dead, for the purpose of fulfilling
my promise and seeing her locket
placed near her heart, and the coffin
closed. I then went into the parlour,
where sat the bereaved husband, in
company with his clerk, who had,
ever since his engagement, shewed
a deep regard and respect for Mrs
T-
After I had sat some mo-
ments in their company,
"I've something on my mind, Mr T-," said the young man with emotion," which I shall not be happy till I've told you."
"What is it ?" enquired his master, languidly.
"Do you recollect how often you used to praise my draft-copying, and wondered how I got through so much
"But I must, and will tell you, that it was all done by poor Mrs T, who learnt engrossing, and sat up whole nights together writing, that you might not lose your business, till she was nearly blinded, poor dear lady! and she would not even let me tell you! And I shall make free to tell you," continued the young man, rising, and bursting into tears," I shall make free to tell you, that you have behaved shamefully-brutally to her, and have broken her poor heart-you have-and God will remember you for it!"And he left the room, and never again entered the house, the scene of his beloved mistress's martyrdom.
Mr T listened to all this without uttering a word—his eyes dilated-and he presently burst into a fit of loud and lamentable weeping, which lasted long after I left; and that evening he attempted to commit suicide, unable, like one before him, to endure the heavy smitings of a guilty conscience.
"Is Ednam, then, so near me? I must gaze
On Thomson's cradle-spot,-as sweet a bard
As ever graced the name,-and on the scenes
That first to poesy awoke his soul."
So saying to myself, with eager step,
Down through the avenues of Sydenham,
The birth-house of the being with whose fate
Mine own is sweetly mingled, on I stray'd
In a perplexity of pleasing thoughts,
Amid the perfume of blown eglantine,
And hedge-row wild-flowers, memory conjuring up
The bright and soul-subduing lays of him,
Whose fame is with his country's being mix'd,
And cannot die ;-until at length I gain'd
An opening in the road, between the stems
Of two green sycamores,-and lo! at once,
The downward country like a map unfurl'd
Before me,-pastures green,-and forests dark,—
And, in its simple quietude reveal'd,
Ednam-no more a visionary scene!
A rural church,-some scatter'd cottage roofs,
From whose secluded hearths the thin blue smoke,
Silently wreathing through the breezeless air,
Ascended, mingling with the summer sky-
A rustic bridge, mossy and weather-stain'd-
A fairy streamlet singing to itself-
And here and there a venerable tree
In foliaged beauty;-of these elements,
And only these, the simple scene was form'd.
Oft had I dream'd of Ednam, of the spot
Where, to the light of life, the infant eye
Of Thomson open'd; till the syllables
Brought to my heart a vista of delight,
A soft Elysian picture, dipp'd in hues
Of pastoral loveliness-an atmosphere,
Such as the wizard's wand has charm'd around
The realm of Indolence, where every sight,
And every sound, unto tranquillity
Smooth'd down the ever-swelling waves of thought;And oft, while o'er the Bard's harmonious page, Nature's reflected picture, I have hung
Enchanted, wondering thoughts have cross'd my mind,
Of his lone boyhood, and the eager thirst
With which his opening spirit must have drank
The shews of earth and heaven, till I have wish'd
That on his birth-place I could gaze, and tread
The pathways hallow'd by the feet of him
Whose inspiration sang the Vernal morn
With its refulgent brow; the Summer day
Glowing and endless; the Autumnal eve
Of mellow dye; and Winter's midnight arch
Unclouded, paved with multitudinous stars.
Now Ednam was before me-but the thought
Of Thomson vanish'd, nor would coalesce
And mingle with the landscape, as the stream
Loses itself within the summer sea;
For why? a spell was broken; it was not
My vision shadow'd by reality
In lineaments harmonious, it was not
The poet's birth-place,-earth etherealized
And spiritual,-but quite an alien scene,
Fair in itself, and only for itself
To seek our praises or regard; the clue
Of old associations was destroy'd,-
A leaf from Fancy's volume was torn out,-
And, as the fairy frost-work leaves the grass,
A tract of mental Eden was laid waste,
Never to blossom more!
Gazing around me in the glowing light
Of noon, while, overhead, the rapturous lark
Soar'd as she sang, less and less visible,
Till but a voice mid Heaven's engulfing blue.-
Yet though the tones and smiles of Nature bade
The heart rejoice, a shadow overspread
My musings, and the fairy-land of thought
"Melted into the light of common day."
A moment's look had disenchanted years
Of cherish'd vision; Ednam, which before
Spoke to my spirit as a spell, was now
The index to a code of other thoughts;
And turning on my heel, I sigh'd to think
How oft our joys depend on ignorance.
What is Poesy, but to create
From overfeeling, good or ill, and aim
At an external life beyond our fate?
Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain!
And vultures to the heart of the bestower,
Who, having lavish'd his high gift n vain,
Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea shore.
BYRON'S Prophecy of Dante.
SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-" Alone, alone!”
Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease!
Oh! let your hidden leaves be stirr'd,
And say, deep waters! can you give me peace?
Away!-my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human breasts-and will the wave reply?
Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride!
I ask not, alien world! from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied!
And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?
Let them lie silent at my feet!
Since, broken even as they,
The heart, whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert sands its wealth away.
Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel wreath is mine-
With a worn heart, a weary frame—
O! restless Deep! I come to make them thine!
Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold!
Thou sea-bird, on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home!
They wait thee in the quiet nest-
And I-unsought, unwatch'd for-I too come!
I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions, brightly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought-
Alone, I come! O! give me peace, dark Sea!
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those grey locks are gone!
My soul grows faint with fear!
Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move-the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The in-born gladdening light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from Nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Therefore, the calm abode
By thy dark spirit is o'erhung with shade,
And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door,
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there!
MINE, Mary, thou canst never be,
But kindly will I think of thee.
The memory of the past shall fling
A balm upon each bitter thought,
And soften with its shadowy wing
The agonies which grief hath wrought.
I cannot, though I would, forget
The beauty of thy youthful years,
Ere Sorrow's bitter fountains wet
Mine eyes with unavailing tears.
Then we were happy; and thy heart,
Unused to play the mourner's part,
Responded with a throb divine
To each enraptured pulse of mine.
Even when upon the boundless deep,
My thoughts were ever turn'd on thee;
In vision, I beheld thee weep
As when thou bad'st adieu to me.
Thy form has haunted still my heart,
By starry night and gaudy day;
I see it in the moonbeam's start,
I see it in the morning grey.
Time cannot from my mind erase
The memory of that angel face,
Nor the corroding hand of Care
Sweep out the thoughts imprinted there.
Let years pass on of earthly woe,
Still thou wilt be to me for ever,
As if Fate doom'd our barks to go
United down Life's stormy river.
To blot thy memory from my breast,
Absence and Time alike hath striven;
Alas! who calm on earth can rest,
That once hath had a glimpse of Heaven?
A MODERN PYTHAGOREAN.
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