and obscured the struggling river, it now emerges into day, and rolls its mur- muring current through a winding valley, confined within magnificent banks, darkened with woods, which swell into bold promontories, or fall back into sweeping recesses, till they are lost to the eye in distance. Thickly shaded by trees, which shoot out from the sides of the rent, the scene at Lydford bridge is not so terrific as it would have been, had a little more light been let in upon the abyss, just suffi- cient to produce a darkness visible. As it is, however, the N 94 LYDFORl) BRIDGE. chasm cannot be regarded without shuddering ; nor will the stoutest heart meditate unappalled upon the dreadful anec- dotes connected with the spot. Among many stories connected with this spot, it is related, that a London rider was benighted on this road, in a heavy storm, and, wishing to get to some place of shelter, spurred his horse forward with more than common speed. The tem- pest had been tremendous during the night; and in the morning the rider was informed that Lydford Bridge had been swept away with the current. He shuddered to reflect on his narrow escape ; his horse having cleared the chasm by a great sudden leap in the middle of his course, though the occasion of his making it was at the time unknown. Two or three persons have chosen this spot for self-destruc- tion ; and in a moment of desperation, have dashed them- selves from the bridge into the murky chasm. The scene is in itself highly terrific ; and with these awful associations, has an extraordinary effect on the feelings. About half a mile south of the bridge is the first Cascade, formed by the waters of a small rivulet, which rises on the moors in the neighbourhood ; and at this spot unites with the Lyd. The fall is not very considerable in its usual quantity of water; but, like most mountain streams, is greatly augmented by storms, when a large sheet rushes over a rocky ledge, and throws itself down a perpendicular precipice of above one hundred feet. But though the cascade is a pleasing and in- teresting part of the scene, this single feature is almost lost in contemplating the whole of the portrait. Beauties of England and Wales, CHRISTMAS MORN. 96 ^CHRISTMAS MORN. " Cjeperat ille, futura ruens in tempora, vates VIRGO concipiet! VIRGO natum paritura." The midnight is as bright as day ! On earth flames wide a stranger ray ! And yet no meteor wanders nigh — No moon floats through Judea's sky ! — But there is on the face of night A mellow, pure, and holy light ; * It has been mentioned to me, that this piece has a re- markable similarity to one on the same subject by Pulci. I can only say that my piece was inserted in the Telegraph paper, two years before that exquisite production of Mr. Croly appeared. 96 CHRISTMAS MORN. Each moment, holier, purer, flowing But with a tender radiance glowing ; And on the shepherds' startled view Arc forms of glory breaking through Those floods of splendour ; — throng in throng Uplifting a triumphant song ! Ne'er flow'd such strains on earthly gale. O'er breezy hill, or listening vale. Before ; nor shall such sounds again Break on the raptur'd ear of man. Till, rising to his native sky. He put on Immortality. It came — that glorious embassy To hail the INCARNATE MYSTERY ! For this awoke that glorious hymn From glowing lips of Seraphim ! For this — adown the radiant sky. From bowers of bliss — from worlds on high, CHRISTMAS MORN. 97 Appeared, upborne on wings of fire, That seraph host — that angel choir. For this, too, flam'd o'er Bethlehem, The brightest in night's diadem, That mystic star whose pilot ray lUum'd the magi's doubtful way ; Bright wanderer through the fields of air. Which led the enquiring sages where. Cradled within a worthless manger. Slept on that morn the immortal stranger. He might have come in regal pomp. With pealing of Archangel trump, — An angel blast as loud and dread As that which shall awake the dead ; His lightning might have scar'd the night. Streaming insufferable light ; His thunder, deep'ning, peal on peal. Have made earth to her centre reel. 98 CHRISTMAS MORN. Deep voices such as shook with fear. At Sinai's base, the favor'd seer ; The wing of whirlwind might have borne him ; The trampling earthquake gone before him : — He might have come — that Holy One, With millions round his awful throne. Countless as are the sands that lie On burning plains of Araby, And, arm'd for vengeance, who could stand Before each conq'ring red right hand. He came not thus, no earthquake shock Shiver'd the everlasting rock ; No trumpet blast, nor thunder peal. Made earth through all her regions reel ; And but for the mysterious voicing Of that unearthly choir rejoicing; And but for that strange herald gem. The star which burn'd o'er Betlilehem, CHRISTMAS MORN. 99 The shepherds, on his natal morn. Had known not that the God was born. There were no terrors, for the song Of peace rose from the seraph throng ; On wings of love he came, — to save. To pluck pale terror from the grave, And, on the blood-stain'd Calvary, He won for Man the victory ! 100 THE LAKE. THE LxVKE. June has charm'd The winds to rest — the broad, blue waters sleep Profound from bank to bank ; or if an air Have leave, a moment, wantonly to bend The graceful lily sitting on her throne Of moist, lush leaves, the lovely shadow waves In tremulous response below, and then The Lake is strangely still again. The eye Delights to look into those glossy depths And glance, refresh'd, from flower to flower that blooms THE LAKE. 101 Anew, in shadowy glory, ere the breeze Destroy its brief, briglit life. The very trees, Deliciously deceptive, fling abroad Aye, leaf for leaf, their greenness. E'en the bee That buzzes round the woodbine has his dark But clear-seen image ; and anon floats near The gem-wing'd butterfly. The bird which skims The tides of air, seems, in the impassive flood Again to sport; and every cloud that sails Slowly through heaven, has motion, colour, shape. In that fair, liquid world. Laburnum showers Profuse her golden blossoms ; and the vine Her full, frank clusters that but wait the breath Of August, to put on the glorious tint Of Amethyst; and, proud, the tulip shows His gorgeous dyes — scarlet— and gold — and black — The gayest flower the silver waters hold But not so dear — ah no — not half so dear To the fond eye as many that unfold 102 THE LAKK. Their simpler beauties there. The queen-rose reigns Supreme, — as ever; — in that mirror still As in the rich and breathing world above. Fairest among the fair. VISIONS OP MEMORY. 103 VISIONS OF MEMORY. youthful hours rise up within the mind Like lovely dreams some sudden chance has brought To fill the eyes with long forgotten tears. La £• Ija Within her bower, sun-proof — of jasmine twined By the wild, wandering honeysuckle, sits One who has stray'd from cloister gloom to taste The breath of June — the young and fragrant June, And soothe her gentle spirit with the view Of Nature ; in the month of flowers and love. Of Love ! — alas — she came not there a slave To passion ; — youth's fond, feverish dreams were o'er 104 VISIONS OF MEMORY. And were forgotten— no— the early blight Of our young loves may never be forgot ! There will, uncall'd, float visions on the eye — There will, full oft, be yearnings of the heart — There will, again, be strange and burning tears— • The early wept, the loved, the lost, will rise Upon the tortur'd memory ; — and though Time Softening the past, may half subdue those throes And stifle those fierce strugglings, and disperse Or rob of half their vividness, the dreams Of hours long flown ; yet Nature will awake, Touch'd by some secret sympathy, again — Soul-withering thoughts and forms that should have slept For ever. Aye for ever ! — why rest not Deep in the heart's dark tomb those dreams that haunt Our shuddering memory, thus ? Within her bower VISIONS OF MEMORY. 105 She bends — that lovely one — but from her eye Flits an unnatural glance, and o'er the mind Tempestuous moods are passing. What has stirr'd That calm and placid spirit — and at once So fearfully. The simplest sight or sound Allied to far-gone scenes, has thus the power To raise up recollections that will gloom Our sunniest hours. — The aspect of a tree — A stream — the stillness of a summer lake Soft mirroring the flowers upon its brink As now ; — the beauty of an evening sky All glory ting'd ; — the sameness of a voice Which floats on that sweet evening air — the lay Of bird well known, and loved — such strains as bless'd Perchance her youth in some dear spot, far ofi", — Each — all — in strange communion aptly join'd And sudden seen, have on that spirit thrown An instant desolation, to be cheer'd Not e'en by Hope, lOG THE sailor's fate. THE SAILOR S FATE. A peasant, in pursuing some sheep which had wandered from their accustomed pasturage, discovered, in the middle of the naked solitude (Dartmoor) that stretches from Lydford nearly twenty miles in a south-eastern direction, the body of a sailor, much emaciated, and in such a state as gave reason to think he had been lying on the spot five or six weeks. His countenance, however, was serene, and his posture com- posed ; a small bundle of linen supported his head, and the remains of a faithful dog lay at his feet. Warner^s Walk through the Western Counties. He perish'd on the moor ! The pitying swain Found him outstretch'd upon the wide, wild plain ; There lay the wanderer by the quiv'ring bog, And, at his foot, his patient, faithl'ul dog. THE sailor's fate. 107 Thrice gallant brute ! that through the weary day Shared all the perils of the lonely way, Faced the fierce storm, and, by his master's side, In the cold midnight, laid him down and died ! Thrice gallant brute ! to thee the local bard Shall sweep