Well might that lullaby be said, Stedfastly as a star doth look And fair brow of her sleeping son :"O merciful Heaven! when I am gone, Thine is this earthly blossom!" While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke Ah me! what kindling smiles met there, With joy fresh sprung from short alarms, All tears at once were swept away, Sufferings there are from Nature sprung, But this as Holy Writ is sure, THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. WITH laughter swimming in thine eye, With accents blithe as voice of May, That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,- Now years have given my Mary's face Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary time! For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind, and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy lustrous soul,-then harp and hymn, From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye GEORGE CRABBE was born on the 24th of December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his father was an officer of the customs. He was originally apprenticed to a surgeon-apothecary; but disliking the profession, and encouraged by the praise accorded to some early attempts at composition, he ventured to London, and had the good fortune to meet a friend in the illustrious Edmund Burke, under whose auspices, in 1781, "The Library" was published. "The Village" soon followed; and both received the praise of Dr. Johnson. The Poet, however, had no ambition to become an author by profession: he took holy orders, and obtained the rectory of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire: here-away from the busy world-in calm and contented tranquillity, the remainder of his long life was passed. In 1807, he published a collection of "Poems;" in 1810, "The Borough;" in 1812, the "Tales;" and in 1819, the "Tales of the Hall." The whole of his works have been recently collected, with the addition of several posthumous poems, and published by his son. The character of Mr. Crabbe forms a singular contrast to his writings:-he was amiable, benevolent, and conciliatory to a degree. All who knew him loved him; In every family Alike, in every generation dear, The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend, "To him it was recommendation enough to be poor and wretched." We quote this "Nature's sternest painter-yet the best." It is certain, that those who read his poems derive from them greater pain than pleasure; and while admitting the general truth of his pictures, and the accuracy of his portraits, turn from them with a feeling of dissatisfaction approaching to disgust. It may be that "The fault was not in him-but in mankind:" there can be, however, no doubt that the Poet wilfully exaggerated in his descriptions of human vice, and details of human suffering; and that he himself neither believed nor imagined his fellow-beings so odious and depraved as he describes them. His desire to be original led him into this large error,-to reject the garb in which poetry had for ages been wont to array the works of the creation, and to clothe them in a dress quite as unnatural, and equally opposed to reality. The rustic population of our country are neither so wretched nor so degraded as they are, with few exceptions, made to appear. The poor, as well as the rich, have their vices-but their virtues also. It is not only while writing of men and women that Crabbe "looks askance :" he can perceive in the people who surround him little that is good, and less that is gracious; but he has neither eye nor ear for the beautiful sights and delicious sounds of inanimate nature. To him, the breeze is ever harsh and unmusical,-seldom moving except to produce wrecks; and hill, and stream, and valley, are barren, muddy, and unprofitable. He contemplates all things, animate and inanimate, "through a glass, darkly." The consequence has naturally been, that Crabbe never was a popular Poet. Yet the rough energy of his descriptions, the vigorous and manly style of his versification, the deep though oppressive interest of his stories, and his stern maxims of morality,-with a little more of a kindly leaning towards humanity-must have secured for him universal admiration. The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe; 6 vols. London. Murray. TURN to the watery world!-but who to thee When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye. Be it the summer noon: a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move; 99 (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more? Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake; As an awaken'd giant with a frown Might show his wrath, and then to slecp sink down. View not the winter-storm! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud; Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore; And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All, where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam, Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep, |