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TO THE MEMORY OF EMMA FULLER.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Ful many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."-Gray's Elegy.

YES, flow'rets unseen their rich perfume may shed,
And bright gems be hidden in ocean's dark bed;
But lovelier than either, dear Emma, to me,
Is the life and the death of a being like thee.

Thy brief span of life like a vision is fled,
And thine is the peaceful repose of the dead;
For the slumber of those who in innocence die,
Can scarcely an image of anguish supply.

It is true that the blight of a flow'ret in May,
Ere its beautiful blossom the eye can repay,
Awakens some feelings approaching to grief,
Which haunt not the slow fall of Autumn's sear leaf.

And yet if we calmly reflect on thy lot,

It seems like a bright page which sorrow would blot;
And he who would sully that page with a tear,
Is blind to its beauty, so spotless and clear.

For me, I could envy thee !-thus in the bloom
Of the heart, and the soul, to go down to the tomb;
While the first knew not sorrow, and sin had not cast
Its clouds o'er the sun that illumin'd the last.

Had'st thou died in thy childhood, I scarcely can tell
If thy death had been fraught with so potent a spell;
For, with much of its purity, now are combin'd
Reflections, with far deeper feelings entwin'd.

Thou had'st lived long enough to acknowledge the sway
Of the softest of passions our hearts can obey :-

The purest-in bosoms where innocence keeps

Its watch o'er the heart, like a star o'er the deeps.

Thou did'st love, and wert loved-and the future was bright,

At times, with the hues of ideal delight:—

But thou did'st not, when call'd on such hopes to resign,

At the will of OMNIPOTENCE vainly repine.

Unto HIM, who can humble the lofty and proud,
With gentle submission thy meek spirit bow'd;
And the merciful love of thy LORD, and thy KING
Robb'd the grave of its victory, and death of its sting!

Thus wert thou enabled, when dying, to bless
The name of thy God, and his goodness confess;
And thy spirit, prepared for its joyous release,
Pure, gentle, and pious,-departed in peace!

Although, in thy lifetime, thou wast unto me
But as one of Earth's daughters, delightful to see,
A form which, in passing, attracts by its grace,
And features whose mildness 'tis soothing to trace:-

Yet, when thou wast dead, while remembrance still dwelt
On the image its mirror reflected,-I felt

A desire which I could not, and cannot explain,

Gentle girl! to behold those mild features again.

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They were changed-O! how much-since I look'd on them last;
From the cheek, wan and wasted, its faint bloom had pass'd;
O'er the sunk eye, all lustreless, darkness had roll'd;
And the lips, pale and bloodless, as marble were cold!

Yet, spite of all this-in defiance of all

Death had done to disfigure, disease to appal,-
I thought as I gazed on the charms that remain'd,
How imperfect the triumph which both had obtain❜d.
For O! there was meekness, and loveliness yet,
Like the west's mild effulgence when day's orb has set,
And we guess from the twilight, so soft and serene,
How calm, and how cloudless his setting has been.
On thy features still dwelt-what life cannot disclose,
An expression more touching than that of repose;
Which silently spoke, unto hearts that could feel,
What the tongue of the living can never reveal.
"PEACE! PEACE !"-it proclaim'd, or it seem'd so to me,
"To an innocent spirit, thus early set free;
Unto which, in compassionate goodness is given
The bless'd, and enduring enjoyments of Heaven!"
Farewell! then, sweet girl ;—who hast thus in the bloom
Of the heart, and the soul, met mortality's doom ;-
And long may I cherish the calm thoughts supplied
By thy death-bed before me-thy corpse at my side.

B.

To the Editor of the London Magazine.

SIR-I am most unaffectedly conscious, that the inclosed, undertaken at your flattering suggestion, is but a poor acknowledgement for the unlooked for kindness of your notice (in the article on the British Institution;

Clifton, May 14, 1821.

April, No. XVI.) you must, however, accept the will for the deed. I should have sent it before, but you told, that the moods of poetry do not are not one of those who need to be come at a beck.

Yours sincerely,

CHARLES A. ELTON.

HORACE'S ODE TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN.
Lib. 3. Carm. 13.

Bandusia's spring! more glittering-clear than glass,
Thy due the mellow wine, with no scant flowers,
A kid at dawn is thine:

Whose brow, just bourgeonning

With firstling horns, decides for love and war
In vain: the strippling of the wanton fold
Shall tinge with ruddy blood

Thy crystal, cooling rills.

Thee the fierce dog-star in his blazing hour
Despairs to touch: thou welcomest the herd,
Yoke-harass'd, and stray flock,

With thy voluptuous cool.

Thy place is with the famous streams: for I
Have sung the green oak that o'ercanopies
Yon cave-worn rocks, whence leap
Thy bubbling water-falls.

636

Horses.

HORSES.

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.-Shakspeare.