his lyre, fidelity's reward ; Thy fate shall wake the frequent sigh, and Fame, At least in moorland annals, grave thy name ! Was it for this (so Fancy sings) the Tar Consumed his vigorous youth in climes afar. And nobly dared, in danger's every form. The ocean battle and the ocean storm ; Undaunted stood where on the blood-red wave The death-shot pcal'd among the English brave ; Or scaled the slipp'ry yard, where, poised on high, As the dread lightning burn'd along the sky, lie fearless hung, though, yielding to the blast. Beneath him groan'd tlic rent and trembling mast? 108 THE SAILOR S FATE. Ah ! haply fired by home's enchanting name, From tropic shores the enthusiast sailor came; To the fleet gales his bomiding vessel gave. And reach'd, at last, the fresli, wild, western wave ; Till, soon descried, upon the eager view Dark from the surge the old Bolerium grew : Then, as he heard the shoreward billows roll. High glow'd the local fire within his soul ; And now he raptured cried, " All dangers o'er. My native land ! we meet to part no more." While England, England on the foam-swept lee Uprose, proud peering o'er the subject sea. Disclosed at once to him her matchless charms. And woo'd the wearied exile to her arms. Where the swift Torridge, Tamar's sister, flows Through northern fields, perhaps his cot arose ; And stout of heart, and strong of foot, he pass'd With rapid course along the lessening waste. THE sailor's fate. 109 'Tvvas a wild path, by e'en the peasant shunn'd But then his beckoning Canaan lay beyond. Already, fancy-fired, he saw each scene Well known and loved — the church, the village- green — Saw the hills sweetly rise, his native dells Soft sink, and heard the music of the bells — Delightful melodies, that still engage The love of youth and joy the heart of age. Illusions all ! down rush'd the moorland night ; He met the mountain tempest in its might. No guide to point the way, no friend to cheer ; Gloom on his path, the fateful snow-storm near ! Alone ! — ah, when the ocean conflict grew More loud, more fierce, and swift the death-shot flew Or round his bark the infuriate billows raged, 'Twas sympathy that all his toils assuaged ; With dauntless hearts, with friends and comrades dear He shared the danger, and he smiled at fear. 110 THE sailor's FATli:. But now — man far away — an exile poor, He wander'd cheerless on the untrodden moor ! Swift from the cloud the arrowy lightning flash'd. Fierce o'er the waste the impetuous waters dash'd. Deep was the howl of torrents ; and when broke. Drowning- the torrent's voice, the thunder-stroke. Wide horror reign'd : again the deathful flash Hiss'd on his track — again the mighty crash Startled, but conquer'd not, the brave ! He stood Amid the storm, in that great solitude, With all a seaman's high, enduring soul. Eyed the keen fires, and heard the fate-peal roll ; And though the warring elements had power To crush him in that dark and trying hour. They shook not that true spirit firm and fast. Which sways a British seaman to the last ! He perisJid on the moor! No shelt'ring grave Oped for the hapless hero of the wave ; THE sailor's fate. Ill Tillj rescued from the winter gale's dread wing. Waked the lone desert at the touch of Spring. Then feet came o'er the wild ; — by hill and rock Sought the rude swain the wanderers of his flock. There on the silent waste the victim lay. The sport of winds through many a brumal day ! And, rough though highland swain, a generous sigh Burst at the lot of poor mortality : So cold, so pale, so shrunk that manly brow. That lip so mute, that eye so rayless now ; That livid form which seem'd so rudely cast From man, and whitening in the boreal blast ! He saw and felt, and, mourning at the doom Of the poor stranger, bore him to his tomb In the lone moorland church-yard : — yet no stone Records his name — his home, his race, unknown ; And nought remains of him in village lore But this sad truth — He perish'd on the moor! 112 TO A FRIEND. TO A. FRIEND, ON HIS APPROACHING VOYAGE TO PISA. And now for Italy — Beautiful Italy. The loud sea-wave. That in the deep and stormy winter rose In all its mightiness against thy bark. Sleeps ; for the tyrant winds have heard the voice — The soft, subduing voice of Spring. Gracefully Green England wears her leaf: the choral lay Thou lov'st so well is in her groves — the lark Is in her checqucr'd sky ; — in vain to thee Her foliage, flowers, and songs. With heedless step The sailor, on his rough warm errand comes TO A FRIEND. 113 To summon thee and thine — those little ones That nestle round thy heart, and her* who pines. E'en in our genial Devon. Fare thee well. May thine be fav'ring heavens ; and if the winds Should kiss the wave too roughly, swift as flies The shaft from the strain'd bow, O may thy bark Bear thee to Friendship's arms ! * My friend's spouse. 114 DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK A.BBEY. THE DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. Ethelred, by a policy incklent to weak princes, embraced the cruel resolution of putting all the Danes to the sword. This plot was carried on with such secrecy that it was exe- cuted in one day, and all the Danes in England were destroyed without mercy, ****** * * ****** But while the English were yet congratulating each other upon their late deliverance; Sweyn, king of Denmark, appeared off the western coasts, meditating slaughter, and furious with revenge. History of England. Music, and banqueting, and songs that breathe Of blood, and garlands, and victorious wreaths. And flowers that nod o'er flush'd, exulting brows. And dances all-voluptuous ! When will break. DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. 115 Ere yet too late, upon the startled ear The voice of Reason, and the frenzied isle Start from her dream of pleasure ! Kiss not thus The maddening cup, nor through the dizzy day Let merry England bid her festive bells. Their peals of loud congratulation fling Upon the wanton winds. Those very gales Which bear the tones of triumph and of joy From tower to tower, throughout the mirthful land — Those blessed airs of Summer which caress The flaunting holiday streamer — even now Are dallying with the dark, dread raven flag And wafting on the thousand sails that float Above the fierce invader ! Lo, they come Mad with revenge — the warriors of the North, Chiding those silken gales that all too soft Play with the western seas ! Ah, if they flew Swift on the hurricano's lightning wing, 116 DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. 'Twould be too slow for the vindictive thought They dart to England's shores : — e'en tempest-borne Their barks would seem to languish on their course And slumber on the surge. They come — they come — Darkening the ocean as they press around The terrible Bolerium! Be thy heart As firm, as cruel, Ethel red ! The soul Of the she-wolf* that bore thee should inspire To deeds of fearful daring! Let the arm That in the writhing victim plung'd the knife. Be iron-nerv'd : — there is no safety now In cowardice — the murderer should be brave ! Thou hast not look'd on blood with smiling eye To shrink when blood's avenger to the field Summons thee, timid one ! Thy cheek is pale — * Elfrida. DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. 117 Thine arm is powerless — thy soul is faiut, — But thus it is, — the cruel seldom wield A brave man's sword ; and he who smites the weak. Strikes in the dark, and tramples on the foe Defenceless, ever felt the withering touch Of palsying Fear, and faulter'd in the hour Of daylight and of danger! * * * * ********** Fling on high Thy banner, proud Danmonium — fling on high In thy own genial breeze the flag that erst Was ever foremost in the fiery van Of battle-fields. Thy sons of old were brave And, inch by inch, fought freedom's quarrel out With the fierce Saxon, when all England cower'd Save thee, beneath his sword. Awake, arise. The raefan's beak is wet with blood of thine, — The infant's scream, and woman's piercing shriek Ascends to heaven, — thy thousand lovely streams, Land of the river and the rill, are tinged 118 DESTRUCTION OP TAVISTOCK ABBEY. With the heart's purple current ! Vain the call. The ruthless banner of the invader waves Triumphant o'er thy ever verdant fields. And myrtle bowers. Nor Honour's sacred voice. Nor scorn of slavery, nor love of Home, Revenge for slaughter'd brothers, sons, the shriek Of violated Avoman, nor that cry Which should to frenzy rouse a coward's soul — The cry ot *tortur'd infancy, recals From flight the fear-struck Briton! Heaven is mute! And yet the step of the destroyer falls Around its holy altars! Hark, the shout. *" Nothing can be more dreadful than the manner in which these fierce barbarians carried on their incursions; — they spared neither age nor sex, and each commander urged the soldiers to inhumanity. One of their celebrated chief- tains, named Oliver, gained, from his disbke to the favorite amusement of bis soldiers(that of tossing children on the point of their spears) the contemptuous surname of Barnakal or ' The preserver of children.' " DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. 119 The curse of the barbarian rises near Thine abbey, Tavistock ; and where the lay Of praise swell'd sweetly, and the still, small voice Of prayer ascended to the Highest, loud Is heard the bold blasphemer ! Heaven is mute ! The Pagan triumphs! See from base to roof Dart the quick fires; — along the sainted walls Roll the vast flame-sheets bellowing through the wide And trophied aisles, — or, streaming far away Into the red and glowing air, loud burst The windows, rainbow-hucd, through which the sun Once loved to pour his tenderest floods of light. Tinging the marble floor with dyes that vied With his own clouds — at eve ! The altars fall — The beautiful altars whence a thousand gems Sent up their odoriferous breath. The shrines. The statues, sculpture's proudest boast, in wild And hideous confusion crash around! 