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Now follow to that charging shout,
Then, as my heart, be firm my brand
New European Magazine.
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,
Nor the pangs of fond hope once betray'd, Nor the frenzy of zealots, which oft leads astray, That first led to the vows which I've made.
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
From my cell, be my heart not less pure,
Till my soul, wing'd with hopes of choice blessings to
Takes her flight, no more ills to endure.
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,
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,
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,
Like ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES ;
Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot,
The memory of thy song, and thee:-
On themes like these, if yet there breath'd A Doric Lay so sweet as thine,
Might artless flowers of verse be wreath'd
The praise my numbers can assign,
To yield thy Muse her homage due;
At springs which gave thine own its birth.
Those springs may boast no classic name
Than Nature's quiet teachings guide
"Tis to THE HEART Song's noblest power-
He who shall trust, without demur,
Although unlearn'd, shall seldom err, But to the hearts of others reach.
It is not quaint and local terms
Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay, Though well such dialect confirms
Its power unletter'd minds to sway, But 'tis not these that most display Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,— Words, phrases, fashions pass away, But TRUTH and NATURE live through all. These, these have given thy rustic lyre
Its truest, 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,