I LOVE horses

Para pintar la verdad
Es preciso evuocerla
Retrataila presente

O haberla visto di cerca.-El Principe de Esquilache.

A saddle is my throne--give me but the Bucephalus I esteem-and i'faith I envy not the wealth of princes. Some men have twenty, some fifty horses--I have but one,--I never had but three in my life-the two companions of my youth, alas! are dust. -My horse is a friend, I wear him in my heart-there is no place for another of the same species. His eye recognizes me--he bounds with delight at our meeting-his whole soul seems bent on pleasing me→ what would he not attempt at my bidding? The least motion suffices -he never demurs-but takes a pleasure in obeying me-and often anticipates my wishes.-There is no deceit in this.

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Some men use their horses as mere slaves-I never had such an quaintance.

Whip me the fellow who first set the brutal example of depriving thee of thy eloquent ears—they are even more communicative than thy spiritsparkling eye-how palpably do they express thy sensations-thy surprise-desire-terror-delight-and emulation-they are speech to theemay better-for their's is a discourse which men of every tongue, as well as all thy fellows, understand. Nature teaches them the art, or rather, "the art itself is nature."- Beshrew the tasteless bipeds, who rob thee of the flowing honours of thy tail-thy protection against the infinite tormentors of thy glowing reins, galled in the service of man-who pitilessly despoils thee of the fee of naturethy very birthright-to bedeck himself with that which he asserts would disfigure thee.

I remember, when I was a mere infant, my grandfather used to place me on the back of one of the most celebrated horses of his day. I never beheld such a high-mettled creature since he suffered very few persons to approach him-and only one man (his jockey) ever ventured to ride

him.-Restless, fiery, and impatient in the extreme, he subsided into a state of anxious, breathless stillness, the moment I (a puny helpless child) was placed on him.—'Twas like shedding oil upon a raging sea.

Horses are as different in their dispositions as in their outward forms.

There is your horse mettlesome, and your incorrigible proser-your self-conceited curvetting palfrey, and your plain-spirited, unsophisticated, unaspiring dobbin-your steed capricious-and your laudable businesslooking horse of application, and many hundred others-besides your right gallant cavallo-the most noble beast in the creation--a combination of beauty, strength, and activity-a glorious example of nature's power

(I love to meet such a creature in full unrestrained liberty, and high spirits on a wide race-tempting heath)-they all have their faultseven the very best of them--but in sooth I am in marvellous good fellowship with the whole race-individually, and in the aggregate— the very dullest rogues have a redeeming spark of good-nature in their compositions.

The most admirable object on earth is a fair woman gallantly mounted on a beautiful palfrey-a sweet calm-looking Quakeress, on a demure milk-white animal, glided by me one evening, as I was doating on the last rays of the setting sun-Dost thou think I shall ever forget the beautiful vision, reader?

I seldom bestow a thought on Alexander--but Bucephalus, the most chivalric of the race-the beau-ideal of steeds, occupies the sister niche in my memory, to that which holds the Knight of la Mancha's neverRozito-be-forgotten creature nante.

Who has not heard the pathetic song of "The High-mettled Racer?" I should desire no greater glory than to have been the author of that song.-I often lament my in

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ness!"- "Joy of the happy!"-delight of knight and lady fair in every age!-What would chivalry be without thee?-thou art associated with every thing that's gay or gallant in its records!-thou art remembered with advantages at the tilt and tourney, with bright eyes beaming around thee-and "preux chevaliers," gorgeously bedecked heralds, and faithful squires, in thy company-fluttering hearts, and ardent spirits breathing love and galelastic!-what energy in every aclantry all about thee-what limbs tion!-what buoyancy of spirit beaning from thine eye!-who does not applaud thy gallant bearing!-Friend of mankind-I love thee.

CHEVALIER

ON SOUTHEY'S HISTORIES OF RELIGIOUS SECTS. DR. JOHNSON, I think, once said of women's preaching, that it was like a dog's walking on his hind legs: the thing was never well done; but you were surprised at seeing it attempted. Perhaps, in the estimation of many, the simile may be considered as applicable, in degree, to our Poet Laureate's essays in Religious Biography. I cannot say that I am precisely of this opinion: and, incongruous as it may appear, that the author of the Old Woman of Berkely, and the Love Elegies of Abel Shufflebottom, should take in hand to discuss the Rise and Progress of Religious Sects, as well as to comment on the actions and motives of their founders-I, for one, have no objection to it: at least the doubt and hesitation, which I certainly do entertain as to the success of the attempt, are more than counterbalanced by my curiosity; and by the conviction I feel that no serious evil is likely to accrue from failure; while even tolerable success can scarcely fail to do good.