120 DESTRUCTION OF TAVISTOCK ABBEY. E'en the bless'd virgin mother, imaged fair, Despoil'd of her sweet ornament, — despoii'd Of her gold blazon'd robe, and jewell'd crown. The hope, the joy, the wonder of the age. Sinks on the blacken'd earth. No hand can save. Dread is the roar of desoUxtion — wide The ruin — high the spiral fires ascend As 'twere exultant: now uprushing swift To the hot skies, now billowy, bending o'er The sinking temple, till in one vast crash As totter the huge columns, to the ground One black, dense, smouldering mass, thy abbey sinks — Thy glorious abbey, *Ordulph! * Son of Orgar, Duke of Devon. He founded this abbey in 961. " The magnificent building, however," writes Prince, " had scarce stood 30 years, ere the cruel Danes arrived in the mouth of Tamar, and coming hither, (all things sacred and profane being to them alike) soon consumed this monas- tery to the ground. Yet at length it again revived, and flourished in greater beauty and lustre than before." WOMAN. 121 WOMAN. That man is stem of heart, and purpose, bora For deserts, and by nature aptly form'd For deeds unnatural, whom not the tones Of Woman's voice e'er charm'd ; and who can look Upon the roses of her cheek, and turn AVith brute indifference away ; or meet The lightning of her eye-glance, and retire Unscath'd by its keen fires! Avoid his path As thou wouldst shun a serpent's. He that feels No love for Woman has no pulse for thee — For Friendship — or Affection ! He is foe To all the finer feelings of the soul. And to sweet nature's holiest, tenderest ties A heartless renegade ! 122 THK DEAD. THE DEAD. Fair flowers in sweet succession should arise Through the long, blooming year, above the grave; Spring breezes will breathe gentlier o'er that turf. And Summer glance with mildest, meekest beam To cherish piety's dear ofFeriugs. There Rich sounds of Autumn ever shall be heard — Mysterious, solemn music, waked by winds To hymn the closing year ! And when the touch Of sullen Winter blights the last, last gem That bloomed around the tomb — O there should be The polished and enduring laurel — there The green and glittering ivy, and all plants — ' THE DKAD. 123 All hues and forms delicious that adorn The brumal reign, and often waken hopes Refreshins:. Let eternal verdure clothe The silent fields where rest the honoured dead. While mute Affliction comes, and lingers round With slow, soft step, and pensive pause, and sigh And tear, all holy. 124 WJLVERLEY. WILVERLEY. The king much doubting he had been abused resolved to try the truth himself. In order to which he comes to Ex- eter, and thence sends word to the duke (Orgar of Devon) where the fair Elphreda and her husband were ; that he de- signed to be speedily with him, and hunt in his parks, or rather in the forest of Dartmoor, there near adjoining * ******** * * * Struck with astonishment and admiration at first sight of the lady, the king was fully resolved to be quits with his perfidious favourite ; yet dissembling his passion for the pre- sent, until the morning came, they went out a hunting, where carefully watching, he at length found an opportunity, and taking Ethelwold at an advantage slew him ; and at a place in Dartmoor Forest, called Wilverlcy, since Warhcood, the Earl was found slain. Prince's Worthies of Devon. Here traveller rest thee, for the sun is high. And thou art old and weary. It is sweet WILVERLEY. 125 To find, at noon, a moorland bank like this. To press its luxury of moss, and bid The hours fleet by on burning wing. Awhile Repose thou in the shade, this stunted tree Grasp'd by the choaking ivy, — of his race The last, has foliage yet enough to screen Thine ardent brow; and, just below, a brook Fresh from the ever-living spring, presents Its purest chrystal to thy lip. We have No music of the groves, but now and then The highland lark is heard amid the calm Of the great desert, flinging wild a note Upon the ear of morning, livelier far ('Tis said) and fresher than the voices sweet Of birds that float in southern skies. But look. Stranger, where westward sweep the mighty hills Treeless, and almost verdureless, and lone Each with a crown of granite on his head: — •. II 126 WILYERLEY. Yet time has been when in the ocean gales Fair wreaths of leafage waved around those scalps So dark and naked now! The mountain grove Has fallen — the mountain poetry has flown — The wood-bird sings not on the hill; his home Is in the bloomy and luxurious vale Far ofl*: and but for that dear minstrel, now Seen, as a dark spot, on yon golden cloud, And but for these enduring moorland streams, (A blessing on their silvery voices) wide And chilling were the silence! Hear'st thou not The roll of rivers — distant, — the deep peal Of the great cataract, — and those clear tones Of the rejoicing rills that — nearer — flow. Vocal for ever ! Bough and bush are gone — The rcd-dccr had no leaf to shade his head. And he is vanished too. Yet even here. Traveller, aye here, the misty morn has scci\ WILVERLEY. 127 The noble stag, arous'd from woodland haunts, Burst through the deep, dark forest, sweeping swift As his own highland tempest; while the shouts Of nobles and of kings pursued him far O'er the resounding moorland. There was one. Stranger, who lov'd the sylvan war, and came Attended by a gallant train, as well Befitted England's monarch, to awake The upland echoes, and to launch his shaft Upon the flying chase. But not the moor Alone allur'd him ; — hitherward he came By passion led, by jealousy, revenge Conceal'd, to seek a lady's bower, and prove A minion's faith; — his, Traveller, who had stol'n From his fond hopes, with well dissembled tale. The beauty of the Tamar. * * * * ********** ********* 128 WILVERLEY. Beautiful The sun rose over Harevvood, — beautiful The Tamar sparkled in the glorious morn. Swift journeying round his hundred, verdant capes. Far, far away the matchless prospect swept Unrival'd e'en in England ; — sweetly rose Songs of the grove, and hymnings of the sky. The monarch saw not, heard not. On his eye One image only floated — in his soul One dread, dark purpose reign'd ; and though a smile Sat on his cheek, and words were on his lip Of gracious import, fearfully he nurs'd Thoughts of revenge, of blood ! O, stranger, loud In words, and quick in purpose, is the man Hot temper'd, ever; but beware thou less The slave of anger, fierce in high reproach. And prompt in action, than the wretch who wears A placid, smiling, unsuspected brow Above a heart that meditates revenge. WILVERLEY. 129 And revels in the future ruin ! Now From Harewood swift the royal train rode on And sought the forest depths. The clamorous horn Loud rang on Dartmoor, and the red-deer fled Fear-struck before them, while the grim, gaunt wolf Heard the high tumult, and, aghast, sunk deep In his rock-vaulted cave. But Edgar sought A nobler victim than the trembling stag Or wolf ferocious ; and as faintly fell The foremost hunter's music on his ear. True to his one, dark purpose, stern he turn'd On startled Athelwold ; and at the foot Of this most aged tree he rashly launch'd The javelin to the favorite's heart! The Oak That cloth'd the hill's wild brow has pass'd away ; Grove after grove has fall'n; the wood-bird sings In other fields ; the moor is chang'd in hue And aspect ; sullenly it rests beneath 130 WILVERLEY. The sway of winter — sullenly beneath The Spring-beam ; time has thinn'd its peasant tribes ; Yet still the mountaineer, from age to age, Points out the very spot where flow'd the blood Of Athelwold, and in our desert fields The Legend is undying. THE HOLIDAY. 131 *THE HOLIDAY. I hope that I shall be pardoned for inserting here ''The Holiday," from " Notes on Dartmoor," I do it rather reluct- antly, at the pressing solicitation of a few friends. They ob- served that it might, at this time, be republished with ad- vantage, as it would strikingly serve to shew, how a confined life, such as I have experienced so long, has, at last, been attended with the most distressing results. It is a morn of June : — from east to west The ships are steerless on the channel's breast ; And o'er the rocks that fringe isle, reef, and bay. Light rolling now, the murm'ring surges play ; * No. 2. 132 THK HOLIDAY. In music breaking where of late the roar Atlantic, burst around the j^roaning shore : For Ocean here his billow flings on high. If but the spring-breeze sportively pass by; But lists to summer's breathings — wooed and won By the warm kisses of the conq'riag sun. It is a morn of June: — the gentle Spring Has flown, but shook such freshness from her wing O'er field and grove, that Summer's matron day Wears thy rich virgin hues, delicious May ; And there are strains from bush, and brake, and bower, Raptur'd as those which bless the vernal hour. All earth is vocal; and the heavens reply — A thousand voices wander through the sky; For there the lark — the master minstrel sings, And upward — upw ard soars on fearless wings ; Till earth recal him to her verdant breast. And love direct the lyrist to his nest. THE HOLIDAY. 