Now follow to that charging shout, Then, as my heart, be firm my brand S. New European Magazine. THE RECLUSE. We are not ourselves much disposed for the enjoyment of solitary pleasures, if pleasures we may call those modes of feeling in which others delight, but which we are incapable of feeling ourselves, and which, consequently, with regard to us, have no existence. We should wish, however, to possess a por tion of the piety which the Recluse breathes in the following lines, and "that first led to the vows which" he "made;" and no doubt some of our contemporaries would be gainers by it also.-Ed. "Twas not the wild fancy of youth's giddy day, Oh, no! 'twas the choice,-the fond choice of my heart, In those cloisters to fix my abode, Where my soul may her transports of feeling impart, Link'd in love (yet in fear) with her God. At midnight's still hour, when all nature's at rest, Save night's silver queen, who, from east to the west, Ah! then while the moon's sober beams chace the gloom, From my cell, be my heart not less pure, Till my soul, wing'd with hopes of choice blessings to come, Takes her flight, no more ills to endure. European Magazine. VERSES ON THE DEATH OF BLOOMFIELD, the Suffolk poet. BY BERNARD BARTON. We were never admirers of Bloomfield's poetry. Simplicity seems to be its only virtue, but what is simplicity, in the absence of that fire and imagination without which there can be no genuine, poetic enthusiasm, no poetry that either Gods or men can tolerate. Mediocribus esse poetis, Non Dii, non homines, non concessere columnæ. The following, however, is a beautiful tribute to his memory, admitting him to possess all the merit which Mr. Barton attributes to him.-ED. THOU shouldst not to the grave descend For thee that rude harp should be strung,- Lamenting unto old and young, The Bard who sang THE FARMER's Boy. Like that which gave thee modest fame, Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim: And many a stream of humble name, And village-green, and common wild Should witness tears that knew not shame, By Nature won for Nature's child. The merry HORKEY's passing cup Should pause-when that sad note was heard The WIDOW turn HER HOUR-GLASS up, With tenderest feelings newly stirr❜d; And many a pity- waken'd word, And sighs that speak when language fails, Should prove thy simple strains preferr❜d To prouder Poet's lofty tales. Circling the OLD OAK TABLE round, Whose moral worth thy measure owns, Heroes and heroines yet are found In Virtue's cause are bold and free; Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot, With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam, While Childhood's innocence and glec With green Old Age enjoyment share ;RICHARDS and KATES shall tell of thee, WALTERS and JANES thy name declare. On themes like these, if yet there breath'd A Doric Lay so sweet as thine, Might artless flowers of verse be wreath'd Around thy modest name to twine :And though nor lute nor lyre be mine To bid thy minstrel honours live, The praise my numbers can assign, It still is soothing thus to give. There needs, in truth, no lofty lyre To yield thy Muse her homage due; The praise her loveliest charms inspire Should be as artless, simple too; Her eulogist should keep in view Thy meek and unassuming worth, And inspiration should renew At springs which gave thine own its birth. Those springs may boast no classic name He who shall trust, without demur, But to the hearts of others reach. It is not quaint and local terms Its power unletter'd minds to sway, Its trucst, and its tenderest spell; These amid Britain's tuneful choir Shall give thy honour'd name to dwell: And when Death's shadowy curtain fell Upon thy toilsome earthly lot, With grateful joy thy heart might swell To feel that these reproach'd thee not, |