One of the Reviewers of the Life of Wesley, if I recollect right, began his critical notice of that work by the inquiry, "Is Mr. Southey a Me

thodist ?"-and further assumes as an axiom that none but a Methodist ought to write the Life of one. Now I frankly own I do not see the logic of this position. If the biography of any sectary be intended, primarily, if not exclusively, for the edification and advantage of the sect to which he belonged, then I will admit that no one can be competent to the task who does not possess similarity of faith, and somewhat of identity of feeling. The reasons for such incompetency are obvious. One not thus gifted is likely to be occasionally in the dark as to the feelings, motives, and views, which influenced the conduct of the subject of his history; and he is equally liable to fail in that tact, by which alone access can be won to the sensibility and judgment of those for whom he writes. If, for instance, Mr. Southey had undertaken his Life of Wesley, with an idea, when it was finished, of presenting it to The Conference, that it might, under their sanction, become a standard work among the Methodists; or if he were now engaged on the Life of George Fox, with any view of obtaining the imprimatur of the Morning Meeting,*

The Morning Meeting in London, is, I believe, a sort of standing committee of the sect of the Society of Friends, to whose inspection religious works, intended for the society's use, are submitted prior to publication.

638

On Southey's Histories of Religious Sects.

in London, that his Octavos may
range on the shelves of the Quakers,
beside honest George's massy folio-
if, I say, one could fancy such to be
his objects, they are so palpably
hopeless, that the mere assumption
of them almost amounts to an im-
peachment of the historian's sanity;
and we may safely say with Dr.
Johnson, the thing cannot be well
done, and the only matter of sur-
prise is to see it attempted. For
my own part, however, I quite ac-
quit the Laureate of any such ridi-
culous anticipations: he cannot, al-
lowing him undisputed claim to all
the vanity and egotism which his
bitterest enemies ascribe to him,
suppose that his biography of Wesley
or Fox is likely fully to satisfy the
most ardent admirers of either; and
allowing him the candour which his
friends would claim for him, he is as
little likely to obtain the approba-
tion of those who, on the other hand,
consider Fox to have been a little
mad, and Wesley more than a little
mischievous.

The object which I am willing to
suppose Mr.Southey proposes to him-
self, is to put on record, for the
perusal of the public in general, such
an outline of the lives and labours
of the subjects of his biography, as
may enable those who have not time
or inclination for such researches, to
form some opinion for themselves
If it be argued
respecting them.
that such an opinion may be more
fitly formed by persons inspecting for
themselves the sources whence the
historian obtains his matter, as in
that case they would have the facts
recorded by the parties, instead of
inférences deduced by another; the
reply is obvious enough: compara
tively few will take the trouble to
do this; but very many have no ob-
jection, when some more industrious
pioneer has made access to these
sectarian annals more easy, either to
reflect candidly on the glimpses he
has opened, or to pursue the inves-
tigation for themselves, with the ad-
vantage of knowing where to go for
further information. That the opi-
nions expressed by Southey, and the
inferences he may draw from the
facts he records, may improperly
bias the judgment of some of his
readers, perhaps no one can, for a

[June

moment, dispute, as a probable re-
sult: but when it is considered that
no one, whose opinion is entitled to
the least weight, would form a deli-
berate and decided judgment on such
subjects, without hearing what the
parties have to say for themselves;
I must again express my belief that
no ultimate injury to the cause of
truth can result from any prejudice
existing in the mind of the historian.
For whom, I would ask, does Sou-
they compile these histories?-He
would say, doubtless, for all the
world-good: but all the world, as
every body well knows, and no one
better than himself, will never read
them. The query which then pre-
sents itself is this:—who are most
likely to read them?-In the first
place, one may reasonably conjecture,
the more opulent members of the
sects whose history forms their sub-
ject: and these persons certainly, are
not very likely to abandon tenets
which they have deliberately adopt-
ed, or in which they have been
educated, on the inferences, or ipse
dixit, of one, whom various conside-
rations will induce them to think
mistaken. The next class of pro-
bable readers is a much more ex-
tensive one, inasmuch as it may be
said to include, primâ facie, the lite
rary world in general: but even
upon this class I cannot see any rea-
son for thinking that the bias, or
prepossessions of a writer discussing
tenets avowedly not his own, should
have any very hurtful effect I would
not undervalue the opinion of adepts
in literature on religious points; but
a man's faith, if it be a faith worth
having, is not a point of taste, nor
of mere abstract argument; but is
associated with thoughts, feelings,
and habits, infinitely beyond the ju-
risdiction of literary legislation; nor
were I even persuaded that the re-
sult of Southey's histories would be
to beget, in the literary world, a ge-
neral distaste towards the sects
whose rise and progress he narrates,
would it occasion me, as a Metho-
I might regret, in either
dist, or Quaker, any very serious
concern.
case, that my creed should be con→
sidered distasteful, by so large a pro-
portion of what may be termed the
reading and thinking part of the
community; but if my judgment were

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