133 O, sweet is such a morn to him who loves The heaven's clear song — the harmonies of groves ; — Who, bless'd by leisure, strays in woodlands green. And wanders oft through all the breathing scene ; — • 'Mid leafy luxuries who takes his rest. Or bathes his brow in breezes of the west ; On mountain, moorland, seeks Hygeian gales. Or dvv'clls with silence in the fragrant vales. All lovely sounds are with him ; lark and bee. Linnet and thrush unite their melody ; And waterfall, and streams that down the hills Melodious rush, and voices of the rills. He, as he hears of birds the summer mirth, And all the impassion'd poetry of earth. Looks at the bright, blue dawn — a dawn like this. Feels at each lightsome step increasing bliss ; And as he winds his flower-fring'd path along. Delighted wakes his own full-hearted song. What are Jm joys to mine ? The groves are green. And fair the flowers ; and there are ever seen s 134 THE HOLIDAY. Bv him the mountain's breast, the hills, the woods. Grass-waving- fields, and bright and wandering floods ; The lays of birds are ever on his ear. Music and sylvan beauty crown his year; — But if to Mm the rural reign have power To fill with joy the swift-revolving hour. What rapture must be mine, so seldom given. To feel the beam and drink the gale of heaven ! For O ! I love thee. Nature, and my eye Has felt " the witchery of the soft, blue sky ; " Bear witness, glowing Summer, how I love Thy green world here, thy azure arch above! But seldom comes the hour that snaps my chain. To me thou art all-beautiful in vain ! Bird, bee, and butterfly, are on the wing, Songs shake the woods, and streams are murmuring ; But far from them — the world's unwilling slave. My aching brow no genial breezes lave ; Few are the gladsome hours that come to cheer With flowers and songs my dull, unvarying year: THE HOLIDAY. 135 Yet ivhen they come, as now, — from loathed night The bird upsprings to hail the welcome light With soul less buoyant than I turn to thee, Priz'd for thy absence, sylvan Liberty. 136 ON A LADY WEEPING, ON SEEING A LADY WEEPING FOR THE LOSS OF HER INFANT. * I cuH'd trom home's beloved bowers. To deck thy last long sleep The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers That summer's dew may steep : — The rose bud — emblem meet — was there, — The violet blue, and jasmine fair. That drooping seemed to weep: — And now, I add this lowlier spell : — Sweets to the passing sweet ! Farewell ! ALARIC A. WATTS. Who counts on all the foliage of the Spring? — When did all blossoms live that bless'd the tree With fragrance and with perfect beauty ? Touch'd * Poetical Sketches, 41h Edition. ON A LADY WEEPING. 137 By Euriis — by life-killing frost — by rains Unkind — by the remorseless blight, — the hues Delicious fade ; — the ivory, and the gold. The glorious purple, and the million shades Delightful blending ; — fruit and flower, and leaf Struck in a moment, perish ; and they fall Lifeless and colourless, to strew the earth With desolation ! Then, as in the bowers Of Spring for ever stands insidious fate ; — As a foul taint spreads o'er the fairest rose ; — As dwells the worm in fruits of glorious hue And form, till black decay is changed to death ; — As lightning flings its shaft upon the tree. Making the beautiful a thing of dread. And mute astonishment; — dear, Mary, cease To mourn the inevitable doom that comes In all, but, chief, unsparingly descends Upon the human blossom! 138 ON A LADY WEEPING. Weep not thou Thy cherub -boy, o'er whose angelic form Came oft the breathing of disease. The pang Is flown for ever from his anguish'd heart, — The tear is wip'd for ever from his cheek, — For infancy, like Spring, has far more showers Than sun, and often weeps itself away ! Fix thou thy gaze, dear Mary, on those worlds Where tears and sighs come not. Think thou on him Who loves Earth's little ones, and gently leads His infant flock to living streams, and now — E'en now enfolds thy firstling in his arms. Dear Mary, — think on him ! TO A FRIKND LEAVING ENGLAND. 139 TO A FRIEND LEAVING ENGLAND. Unfurl thy sail. Thou wanderer, and drop thy anchor where Thy restless wishes tend. The hills, the vales. The bud, the leaf, the flowers, the streams, the lays Of earth are all before thee. Wing'd by winds Propitious to thy wish, pursue thy course Around the wonder-teeming globe. To isles Of brightness and of beauty where the bird, In all the colours of the Iris clad, Floats proudly in the blue, unclouded sky. Impel thy bark o'er calm and glittering seas, And in the burning Orient seek for climes 140 TO A FRIEND LEAVING ENGLAND. Fairer and happier than thy own; for joys Extatic, bahny gales, and fruits that tempt The thrilling touch — ambrosial food — and cups High foaming with nectareous draughts that cheer *"The heart of God and man." In bowers of bliss While hues and forms voluptuous rise around Thy couch, and music swells, and grateful winds Breathe overpowering fragrance, spend the hour. Thou restless one, — the soft luxurious hour; — Yet, often, raid the burst of fierce delight. Shall rush the dear remembrance of that isle — That sweet, fresh, breezy nook of earth which lies An Ocean's breadth beyond ! For in that isle. Proud of his northern fields, majestic walks Man, — high soul'd man, and, e'en at noon-tide strays Beautiful, matchless woman. Let the gales * Book of Judges. / TO A FRIEND LEAVING ENGLAND. J41 Of Ind or Araby, from bowers of bliss Waft overpowering odours, — from the meads Of England, temperate sweets arise that soothe The high-delighted sense. The laughing hours With her lead on their most harmonious dance, And the fair Seasons come — smile — vanish, all. In mildest interchange. But not for thee May plains that pine beneath the noon-tide blaze Spread soft the fresh, unfading, flowery turf Of thy unrivall'd Albion; — not for thee Shall breathe that gale which gives to beauty's cheek Its bloom — to life its pulse ! For in that isle Volcano rains not, and beneath the foot Lurks not the treacherous Earthquake! He that roams In eastern realms, " at noon-day," and flings round The black, and burning Pestilence, comes not To blast the bowers of Britain. Her no sun 142 TO A FRIKNU LEAVING ENGLAND. Rules with tyrannic sway, — the island rose Unrivall'd, droops not in the fiercest hour Of summer, and the island lark, untir'd Floats in the beam of June, and pours a song Of melody divine. O silent are The birds which boast the hues of rainbows ; — he Is music all — and vigour ! Oft shall rise In fancy on thy ear the welcome lay Of the glad linnet, swelling blithely where Thy cot bends o'er the ever-flowing stream. And the fond robin, claims, at morn and eve. His customary porch. But chief shall Night Assert its mighty influence, and a tear Shall tremble in thy eye, and forms shall wake Well-known, and loved, and sounds shall float around Familiar ; and tliy Home, by distance made More lovely, sliall in shadowy beauty rise To taunt thy aching vision ! Then away TO A FRIEND LEAVING ENGLAND. 143 And seek for pleasure where the dancing waves Make music ever with their sunny shores. And winds, all odour, softly breathe, and skies Are cloudless ; but where'er thy sail shall swell A power mysterious o'er thy listless hours Shall come ; — the Local love, impetuous boy ; — The LOCAL LOVE shall find thee ! 144 INSCRIPTION. INSCRIPTION FOR A *COLUMN AT CORUNNA. Stranger! this column marks no common spot. Here Porlier perish'd. Mournfully it stands Above the hero — victim of that king — That thankless, sullen bigot whom his sword Plac'd on a monk-encircled throne : — those monks. Those all-destroying locusts of our globe. Before whose progress earth, an Eden, blooms. Behind whom frowns a wild, — detested race ! Beneath their influence Liberty expir'd. And Porlier perished! * At the time this was written, the erection of a pile to the memory of Porlier was no improbable thing. INSCRIPTION. 145 Stranger, pass not on Till thou hast bless'd his memory. The sod Where freedom's martyr lies, — a holy spot. Her votary may kiss, and hallowed be Their memories who perish in her cause Rever'd and mourn'd for ever. Let the hand Of Time resistless shiver from its base This perishable pillar, and its tooth This frail memorial gnaw ; yet shall the tale Of foul ingratitude, of laws outrag'd. Of sacred institutions spurn'd, of blood Shed by that miserable king, outlive The sweep of after-ages ; and old Time Shall trumpet loudly forth his hated name — A proverb, and a bye-word, and a mark Fit for the finger of immortal scorn. 14G FUTURITY. FUTURITY. AVuEN shadowy twilight, hushing to repose The world, recals the mind to solemn thought, I love to seek the dark untrodden grove. Where peace and meditation dwell of old ; And there as slowly rolls the voiceless hour. To muse thy scenes, O, veil'd FUTURITY ! In those lone moments when the beamless night Darkening a prostrate world, and shading deep The many-colour'd hues that only live In the gay sun-beam, sheds her pensive calm. While lip-clos'd echo sleeps, what mystic thoughts Flit cross the ponderer's shuddering mind as he Through thy strange realms and vapoury bourne looks wild. Murmuring his fancies to the passing breeze That bears prophetic voices on its wings. A MOORLAND STORM. 147 A MOORLAND STORM. The Ocean breeze is up that will not rest Till it hath flung o'er hill and dale the cloud From which the lightning leaps. Fair broke the morn But as the gale pass'd by, I heard its voice And shuddcr'd — for too well I know its tones Of rising anger ; hollowly it blew And shrill, with fitful gust, and o'er the stream It glided with a melancholy strain Which came — at once — and as abruptly ceas'd, Leaving a deathless stillness in the glen — A moment. Then it dash'd upon the face 148 A MOORLAND STORM. Of the affrighted river, and the waves Roll'd to the startled shore, and all the woods Shook in the sudden impulse. Dark and dense Sail now the enormous vapours through the sky And some are sweeping the near hills. The Tor That stands so boldly on the stormy van Shrouds his magnificent head in folds of deep And sulphurous gloom ; and still the Atlantic sends His hosts innumerable, — cloud on cloud In terrible procession, flying wild On the dark winds ; and some are wreathing swift The ancient mountains — piling mass on mass Their magazines of wrath, that wait the touch Of fate to burst in horror. Distant heard. Mutters the thunder, and the moorland blast Answers with mournful voice, and shakes the wood Of the wild vale, while quick the river's face Roughens to foam. A iMOORLAND STORM. 