THE castle clock had toll'd midnight With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light, His corse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name, that those Of other years might know, "Peace to the dead" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave; No prayers were read, no knell was rung, We only heard the winter's wind, As o'er the open grave inclined, We murmur'd, "Dust to dust!" A moonbeam, from the arches' height, And all the windows shone. Were gazing from the stalls. And now the chilly, freezing air, Without, blew long and loud; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer Where he slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor No name, no trace appearsAnd when we closed the sounding door We thought of him with tears. REMEMBRANCE. I SHALL look back, when on the main,- Thy voice, and view thy smile. But many days may pass away Ere I again shall see Amid the young, the fair, the gay,— One who resembles thee. In the account of the burial of the king in Windsor Castle by Sir Thomas Herbert, the spot where the body was laid is described minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole account is singularly impressive; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this description existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut off. Soon after, the following lines were written, which I now set before the reader for the first time. Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell And touch'd with softest shade: The imaged form I shall survey, ON THE RHINE. 'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine,) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go, Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day,. Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. WRITTEN AT OSTEND. How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal! Of summer days, and those delightful years, First waked my wondering childhood into tears; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more. MATILDA. Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led, A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend: And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where hush'd to long repose the wretched rest. SAMUEL ROGERS. MR. ROGERS was born in London in 1762. On the completion of his university education, he resided a considerable period on the continent, but nearly all his life has been passed in his native city. He is a banker, and a man of liberal fortune; and among those who know him he is scarcely more distinguished as a poet than for the elegance and amenity of his manners, his knowledge of literature and the arts, and his brilliant conversation. In his youth he was the companion of WYNDHAM, Fox, and SHERIDAN, and in later years he has enjoyed the friendship of BYRON, MOORE, SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, and nearly all the great authors and other eminent persons who have been his contemporaries in England. Mr. ROGERS commenced his career as an author with an Ode to Superstition, which was written in his twenty-fifth year. This was succeeded, in 1792, by The Pleasures of Memory, which was received with extraordinary favour by the critics. It had been kept the Horatian period, and revised and rewritten until it could receive no further advantage from labour, guided by the nicest taste and judgment. In 1778 he published An Epistle to a Friend and other Poems, in 1812 The Voyage of Columbus, in 1814 Jaqueline, in 1819 Human Life, and in 1822 the last, longest, and best of his productions, Italy. Lord BACON describes poetry as "having something of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things." This is perhaps the most philosophical description that has been given of true poetry. There have been some poets, as CRABBE and ELLIOTT, whose verse has reflected actual life; but they only who have conformed "the shows of things to the desires of the mind," can look with much confidence for immortality. It is a long time since ROGERS made his first appearance before the world as an author, yet his reputation has probably suffered less decay than that of any of his contemporaries. This is not because he possesses the higher qualities of the poet in a more eminent degree than they, but because he is more than any other the poet of taste, and is guided by the sense of beauty rather than by the convictions of reason. Poetry is in some sort an art, though VIDA was forced to admit the inefficiency of all rules if the ingenia were wanting. If a man be by nature a poet, he must still have much cultivation before he will be able to fulfil his mission. There has never yet been an "uneducated" verse-maker whose works were worth reading a second time. But mere education, or education joined with a philosophic mind and some degree of taste, cannot make a great poet, as one illustrious example in our times will show. ROGERS has not much imagination, not much of the creative faculty, and he lacks sometimes energy and sometimes tenderness, yet he has taste and genuine simplicity: not the caricature of it for which the present laureate is distinguished, but such simplicity as COWPER had, and BURNS. His subjects are all happily chosen; and a true poet proves the possession of the divine faculty almost as much in the selection of his themes as in their treatment. His poetry is always pleasing; its freedom and harmony, its refined sentiment, its purity, charm us before we are aware, and we involuntarily place it among our treasures. Though less read than The Pleasures of Memory, Italy is the best poem Mr. ROGERS has produced. It was published anonymously, and was so different from his previous works that its authorship was an enigma to the critics. The several cantos are descriptive of particular scenes and events which interest a traveller over the Alps and through the northern parts of Italy. Some of these cantos are remarkably spirited and beautiful, as one may see by the extracts in this volume, entitled Venice, Ginevra, and Don Garzia. Within a few years Mr. ROGERS has published in two volumes, illustrated in the most beautiful manner by some of the first artists of England, his Complete Poetical Works. He is now in the eighty-third year of his age, and the oldest of the living poets of his country. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. WHEN, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind Point the green lane that leads thro' fern and flowers; Still must my partial pencil love to dwell When April verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, From every point a ray of genius flows! But could thine erring friend so long forget Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, Far from the joy less glare, the maddening strife, What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age, Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade No tuneful echoes, ambush'd at my gate, When Christmas revels in a world of snow, And her wild music triumphs on the gale, Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught through St. James's groves a blush of day; Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Though skill'd alike to dazzle and to please; Though each gay scene be search'd with anxiouseye, Nor thy shut door be pass'd without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee, explore; Invoke the Lares of this loved retreat, ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. MAN is born to suffer. On the door Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild As of a mother singing to her child; All now in anguish from that room retire, Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, And innocence breathes contagion-all but one, But she who gave it birth-from her alone The medicine cup is taken. Through the night, And through the day, that with its dreary light Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Watching the changes with her anxious eye: While they without, listening below, above, (Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) From every little noise catch hope and fear, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness That would in vain the starting tear repress. Such grief was ours-it seems but yesterdayWhen in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, "Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister's arms to die! Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame, And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came? And, when recall'd to join the blest above, Thou died'st a victim to exceeding love, Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, When idle fancy wove luxuriant flowers, Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee; And now I write-what thou shalt never see! THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear? Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest. Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. [hung, Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee, The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep. Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feeling of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight! And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 't was heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time! That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Childhood's loved group revisits every scene; The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that heaven assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilightsteals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. [gray, The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams! Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed! [shade, Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's,mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! |