The stars, in their nocturnal vigils, rest Like signal-fires on its illumined crest; The gliding moon around the ramparts wheels, To undermine it through a thousand caves; Rent from its roof, though thundering fragments oft From age to age, in air, o'er sea, on land, Hark! through the calm and silence of the scene, Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between, Celestial music swells along the air! No! 'tis the evening-hymn of praise and prayer And, 'midst the songs that seraph-minstrels sing, Now heard from Shetland's azure bound-are known Then to his eye, whose instant glance pervades Heaven's heights, earth's circle, hell's profoundest shades, Is there a group more lovely than those three They sleep; but memory wakes; and dreams array Night in a lively masquerade of day; The land they seek, the land they leave behind, Strange scenes, strange men; untold, untried distress; On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm; 'Tis morn: the bathing moon her lustre shrouds ; 1 The first Christian missionaries to Greenland. Where is the vessel? Shining through the light, Night. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young like things on earth! Night is the time to watch; The full moon's earliest glance, Night is the time for care Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost. Night is the time to think; Then from the eye the soul Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God. Night is the time for death; The Pelican Island. Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, And moved at will along the yielding water. Entranced in contemplation, vague yet sweet, It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing; Glowed with such orient tints, they might have been Looked forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent The Recluse. A fountain issuing into light Before a marble palace, threw Flowers on its grassy margin sprang, Flies o'er its eddying surface played, Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang, Flocks through the verdant meadows strayed; 'Twas beautiful to stand and watch That charmed the eye, but missed the heart. Dearer to me the little stream Whose unimprisoned waters run, By rock and glen, through shade and sun; By happy portraiture revealed, Her name and date from me concealed, She cast her glory round a court, Where fashion's high-born minions sport But thence, when love had touched her soul, From din, and pageantry, and strife, 'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life, Yet in a bosom-circle reigns, No fountain scattering diamond-showers, Aspirations of Youth. Higher, higher, will we climb, Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time Deeper, deeper, let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Excellence true beauty. In the wildest weather; Oh, they wander wide who roam, Nearer, dearer bands of love Draw our souls in union, The Common Lot. Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man: and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, The bounding pulse, the languid limb, He suffered-but his pangs are o'er; He loved-but whom he loved the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; Prayer is the soul's sincere desire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, Prayer is the simplest form of speech Prayer the sublimest strains that reach Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Nor prayer is made on earth alone: O Thou, by whom we come to God, Home. There is a land, of every land the pride, Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. The HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER (17701834) published occasional poems of that description named vers de société, whose highest object is to gild the social hour. They were exaggerated in compliment and adulation, and wittily parodied in the Rejected Addresses. As a companion, Mr Spencer was much prized by the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but, if we may credit an anecdote told by Rogers, he must have been heartless and artificial. Moore wished that Spencer should bail him when he was in custody after the affair of the duel with Jeffrey. 'Spencer did not seem much inclined to do so, remarking that he could not well go out, for it was already twelve o'clock, and he had to be dressed by four. Spencer, falling into pecuniary difficulties, removed to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and published in 1835. Mr Spencer translated the Leonora of Bürger with great success, and in a vein of similar excellence composed some original ballads, one of which, marked by simplicity and pathos, we subjoin : Beth Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound. And still he blew a louder blast, 'Oh, where doth faithful Gêlert roam, So true, so brave-a lamb at home, 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentinelled his bed. In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gêlert could be found, And now, as o'er the rocks and dells That day Llewelyn little loved The chase of hart and hare; Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, But, when he gained his castle-door, The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; His favourite checked his joyful guise, Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, He called his child-no voice replied- 'Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,' He plunged in Gêlert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell Concealed beneath a tumbled heap Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe; And now a gallant tomb they raise, There, never could the spearman pass, And there he hung his horn and spear, In fancy's ear he oft would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell. And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, The consecrated spot shall hold To Too late I stayed-forgive the crime; What eye with clear account remarks Oh, who to sober measurement Stanzas. When midnight o'er the moonless skies Visions of long-departed joys! The shade of youthful hope is there, With phantom honours by his side. They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love! Oh, die to thought, to memory die, Since lifeless to my heart ye prove! These last two verses, Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes in his diary, terming them 'fine lines,' and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford. HENRY LUTTRELL. Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770-1851), author of Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme, 1820, and Crockford House, 1827. Mr Luttrell was a favourite in the circle of Holland House: 'none of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does.' The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree: On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, The tree will return her as good as she brings. Luttrell sat in the Irish parliament before the Union. He is said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton. The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia: London in Autumn. 'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat Full on the scorching pavement beat. As o'er it the faint breeze, by fits Alternate, blows and intermits. For short-lived green, a russet brown As close and suffocating quite ; The November Fog of London. First, at the dawn of lingering day, Then deepening with a sordid stain Or at the crossings, in the roll Of every carriage dreads the pole. HENRY GALLY KNIGHT. Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1786-1846). The first of these, Ilderim, a Syrian Tale, was published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale, and Alashtar, an Arabian Tale, 1817. Mr Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, Hannibal in Bithynia. Though evincing poetical taste and correctness in the delineation of Eastern manners-for Mr Knight had travelledthese poems failed in exciting attention; and their author turned to the study of our mediæval architecture. His Architectural Tour in Normandy, and Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century—the latter a splendidly illustrated work-are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature. SAYERS-HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. DR FRANK SAYERS of Norwich (1763-1817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was 'out of date.' The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology, 1790; Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary, 1793; Nuga Poetica, 1803; Miscellanies, 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823. HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of Letters from France, Travels in Switzerland, Narrative of Events in France, Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations, &c. In 1823 she collected and republished her poems. To one of the pieces in this edition she subjoins the following note: 'I commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason it is that of Mr Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.' Sonnet to Hope. Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love! Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray, Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye, Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest! LEIGH HUNT. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian; but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the American war, he espoused the British interest with so much warmth, that he had to leave the new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He took orders in the Church of England, and was |