149 The deer is in his lair. The hawk in his tall cliff; — that herald flash Burn'd o'er the desert, and methought I heard As of the fall of towers — a heavy sound — The lightning in his dread career hath struck The Tor of ages ! Hark the deafning crash Of the dread thunder, shaking e'en the rock On which we stand, while every mountain cave Rebellows through its dark abysses — pierc'd By Man's voice never ! More intensely burn The fires of Heav'n around the blackened piles Of the enduring granite; and the peal Profound — near — horrible — with roar prolong'd — Makes the old pyramids that crown the hill Of the gray wilderness tremble ! u 150 THE VALE. THE VALE, Narrow the entrance. Two misshapen rocks Rush'd up on either hand, and overhung Awhile the darken'd path, but all within Lay in the golden sunshine. Soon were heard The low, sweet music of a thousand rills Crossing- the sward luxuriant, and the rush Of mightier streams was heard that, far off, leap'd Into the echoing valley. Wider spread The glen, and darker, higher, rose the cliffs. And greener grew the beautiful, moist grass. And brighter bloom'd the flowers — such flowers as love THE VALF. 151 A mountain home ; and from the clefts the broom Look'd out, and in the sun-shine smil'd the heath — The bonny heath ; and in that valley's breeze Wav'd from the precipice the light-leav'd ash. And here and there the aged, stunted oak Lean'd o'er the crumbling brink. At once the war Of rock and river burst upon the eye And ear astonish'd. High above, the streams. Fed from exhaustless founts, rush'd headlong on Where, all uninjured, lay the mountain rocks Magnificently strew'd; and broke the power That broke in thunder through them; and upflung Their sun-touch'd foam wreaths to the pleasant gale That play'd around inconstant. Broader now The broken stream roll'd onward yet depriv'd Of half its fierceness. By the opposing rocks It swept, in beautiful motion, and the eye Look'd on the bright confusion — look'd and beam'd 152 THE VALE. With pleasure, and a gentle calm diffused Its influence o'er the spirit, as the tones Most musical, through all the languid noon. Rose of the broad, blue waters. Pleasantly Were interspers'd green islets, — loved retreats Of birds that love the streams. The river flow'd Darkly beneath the leafage — dark and calm A moment — and again with voice, far heard, Rush'd o'er its pure and glittering bed. The bank Now rose precipitous, and from the brink Broken into a thousand bays, — the trees In strange association with the cliffs Again upclimb'd the slopes. Rock, bush, and flower. Were there in sweetest union. Hardy — old — Stunted yet vigorous, the Oak outflung His arms above the crag ; his scalp was bare And lifeless as that crag he shadow'd ; — struck THE VALE. 153 By time or lightning — yet a living thing, Still joying in the sunshine. Midway yawn'd A cavern, and bright bursting from its jaws Into the day, a highland torrent flash'd Upon the eye. Adown the wooded slopes Leaping from steep to steep it came, and flung Its music on the air of that wild place, — Wild, yet most beautiful. A silver shower Eternal drizzled there, and near it grew The moisture-loving moss array'd in green That rivall'd the clear emerald ; and plants Of freshest leaf, and flowers that fill their cups With mountain dews, but wither in the beam Of southern skies. One solitary bird To the deep voices of that waterfall Responsive sung— a *strange but lovely strain * The Water Ouzel, (Turdus cinctus.) 154 ' THE VALE. Like the soft gurgling which the streamlets make Sweet playing with the pebbles. Never, sound Within that holy sanctuary rise Ruder than that bird's heart-refreshing strains, — Or voice of winds, — or the undying flow Of the complaining waters. THE POET. 155 THE POET. His are all forms or beauteous or sublime In heaven and earth ; — the music of the winds. All sounds delightful his ! The plaintive brook — The Ocean with its wonders — the great rocks That overshadow it — the voiceful shores — The cataract — the broad, majestic flood. Are themes for his great soul ! The rolling orbs Divine, are his companions, and he strays And communes with them through the musing night- The pale, star-beaming night ! This world to him Is full of beauty, and in rapture oft. As ever in his glorious works unveil'd. He sees the great Creator ; fill'd with joy And gratitude intense, lie bends the knee In silent, soulfelt homage, and outpours The full, deep hymn of praise. 156 TO CORNWALL. TO CORNWALL. *Land of the Logan, hail! O'er raountain brow Adown the noiseless slopes — through shadowy \ales — By the lone, murmuring torrent — and above The unsleeping billow where the giant clifi" Stands in his own, stupendous strength, 1 come, A lover of thy wonderful and wild — A wanderer on thy Ocean-shaken shores — * Though these stupendous Logan rocks exist, in Devon- shire, Derbyshire, Wales, &c. yet on account of their number, their size, and the extraordinary situations, in which they are found in Cornwall, 1 may bepaidoned for addressing that province as the Land of the Logan. TO CORNWALL. 157 To gaze awhile upon the countless forms Which Nature in thine infinite of rocks Displays, \yilh reverence let me pause amid Her all magnificent creations. — Hail, Land of the Logan, and the Cromlech — hail ! See on yon height where, safe from age to age, The bold, free, sea-bird builds his savage nest. Has Nature with a skill mysterious pois'd The mighty granite mass ! The wild sea waves Howl at the feet of the stupendous rocks That — pile o'er pile — mighty and mightier still As they ascend, sustain the self-hung sphere — The eye, insatiate, gazes on the scene, The foot remains impassive on the earth. The soul feels all the grandeur and the power Before it, and adores : while nought is heard In the great calm, but voice of startled bird. Or that most touching, melancholy tone, ■i Which Ocean in his mildest moment breathes From rock to rock along the charmed shores. 158 TO CORNWALL. Stern are thy castles mould'ring on the hill. Stern in their grey, old age. Thy cliffs are strew'd With mighty relics of the days gone by ! And as the winter winds sweep o'er them, oft They fall with crash tremendous, startling far The pensive western night. Thy shelter'd vales — For thou too, lov'd Cornubia, hast thy fields Of all surpassing beauty ; bloom above The mighty dead, and in thine ancient homes, A stranger, and a wanderer, I love To mourn o'er thy departed ones, and pace Thy desolate and forsaken halls. How loud Sounds the lone footfall through each silent dome ! Deep are the echoes that intrusion wakes, A thousand solemn voices seem to start From the grey walls, as if in stern reproof. And yet e'en this, though Fancy rule the hour. Is less oppressive than the freezing calm. The silence, and the loneliness that drops On these forsaken towers when voice nor sound TO CORNWALL. 159 Awake not their sharp echoes. But their hour Is come — the hand of pitiless Decay Is on them, and the Ivy claims his own. Man's noblest works must perish — but unhurt The lichen'd cromlech proudly stands above The warrior, and the cross is on the heath The sacred ^circle in the vale ; — the breeze Is on the fTolmen, and it totters not; — Pillar, and monument, and graven rock In all their mightiness remain ; beheld With wonder, and endued with power to brave Haply, the wind, the lightning, the dread bolt Of the high thunder, and the hand of Time, Till Time himself shall perish ! IGO TO CORNWALL. * A Druidical circle of stones, — the circumference 25 feet. Some of these stones have fallen. There is considerable doubt with respect to the origin and intent of these stone circles, of which there are many examples in Cornwall. t Seven hundred andJUfty tons in one solid mass of stone, is a prodigious weight ; and to place it ou its side, resting only on two points in that poised position, required a degree of careful nicety, and commanding power, of which modern ages would be proud to boast. Dreio's Cormvall. THE END. \V. BYfcRS, PKINTBR, DKVONPORT. LATELY PUBLISHED, Price 7s. 6d. THE BANKS OF TAMAR. BY N. T. CARRINGTON. CRITICAL OPINIONS IN FAVOUR OF THIS VOLUME. To our minds the schoolmaster of Plymouth-Dock, retiring' after the worse than manual labour of the day, to solace himself in his solitary study, with his books and his pen, is to the full as poetical a persoua^'e as the teacher of Gandercleugh. * * * The volume opens with a spirited invo- cation to Morning-, which introduces a panegyric on our fickle climate, in spite of all its moisture and capriciousuess, worthy of the poet who ex- claimed ' England with all thy faults I love thee still.' If our readers hive not long ere this found out. that the banks of Tamar is a poem worthy of the beautiful stream it celebrates, we fear that no epithets we might use to characterize it, would instruct them. We are glad to notice a list of subscribers which testifies that the author is not wholly without honour in his own country, to which he certainly docs honour ; such a man deserves, however, a better fate. The passages we have ex- tracted will bear a comparison with the best descriptive poetry in the lan- guage. We consider the volume as an interesting accession to our library. Eclectic Review. Of Mr. Carrington it may be honestly said — a concession that can be fair- ly made to but few of the host of versifiers who keep the press in constant operation — that he is a man of genuine poetic feeling. Descriptive poems in blank verse usually give us