My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more; And for the hopes-the sun-bright hopes-that blossom'd at thy birth,- 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed ere my hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then, And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost, Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee day by day, It came at length ;-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,— Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from me, And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee ;- We laid thee down in sinless rest, and from thine infant brow Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers-not more fair and sweet- Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, They may be lovely and beloved, but not-like thee-the first! THE FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring, That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this! My sweet one, my sweet one, my Fairest and my First! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst; Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth, Perhaps the best poem in the volume is by Allan Cunninghame. It is full of real warm human feeling of the best kind, finely tinged too with the spirit of poetry, and written in VOL. XVII. language almost Wordsworthian.Cunninghame is far superior to Clare, and we say so, without meaning any disrespect to that most amiable and interesting person. He has all, or near N ly all that is good in Hogg-not a twentieth part of the Shepherd's atrocities and much merit peculiarly his own, which, according to our notion of poetry, is beyond the reach of the Ettrick bard. Yet Cunninghame has never written, and probably never will write, anything so fortunate as the Queen's Wake. At times there come, as come there ought, One gleam of her inconstant light; Shines like the rainbow through the O then I see, while seated nigh, I think the wedded wife of mine, We cannot help thinking, that poetry like this-for poetry assuredly it is-awakens a much deeper feeling than that sort of poetry, which, dealing in troubled and sinful passions, might be supposed to have been groaned out to the Muse in auricular confession. There is something sickening in your assiduous poetical sinner, who sees nothing grand but guilt-thinks life dull unless it be devilish, and is oppressed with ennui, if forced for a season to have recourse to some honest employment. The truth is, that sane, sound, and simple nature, is the only nature in which the real poet long finds delight; and if sometimes he meddles with the morbid anatomy of the soul, it is that he may shew forth, in nobler proportions and diviner beauty, the unimpaired structure of our moral being. On this subject we shall not now dilate; but content ourselves with remarking, that nothing is easier than to write in this diseased and drunken style-and that nothing is more difficult than adequately-to speak of "the sound healthy children of the God of Heaven." North has just sent a devil to say, month, so that we may make our arthat he is to have no small print this ticle a page or two longer than per order. The easiest way of doing this is by extracts. So, fair reader, here is a poem by Mr T. K. Hervey. He is a young gentleman of very considerable promise, and the Convict-Ship will adorn even a page of Maga. We have a small volume of poems lately published by Mr Hervey, called "Australia," &c. which are much above mediocrity, and have attracted, as they deserved, considerable notice. No man in the world likes so well as we do to soe clever youths coming for ward-and we at all times have shewn ing hand. Our friend Hervey has ourselves ready to lend them a help feeling and fancy. THE CONVICT SHIP. By T. K. Hervey, Esq. Morn on the waters!-and, purple and bright, See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale; Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain, 'Tis thus with our life: while it passes along, Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd; All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes, Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs : Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; As it has been objected to us, that we are too chary in general of poetical effusions, (in answer to this charge, see our pyramidical bard ▲,) weshall quote another little composition from the Souvenir; and at the same time beg leave to propose a toast-"The health of the Reverend E. W. Barnard." Mr Barnard, we learned t'other day, from our friend Martin M'Dermot the Un merciful, is son-in-law to Arch-deacon Wrangham. We were happy to hear it, on both their accounts. Mr Wrangham is one of the best scholars in England; and that Mr Barnard has an exceedingly elegant mind, needs no better proof than THE ANGEL'S SONG. By the Rev. E. W. Barnard. INTRODUCTION. Come with a poet's eye, and parent's heart, And bless your bounteous Maker!There they sit, Beneath yon towering elms-a goodly boy And gentle girl-their little arms around Each other's necks entwining, as if loath To play at worldly games, and minding only Love, ceaseless love, the business of hea ven. Glows not thine heart within thee at the sight? Ha! nobler visions come-and hark! the voice Of more than earthly music! angel forms, Twin spirits, hovering o'er that infant pair, Illume, like sunshine, the departing skies, So bright, so fond their smile!And higher still, (Such social charity prevails in heaven,) Cherub and seraph troop around to hear The guardians sing their gracious benison. These, hand in hand, poised on their snow-white wings, Alternate sing, and at each choral pause Lift up to One Unseen their waving palms, And draw down blessings. O'er their innocent charge In plenteous showers the ready blessings fall, To mortal vision like ethereal dews, Odours, or rarest flowers, or costly gems, Or stars of mildest lustre :-Beautiful, And passing speech, in plenteous shower they fall, And ever and anon the ministering spirits, With looks that shew unutterable love, Bend o'er the infants, and resume their song. Ripening every plant of worth, Till it bud and blossom forth; Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! 1st Angel. Flowers that hand of poet never May from heaven's pasture sever; Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! 2d Angel. Gems that in profusion gay, Fearing nothing of decay, Over heart and over brow, Chorus.Strew about, strew about! 1st Angel. Gladsome health to fire the eye, And paint the cheek of infancy; Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! 2d Angel. Lowly thought, and holy fear, Studious peace, and conscience clear, Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! With these very beautiful verses, we intended to have closed our article. But on correcting the slip, we perceive that a few additional sentences are necessary for the "upmaking," since nothing looks so well at the top of a page, as the title of an article-and we perceive that the title of the next is a taking one. What then shall we say? why, that all our good Poets, yes, one and all of them, should contribute to the next volume of the Literary Souvenir. What difficulty is there in writing a beautiful poem of fifty lines, long or short metre, any summer morning before breakfast? Consider how early the sun rises all the summer through, from about the beginning of May, well on to the end of September. Suppose you breakfast at nineor half past nine. Well then, up with there is your poem. Lay it aside for you at five-and before the bell rings, a week-correct it over your egg any sunshining morning-into the form of the tune of Alaric A. Watts, Esq. Leeds. a letter with it-and off she goes to Nothing can be more easy and simple than this process,—and by and by down comes, or up goes to you your beautiful large paper copy of the Souvenir, with the worthy Editor's kind regards, and a pleasantly indited letter. Therefore, Wordsworth, god of the woods, "sole king of rocky Cumberland," a lyrical ballad, if you please, or a small portion, a very small portion, of the Excursion.-Southey, with wit and wisdom at will, dispatch a Here have we been dallying away our time, pen in hand, for a couple of hours, like an absolute Dr Drake, and yet we much fear, after all, that we have said nothing very characteristic of the Souvenir. The truth is, that we have too much genius to write a good review. Howsomever, we beg leave to inform the public, pro bono publico, that the volume contains precísely 394 printed pages, written by popular authors-ten (ni fallor) exquisite engravings by the first artists-and three plates of autographs of the principal Living Poets. Besides the poetry, of which we have quoted some average specimens, there are some half-a-score of prose tales, picturesque or pathetic. The prose tales are in general goodexcellent; but we have a certain odd notion that we could write a better one than any of them; and we hereby promise to make this threat good before October. Shall we send it direct to Messrs Hurst, Robinson, and Co., or to yourself, Mr Watts, at Leeds? As we shall probably be in town before publication of the next Souvenir for 1826, we can hand it over the counter to Mr Mann, who, by the way, is an extremely pleasant man, indeed, and an excellent traveller. O vain race of mortals! how and by what means have any of you ever brought yourselves to think ill of Blackwood's Magazine? What Editor in England would admit into his periodical this same blessed article? Not one. And why? Is it deficient in wit, fancy, understanding, or knowledge? Most certainly not. On the contrary, it possesses all those qualities, to a truly extraordinary degree. Why then would no editor but Christopher rejoice in this my article? BECAUSE NO OTHER EDITOR HAS A HEART, |
