'Twas no longer day
In an isle that lay
Distant o'er ocean—far
Beyond the western star,
Under a sky unknown,
All beautiful and lone.
It was a fairy isle,
Where summer's golden smile
Shines on forever unchangingly,
O'er its glittering vine-clad hills,
Green valleys and cold limpid rills,
And the encircling emerald sea.
Oh! there are spirits that dwell
In every wizard dell—
Sweet forms that haunt each grottoed fount,
Each fragrant vale and sunlit mount,
And voices that whisper at even-tide,
On the silver sands by the lone sea side.
There came a youth to the shore alone,
His step was light—his air was free,
And his glittering eye flashed joyously—
He knelt him down on the printless sand,
And in the hollow of his hand,
Dipped the clear waves, and o'er a stone,
A curious greyish stone, that stood
Just on the margin of the flood,
He sprinkled the drops, and half-sung, half-spoke,
In a low faint tone, that scarcely broke
The hush that hung round that wild shore,
The waters were silently creeping o'er—
"Stars are weeping
O'er the waves,
Winds are sleeping
In their caves—
'Tis the hour,
Then come to me,
By love's power
I conjure thee—
Quickly come
Unto me,
From thy coral home
Under the sea."
"Beautiful spirit,
Hear my call—
Ocean! bear it
To her hall
Where she twines
Her yellow hair
By light that shines
From diamonds there!
Bid her come
Unto me,
From her coral home
Under the sea."
* * * * *
"Does she wait to deck
With gems her hair?
Tell her I nothing reck
Of jewels rare,
Other than those eyes
So wildly bright—
They dim the starred skies
With their purer light.
Ocean Spirit come—
Oh! come to me,
From thy coral home
Beneath the sea."
He paused, and silent stood
In listening attitude—
His head bent forward, and his eye
Gazing with fixed intensity;
A low sad tone
Came o'er the wave
Like the wind's faint moan
In a hollow cave,
Throughout the echoing archways sighing,
Then in mysterious whispers dying—
And all was calm and still again,
So still—the place might seem to be
The grave of sound.—Oh! mournfully
From the noiseless sands the youth turned then,
And slowly upward from the shore
His step retraced, with a heavy heart,
And dimming eye, as those who part
With something much loved and cherished of yore.
Now at the foot of a mountain
In the silence and shadow he stood,
By the brink of the charmed fountain
Whose dark and sullen flood
Doth bring forgetfulness to those
Who drink its wave, of all their woes.
For thence he took
The magic flower,
And three times shook
Its leaves of power,
And muttered the word
Which in our clime
Hath not been heard
Since the birth of Time—
This done, 'tis said,
If the youth or the maid
Of thy heart be untrue,
The leaves will fade
And fall where they grew;
Alas! he knew
By this same never-erring token,
That the faith of his ocean-love was broken.
In mute surprise and grief the youth remained,
Gazing upon the stalk unleaved and bare,
Which still his hand unconsciously retained,
Then proudly tossed it on the green sward there—
"Thus," said he, "from my heart, false one, I cast
The memory of thee and of the past."
Now o'er the fountain's brim he stooped to lave
His eager lip in the oblivious wave;
But ere he had approached so near, his breath
Might break the mirror sleeping calm beneath,
Her image, in the beauty of a dream,
Between him and the waters seemed to swim,
And memories which his heart unconsciously
Had garnered up, came o'er him hurriedly,
In sweet succession, 'till his soul of feeling
Thrilled like harp-strings o'er which the winds are stealing.
He drew back, undecided—in dismay,
And as, whene'er he strove, the vision smiled,
So was he ever baffled and beguiled,
Until at last he rose and went his way—
Unhappy howsoe'er, he fancied yet
Nought could so joyless be as to forget.
MORAL
There must be something beautiful in wo
That springs from love, else what is it that makes
The heart, cling to its veriest sorrows so,
And will not part with them until it breaks?
Indeed love's pleasure with its pain so blends
Like the warm sunset glow, and 'mid heaven's blue,
We cannot tell where one begins or ends,
Tho' each so totally unlike in hue.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAPTER III.

My task has been in part a task of selection. Many of the old Poets whose frequent beauties I have acknowledged, (at no time more than when occupied in the compilation of these papers,) have been passed over in silence. Herrick, the "honey-bee of letters"—Rare Drummond, hight "of Hawthornden"—Lovelace, whose Althea will live with Surry's Geraldine—and many other "names noble and bright" have met with bare mention. It cannot be expected then that I should rake up from the dung-hill of the day the Tennysons, the Montgomeries, the Blessingtons, etc. etc. with whose writings magazine readers are so conversant. These are "bad bardlings." But many will be passed by for whom I entertain much respect, and more love. Mrs. Norton, the elder Montgomery, Miss Landon, gentle and sad Grahame, are lights of no mean magnitude. But "in looking upon the moon the dimmer orbs are forgotten." I avail myself of this introductory paragraph to say, that this paper will be unlike those which have preceded it. Accurate research, and close examination into points of literary history, although necessary in treating of English Poetry in its earlier stages, are scarcely so in treating of the same subject in its later. The reason of this is evident. I shall therefore content myself with brief critical remarks, (too brief, perhaps, to excite interest) and as a matter of less importance than in my former papers—with snatches of biography. This being the case, I fear that these papers will be thought trivial.

My last chapter ended with Pope. Passing over Swift and a few others, we come at once upon a worthy name.

I. James Thomson, the author of the Seasons and other Poems of merit, was born in Roxburgshire, Scotland, in September, 1700. His father, a clergyman of small estate, died while the Poet was yet a boy; and, after a few years spent in obscurity, the son went to London as a literary adventurer. "By what gradation of indigence he became reduced to a Poet it would be vain to inquire." He did become "reduced to a Poet," however, and, after a season of want, he succeeded in selling his "Winter." Mr. Wheatley and Aaron Hill took active parts in his advancement, and Thomson was so blinded by gratitude for the kindness of the latter gentleman, that he flattered him without stint,—for which our poet no doubt underwent the repentance of Caliban on discovering the earthly quality of Stephano.

—————"What a thrice double ass
Was I to take the drunkard for a God,
And worship this dull fool."

His "Winter" was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, afterwards Viscount Pevensey—and twenty guineas were the price of the compliment. This poem soon became popular; so much so, that he was induced to publish his "Summer"—after which, "Spring" and "Autumn" followed in the order in which I write them. In 1727 he wrote "Britannia," a satirical poem, and "Sophonisba," a tragedy.1 Other plays followed, several of which were suppressed by the licenser. Then came "Liberty," an elaborate and heavy poem. Thomson, at this stage of his affairs, was without funds or patronage. The Prince of Wales, however, having reduced his own fortunes to a condition almost as desperate as the Poet's, either from sympathy or from a supposition that the patronage of literature would be one means of gaining popular favor, employed Mr. Lyttleton to enlist Thomson. Our Poet, when the Prince on his first introduction familiarly inquired into his affairs, answered that 'they were in a more poetical posture than formerly'—whereupon he was presented with a yearly pension of 100l. After this he produced Agamemnon, a tragedy—Edward and Eleonora, a tragedy—Alfred, a mask—and the tragedy of Tancred and Sigismunda. Mr. Lyttleton having come into office, appointed him surveyor general of the Leeward Islands. The salary appertaining to this office was something more than 300l., and then it was that, unharassed by petty troubles, he finished his "Castle of Indolence."