at fii-st sight a raw micomfortable sensation, a good deal like one feels at going reluctantly from a glowing "ingle nook" about some cheerless errand on a damp cold evening. There is so much of this sort of writing and so little that is good. For one "Deserted Village" or "Task" there are a score "Windsor Forests" and "English Gardens," as much inferior to these as the "Harti of Rapin" to the "Georgics of Virgil." We did not of coui-se eater on Mr. Carrington's " Banks of Tamar" in the best of all possible dispositions for criticism, but a page or two sufficed to put us into a better temper, and by the time that we had made acquaintance with the general character of the volume, we were quite disposed to indite an "oration" and an "argument" for its contents. If traces of languor and negligence occasionally present themselves, we feel no inclination to be fas- tidious, when we recoilectthat Mr. C. is engaged in the education of youth, and that he has meditated these interesting compositions amid the depressing fatigues of a laborious attention to the duties of his profession. He refers to this in his preface, not querulously, but in manly excuse for unavoidable defects. We infer from the way in which he speaks of his pursuits, that his circumstances do not allow him the leisure which his talents and industry would enable him so well to improve. We wish him ample encouragement in his meritorious efforts, by the extensive circulation of this attractive volume. London Congregational Magazine. For similar testimonies see the Oriental Herald, &c. BY THE SAME AUTHOR, Price 12*. DAHTMOOR: a Dfsciiptibc IJocw. CRITICAL OPINIONS IN FAVOUR OF THIS WORK. We have been exceedingly interested with the perusal of a poem lately published under the title "Dartmoor," — not by one of the competitors whom Mrs. Hemaus vanquished, but by Mr. Carringtou, a Schoolmaster of Ply- mouth. We must say that there is much real poetry of feeli/ig- in his volume, and that his blank verse is, to our ear, about the best the time has produced. Witness the following lines, from an opening' address to Spring', the skilful eleg-auce of which will be as thoroughly appreciated on a second, as the true pathos of the sentiment will be on a first reading. People made a mighty cry a few years ago about . We should wish to know why this Plymouth Schoolmaster, who has more talent about him than a dozen put together, has not found auy patron. It would give us high pleasure to think that we had been of any use iu calling atten- tion to Mr. Carrington. Representative. Hundreds of volumes of mediocre poetry, have, within the last few years been published, and some of the writers raised to a rank in the republic of letters, to which they were by no moans entitled ; while Mr. Carrington, a Schoolmaster of Plymouth, has sung the beauties of his native country un- heeded and unknown : for even his poem of " The Banks of Tamar," though praised by the critics, failed in procuring him a patron to bring him into no- tice. The poem of "Dartmoor" is written in very excellent blank verse, and abounds in very striking descriptions. It displays much elegance and feeling and correct sentiment, and some of the passages possess great beauty. The following extract, descriptive of the scenery of his " loved Devonia," is a fine picture : — This quotation is made almost at random, and many passages of equal beauty and spirit, might be found in the poem of "Dartmoor," which we hope \w\\\ bring its admirable author into notice Star. Having read, and read witli much gratification, the Dartmoor of Mr. Carrington, we regret that either his preceding poem has (amid the multi- plicity of similar volumes) escaped our attention, or that we have no con- venient opportunity for turning to it tor a medium of comparison with the present production. But as we may speak, without other reference, most favourably of the work before us, we shall do oui-selves a pleasure and the public a service, by bringing it at once under general notice. Had Dartmoor appeared fifty years ago it v. ould assuredly have acquired far more immediate and greater fame, and, probably, afar wider circulation than, in the later and existing states of poetical publication, it is likely to obtain. And this is to be lamented for the sake of the author ; because, if we are correctly informed, he fills a place in life to which the product of a successful book could not fail to be acceptable : he is a schoolmaster in De- vonport, to the laborious duties of which station, are superadded the cares of a numerous family of children. To the compositions of such a man it would be no stretch of critical candour to extend a large measure of indulgence, but Mr. Carring-ton needs it not ; and we mention the circumstances not as an apology for his Muse, but in order to awaken the interests and excite the sympathies of the friends of struggling genius for a case of no common oc- currence, whether we look at the condition of the individual, or at the beauties of his performance. Having taken Thomson (chiefly) as his model, Mr. Carrington has directed his thoughts to flow in the full and natural tide of descriptive verse. The stream is smooth, ample, and gently swelling, like a fine river whose course is through a champaign country ; not turbulent, brawling, broken by rocks and cataracts, like most of the poetry of the century in which we live. It may not, therefore, strike so much at first sight; but its tranquil graces are not less calculated to improve on longer intimacy, to fill the breast with pleasing emotions, and to roll on to as distant a shore of that ob- livious land where, at last, all the efforts of human ingenuity are lost and forgotten. We have said that the Seasons are Mr. Carriugton's model, and in fact we are of opinion that he has occasionally copied too closely. * * « * But we trust we are not misunderstood to accuse the bard of Devon of servility in the quotation we have just made; we only cite it to shew the school of which he is not an unworthy disciple. His subject has necessarily rendered his descriptions more local than those of his delightful prototype ; in the midst of these localities, however there are a multitude of natural touches which belong to all scenes and to every period. *««* #** We forbear from trespassing further on the the reader with other extracts, on remarks on this poem. We shall only add, that it reflects much honour or the author, of whose talents his native place has just reason to be proud; and to express again our hope that it will recommend him to the regards not only of his near compatriots, but of the British people at large. Literary Gazette. If merit can insure success, the author of Dartmoor need be under no ap- prehensions respecting the speedy sale of all that remains of his first edition ; and the eligibility of a second with alterations will be best arranged with a publisher. No further expense of plates is necessary ; the poem itself has beauty enough to lead the writer to comfort, as soon as it is generally known; to which result we are happy in having contributed. Literary Gazette. There are several reasons why we should deviate from our usual practice, and devote a few pages to a review of this very interesting volume. In the first place, the poem, which constitutes its leading feature, is one of the most successful productions of the class to which it belongs, that we have met with for many years ; and in the next, its author, although a man of first rate genius is labouring under the res aitynsta clomi, and consequently possesses unusually strong claims on the attention of every genuine lover of literature. Beautiful as are the sketches before us, and a large portion of them are entitled to rank with the best descriptive poetry of Thomson and Akensidc, they are, as the amiable and enlightened gentlemen who has sup- plied the preface and notes justly observes, rendered still more intei-esting by the knowledge of the adverse circumstances under which all Mr. Carrington's writings have been composed. Employed from the morning till nig-lit in a painful and laborious vocation, (that of a Schoolmaster) with a numerous family to support upon a very scanty income, and that income materially diminished by the present mania for classical subscription schools, Mr. C. has yet found leisure to exercise his poetic genius, and to manifest the unconquerable energ-ies of his mind. Most earnestly do we pray, with his excellent editor, that the present laudable effort may rise up for him and his family some more influential patron than it has ever been his lot, as yet, to conciliate. In his former poem, the Banks of the Tamar, Mr. Carrington introduces himself to his readers as the eudurer of a fate still more severe than that of his brother Teacher, of Gandercleugh ; for he, after plying the task of public instruction throughout the weary day, could relieve his shat- tered nerves and aching head by a solitary walk in the cool of the evening on the banks of a winding stream ; whereas the poet of Dartmoor tells us that his labours have seldom been relinquished till the close of our longest summer evenings, when he has been uniformly driven by business con- nected with his arduous profession, and by literary cares, to his solitary study, where, depressed by the previous fatigues of the day, he has occasion- ally indulged poetical composition. These are simple and affecting facts, and no one with the slightest pretensions to poetical taste, who peruses the results of these snatches of 'solitary joy,' can choose but feel as much sym- pathy for the man, as admiration for the poet The earliest efforts of Mr. Carrington's muse which we remember to have seen, were some beautiful little pieces in the Literary Gazette. Since then, however, he has published the Banks of Tamar ; and he now appears before us as the author of as spirited a poem as modern times can boast of. A few years since, the Royal So- ciety of Literature offered fifty guineas for a poetical effusion on Dartmoor ; which sum was justly awarded to Mrs. Hemans for her vigorous and beau- tiful lines on the subject Mr. Carrington's poem is not, however, one of those rejected on that occasion, but was written at the suggestion of the gentleman who contributed the preface and notes. If the Royal Society of Literature have any patronage to bestow, we trust it will remember this truly deserving author. It is but of little service to literature in general, to settle libei-al stipends upon persons who really stand in no need of such assistance, whilst men of slerling genius, whom adverse circumstances have weighed down, almost to the grave, are denied the most trivial gratuity. If the society wishes to shew that it is likely to be of real use to ihe Republic of Lettei-s it has now an admirable opportunity for the display of its liber- ality and discernment. Literaiy Magnet. The work before us is as much superior in merit to the general mass of poetical efl'usion which issue from the press, as its exterior appearance sur- passes them in elegance. In this poem, vigorous thought, lively description, and faithful delineation true to nature, are among its distinguishing characteristics. The versification is harmonious, always muscular, sometimes swelling with innate energy, and occasionally bursting into strains of sublimity. From this poem the town of Devonport has derived an honour which its wealthy inhabitants will know how to appreciate. They will not forget the fate of Burns, who, when living, through the united influence of Scotland, was exalted to a low situation in the excise, and, since dead, has had splen- did monuments erected to his memory ; nor will they omit to bear in mind the destiny of Butler, who asked in vain for bread, and was rewarded with a stone. But although we thus speak of the author, his work solicits not the hand of charity. It is neatly and correctly printed, possesses a strong and vigorous constitution, and bears on many of its paragraphs the indelible mark of immortality. Among the poetical compositions of modern days it will liold a conspicuous ranli ; and if its sale bear any proportion to its merit, Mr. Carriugton will have no occasion to owe that to a patron which Providence has enabled him to do for hunself. Imperial Magazine. Prolific as the present age is, in poetical productions, we have seldom met with a poem that pleased us so much, or that possesses so much merit as Mr. Carring'ton's Dartmoor. The author is, we understand, a Schoolmaster at Plymouth, and though his talents are universally admired, and he is much esteemed by all who know him, yet fortune frowns on him : and in an age which is called Augustan, he is left uiipatronized and ui obscurity. * * » Such a man, we think, has a very strong claun on the notice of the Royal Society of Literature, and, we trust, that one of the pensions of one hundred guineas a year, will be awarded to this deserving author ; for, in such a case, it would be both an act of kindness and of justice. Mr. Carrington is a great admirer of nature, with a fine perception of her beauties, which he describes with much truth and pathos ; and, indeed, with- out provoking a comparison, which may prove unfavourable to him, we do not hesitate to say, that he reminds us more frequently of Thomson than any poet we have met with. ***♦##•* For vigour of style, elegance of diction, and beauty of sentiment, the poem of Dartmoor will hold a very high rank in English poetry ; some passages have all the sublimity of the mountain scenery he describes, while the smoothness of the versification may be compared to the most tranquil of "Devonia's fairest rivers." Literary Chronicle. In giving a second notice of this volume, it was our intention to confine ourselves to the introduction and the notes ; but the poem itself possesses so much real beauty, that we are tempted to give another extractor two: — We now take our leave of this charming volume, and trust that we shall, ere long, not only have to announce its reaching a second, or even a third edition, but that its author has received the reward due to his talents. The more his poem is read, the more it will be admired, as it surpasses in nature, beauty, and sublimity, any production we have seen for some time. Literary Chronicle. We should hope that few of our readers will have forgotten the extracts we gave from INIr. Carrington's former poem, (The Banks of Tamar,) even if they have not done him the justice of purchasing the volume. Six years have elapsed since that unpretending little publication crept forth into day- light from a provincial press; (it was three years in finding its way to us;) we rejoice to find that in the interval the Author has not been idle, and that the applause which was bestowed on his first production has given him breath, for a louder and a longer strain. ****** * Every reader of genuine taste will recognise in this exquisite sketch (Pages 81, 2, 3, 4, 5,) a study from nature. The rock reflected in the lake — the niil- lenarian Oak — the hawk soaring over the waterfall — the evening sun darting its thwart beams through the old woods below — all are pourtrayed with a distinctness, which almost rivals the pencil ; and the composition and group- ing are such as Turner would have chosen. Yet the description has nothing of that stiff artificial character which is observable in some of Leigh Hunt's finest passages, which seem translated from pictures, rather than painted from nature. We have sometimes fancied, that we could detect in an ela- borate passage, plagiarisms of this kind from Claude and Poussiu. But after all, the artist and poet do not look at nature with the same eyes, and some of the most picturesque touches in descriptive verse, are such as cannot be expressed on the canvas. The ' verdant billows' ' sunny luxury of grass' ; ' the harebell of deeper blue, than e'en the blue of ocean,' the ' all-vo- luptuous air,' the 'startling rush of crimson spotted trout' — call up ideas strictly picturesque though they cannot be embodied in picture. The laws of perspective will not admit of the combination of the grand and the minute which Poetry admits of. The scale cannot, in a painting, be shifted at plea- sure from the breadth of landscape to the miniature portrait of a flower, nor would the idea of retirement be expressed to the eye by any positive repre- sentation of stillness so effectively as it is conveyed to the feelings by those few words: 'let the worldling rest In his own noisy world — far off. What we think and feel with regard to Mr. Carrington's present produc- tion our readers will be at no loss to infer from the remarks which it has suggested, and how far it deserves the high opinion we entertain of its merits, the above extracts will enable them to determine. The genuine love of na- ture, the poetical fancy and feeling and the simplicity of character, which are displayed in this poem, will recommend it to every reader of taste. As a topographical work, the volume, as we have already remarked, is an ac- quisition, and has considerable merit. Sylvanus Urban will revel in the notes, while every true Devonian must take a pride in having the Moor, which has been regarded as almost a blot upon Devonshire, thus rescued from disgrace and brought under poetical cultivation. We notice with sin- cere pleasure the splendid list of subscribers to Mr. Carrington's volume, at the head of which is the King. Surely such a man will not be suffered to end his days in the hard drudgery of a school. Yet, infinitely better is it that he should be a schoolmaster, than, like poor Burns, an exciseman. Eclectic Review. Here are some very agreeable lines but modelled from beginning to end, iniluckily on the versification of Thomson's Seasons, with a touch occasionally of Cowper, we say unluckily because the well known turns and cadences, perpetually stirring our recollections, will deprive the writer of much of the credit very justly his due. It is not want of native feeling, nor lack of power, nor penury of language, that has driven him to so constant an imitation. Through the whole poem, it is plainly his own soul that prompts, but he borrows another's tongue to give its promptings utterance. With a little more tact — not to say cunning — he would studiously have shunned and not thus confidingly have adopted a phraseology, so indelibly mixed with our earliest poetical remembrances. The scene of his poetry is the spot and sojourn of his childhood, of all his first and most familiar associations ; and he still loves to range over it wilds, and recall and indulge his most en- dearing enjoyments, Dartmoor is the whole world to him. It has an im- portance that fills his thoughts, and almost his wishes, and which he labours to communicate in the full glow of genuine feeling. To the passing observer Dartmoor is mere heath and rock and bog, and one point as undistinguish- able and as uninteresting as another ; but the poet has trodden every foot of it, and marks every angle and every aspect of its vai-ying surface. He has peopled every spot with abiding recollections; every brook and every tree, has its distinct existence ; every babbling rill its own music ; every rock its own echo ; every oak its own foliage ; every breeze its own swell ; and every harebell its own celestial blue; — and he has an eye and an ear to catch and mark them all. To describe a specimen of these things, gives no relief to the intensity of his sensations — ^he has a thousand shades of discrimination, and no record exhausts the delicate distinctions of his long and intimate ob- servation. And hence at the first glance he will seem to be frequently re- peating himself, where his own fancy presented strong lines of difference and which a further perusal would readily enable ourselves to detect. The opening address to Devonshire has something very sweet aud gentle in it : — Thou hast a cloud, &c. Page 1. * * * * * t n There is a genuine warmth in the description of a summer's morning. How beauiiful is morning, though it rise, &c. Page 31. * » * * * Sunset; — we know not where this is surpassed. The zenith spreads, Its canopy of sapphire, &c. Pages 86, 7, 8, 9. Monthly JTaguzine. (the literary coterie.) Reginald. Dartmoor is an admirable poem, Carrington, the author, is a Schoolmaster, not very well endowed, I believe, with this world's goods, who resides at Devonport . I wish most heartily this work may be the means of making him better known. Mr Apathy. I have read Dartmoor, and have been delighted with the many exquisite touches with which it abounds. It is certainly one of the best descriptive poems in the English Language. Reginald. It often reminds me of Thomson, not that remembrance which arises from perusing the servile imitation of some vile poetaster, but that which the similai'ity of thoughts and feelings between two great geniuses often excites. 3Ir. Apathy. I think I can recal to my recollection one passage — an In- vocation to Spring : — ********* Reginald. I recollect that passage ; and the poem abounds with equally fine ones. Ackcrmann's Repository of Arts, ^c. Mr. Carrington is already favourably known to the public as a genuine son of the muse, by his beautiful poem " The Banks of Tamar" — Dartmoor is not a poem of mere local interest ; every general reader, who is an admirer of real poetic excellence, will derive gratification from the truth and nature which are visible in Mr. Carriugton's descriptions, and the rich vein of pathos in which he loves to indulge in his verse. St. Jameses Royal Magazine. This poem, the production of a Schoolmaster residing at Devonport, in Devonshire, is one of the most beautiful specimens of descriptive verse we ever remember to have met with. Merit like that of the author of these pages, however it may be obscured by factitious circumstances, must soon find its way into light and popularity, and that patronage which is so strangely withheld from Mr. C. in the neighbourhood in which he resides, (and what man is considered a prophet iu his own country ?) must eventually be conceded to him by the full applause of the best, most enlightened, and most impartial of all tribunals — that of the public at large; for his pro- ductions require only to be known, to be appreciated. / The language is throughout extremely classical and elegant, and evidences a deeper tone of feeling, and a keener perception of natural beauty, than belongs to modern descriptive poetry in general. Manchester Courier. — Edited by Alaric A. Watts, Esq. We should have but an indifferent opinion of the critical taste of those lovers of descriptive poetry, for example, who could bend with seeming rap- ture, over the "Seasons" of Thomson, and yet i-efuse a considerable portion, at least of similar admiration to Mr. Carringtou's "Dartmoor." Such being the case, our sympathies with the author came into proper play. Though, where merit is not, they cannot justify literary patronage, they are, or ought to be powerful auxiliaries where that merit really is. «***♦* We have alluded ah'eady to the poetry of Thomson ; and there can be no doubt that the "Seasons" has been a favourite study with our author; but, though there are passages in which we are occasionally reminded of the manner of that precedent writer, yet we camiot set Mr. C. down, even in point of style much less in matter and sentiment, among the tribe of imita- tors. Occasionally, also, we have something like a glimpse of the rythmic vein of Cowper: neither the subject, nor the taste of the author seems to have led him to the higher harmonies of Milton. But, upon the whole, he may be said to have a style of his own ; and if Thomson could be admitted to have furnished the model of his versification, we should not scrapie to say that the structure of his verse was an improvement upon the model. His pauses are more varied, and his verses do not run so frequently into blank couplets and triplets. His ry thmus has also the genuine merit of seeming to flow from the character of the thought, instead of having any portion of that chilling and constrained appearance, which never fails to result from the mechanical aifectation, of moulding the thought to the pre-conceived model of the versification We dwell so much the more on this particular merit, because it is one which we never yet discovered in any writer who had not poetical merits of a higher order : it is one that can never flow but from a genuine poetic feeling. To prove that Mr. C. possesses a considerable portion of this feeling, it would be but necessary to open his poem at almost any page, and quote the first passage of convenient length that presented itself. We would select, for that purpose, the address to Spring (pp. 5 and 6) but that we have been already anticipated in that passage. VVe turn therefore, to another, the subject of which is sulficiently unpromising — the Rail Road, projected across the moor by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, page 13. ******* It will not be disputed, we think, that this passage is in that true spirit of poetry, which can contemplate even the triumphs of science and the works of art with the deep feeling of nature — that can look upon, and admire the progress of civilization, without losing sight of the vast and wild sublime which it is traversing and subduing. Here are no displays of mechanical technicalities — no parade of scientific terms, or jargon from the workshop, or the forge; — no admeasurements of lengths or breadths, nor engineering calculations, or apparatus : — the triumphs of art are alluded to only by the prospective of effects; the imagery is all drawn from inartificial objects; and desert and mountain rock — the dreary waste and mighty tor, are still left in their primce val awfulness, impressed upon the imagination, as they rose from chaos and commotion in the wreck and renovation of worlds, and bore the brunt of ages. Nor are graphic personifications, or elaborate allegories decked out in pomp of words to give factitious grandeur to the theme. * * * * Panoramic Miscellany. Mr. Carrington is a Schoolmaster of Devonport. His laborious pro- fession, nnfortiinately too little respected in this country, and seldom either pleasurable or lucrative, usurps unavoidably the greatest portion of his time, and shuts him out equally from company, and from elegant study. However, besides tiie reputation liis poetical talents have pro- cured him, he enjoys in his native town the much higher reputation of virtue and integrity. It is an honour to Mr. Carrington that he has chosen to tread in the footsteps of so ereat a master ('rhomson) ; not servilely, but from kindred sentiments and feelings. He is the Thomson of Devonshire. • ••»»**♦• Dartmoor is a barren subject. Rut however hopeless it may be in an agricultural point of view, and we are inclined after all to fear that it will never be celebrated for fertility, we can assure our readers that Mr. Carrington's pen has reaped a harvest of poetry on its barren ridges. Perhaps the reader may remember Auacreon's beautiful fancy on the origin of the rose: — MaKcipioi' Geiov S'ofitXoQ 'Pofoi' log yfVOlTO, J'fKTrtp EiTirey^ac (iviTfLXtv ' Ayepaiyov e^ aicdv9i]C f^vTov a(i (3qotov Avaiov QSjjVy' The following thought from Dartmoor is hardly less beautiful : — And in the pleasant grass That smiles around, fair waving in the breeze, Delicious hues are seen, iniiumerous; As if the rain-drops of the fresh wild Spring Had blossomed where they fell. Page 80. The etchings, by Mr. Rogers of Plymouth, vihicli adorn the volume, are many of them very beautiful, particulaily INleavy Vale, and W'iddi- combe Church. On the whole, we can truly say that we have derived verv hiiih gratification from the perusal of" Dartmoor" and trust it will meet with that favourable reception which its general merits appear to lis richly to deserve. Oriental Herald. In this handsome volume we are presented with three-fold attractions. Besides the poem which may vie with the descriptive sketches of the immortal author of the Seasons, we have some iiighly valuable historical, and illustrative matter, contained in the Preface and notes written by Mr. Burt, Secretary of the Chamber of Commerce, Plymouth; and some beautiful views ot the scenery, drawn and etched by P. H Rogers, Esq. of Plymouth. In accordance with our usual custom, we should have noticed in the first place, the historical and topographical part of this volume; but opening it at the commencement ot the poem, we were so pleased with the melody and grandeur of the verse as to be led imperceptibly from sweet to sweet, and flower to flower, till we had possessed ourselves of ail its beauties. Mr. Carrington displays no poverty of imagination as he draws to a close, but finishes in increased strength and beauty, with a very appropriate descrijition ot the close of day; indeed this is the most successful part of the poem. We liave ptpsented specimens sufficient to display tlie beauties of Mr. Caninfiton's muse, and had it not been for tlie adverse circiim- statircs mentioned in the earlier part of tliis notice the powerful enerjiies of his mind would probably have soared above all contemporary writers in the class to wb; L 007 387 642 7 ^ ^ S 1 cs C3 ^-^oTi UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 365 533 9 iB