The forms of life have severed us But when that life shall end, Fain would I hail that reverend man, Several others of these shorter poems breathe the same chaste beauty and elegancy of diction. There is one which we admire much: a storm is raging without, when a child addresses its widowed father, in sweet, gentle accents, with a request that she might go and shield her mother's grave from the hurrying blast; and the calm answer of the parent is such a striking contrast to the fear and perturbation of the child, that we almost feel a love for death and the tomb : "Father, wake-the storm is loud, The rain is falling fast; Let me go to my mother's grave, And screen it from the blast. She cannot sleep, she will not rest, The wind is roaring so; We prayed that she might lie in peace My father, let us go!" Thy mother sleeps too firm a sleep To heed the wind that blows; There are angel-charms that hush the noise Her spirit in dreams of the blessed Land Child, nestle thee in mine arms and pray There are several beautiful sketches in the We wended onwards towards the church of St. Ninian, now stopping to gaze on the unruffled serenity of heaven, and now stooping to gather some lovely violet. On our right stretched far away Skiddaw and Saddleback; and on our left, the sheep were scattered on the refreshing turf. We had not proceeded far ere the bells struck out with their soft, silvery melody; the wind ever and anon swept their enchanting music towards us; the past soon visioned itself, it came around the spirit like a dream; pleasant memories played before the fancy, and as each liquid peal stole out, a new scene of beauty came floating by; the bygone hours commingled with the present, and there were rich sounds of minstrelsy, and hallowed morns, and distant mountains, and invigorating gales, and pure blue heavens, and luxuriant trees, and million wild flowers, and holy thoughts. After rambling some four miles or more, we got into the Kendal road, and soon came upon the Countess Pillar. It is a plain monument, bearing the arms of the family by whom the stone was raised, and the following inscription: "This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting in this place with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2nd of April, 1616; in memory whereof she had left an annuity of 4l., to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every second day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!" It stands on a bank to the right from Penrith, and is surrounded by an iron railing. It strikes one much when seen from the distance, but more so when we come near; there is a soli liness; it seems to hallow every foot of ground; the road becomes from henceforth sacred; there is something woven around it even sweeter than song. It is sweet to have looked upon such a scene, and sweeter the remembrance. To travel by an old mail-coach on a frosty winter's night-tariness about the aged stone-a pensive loneto enter a quiet village, with its few pale and glimmering oil lamps casting a sickly and feeble glare on passing objects-to hear the hoofing of the horses and the blast of the horn-to see the shadows of the outside passengers on the pavement, rendered distinct by the silver beams of the moon-to stay at the large ancient inn-to warm oneself at the blazing fire-then to start again, and while travelling onwards, to behold such a picture of maternal affection and hallowed piety, must be thrilling indeed! This scene links itself with that peaceful hour in which we first gazed upon the Countess Pillar rememberest thou, O generous companion? We had rambled far along the banks of the Eamont, and had beheld the fine towers of Brougham Hall, and had looked upon many a rose-clustered parsonage and old ivied church, and had lain ourselves down to rest on the night of Saturday. The glorious sun shone brightly eastward when we issued from a snug road-side inn, about three miles from Penrith; it stood at a little distance from the path, and enclosed on either side with a sweet honey-suckle hedge: every object seemed to breathe all the spiritual beauty and quietude of the Sabbath; every sound of labour washushed; the peasants had left the fields; the sky, save here and there dimpled with light fleecy clouds, was one wide hemisphere of blue: there was a soft tranquillity on flower, and leaf, and tree, and grassy mead We sat down upon a grassy mound and gazed on the monument; it was a season peculiarly suited for thought: every cloud in the heavens had rolled away; all was one still and beautiful blue; the sun shone in glory, and threw the stone's shadow upon the solitary road; the wind came languidly on, and brought the delicious scent of the new-made hay; the corn was golden with light. We sat and mused: the pillar called up a thousand fancies; and the tinge of melancholy with which they were shaded, rendered them more pleasing to the mind. Two hundred years ago, a mother and her child parted on this spot: what emotions swayed their bosoms we can scarcely divine at this far-off hour, but they were doubtless painful. The road was rugged then, and even less frequented than now; the dark fir may have lined its sides and covered the distant hills; and who knows at what moment they separated?-it may have been a stormy night, when the howling winds shook the sky; but we think every wind would hush itself to rest at such a scene, and breathe its balmy breath on the sorrows of that hallowed season: whether it was so or no we cannot learn. We think we see them now: there they stand; the hand is grasped with tenderest love, the tear rolls silently down the cheek, the last kiss is given, the last look taken, and the child watches the retiring footsteps of the mother until she is out of sight; then turns away and weeps. We have forborne to inquire into their history, if such exist, for it might dispel many of those associations which crowd around such a monument; its light might scatter imagination's thoughts without it, and we may invest the pillar with what idea we choose. There is a sweetness at times in uncertainty: just so with this. We would rather gaze upon its ancient stone, simple and plain as it is, without one record save that which it bears on its sides, than with its fullest and clearest knowledge; there is a something left for the mind to fill up ; "ample room and verge enough" for the fancy wherein to play. It was the last parting. How often did the child recal the bitterness of that hour!-how often did she live it over again !-how often gaze upon that spot which witnessed so much sorrow, and that heaven which looked down so still and so beautifully serene upon their griefs! And here, even here, she came, after a lapse of forty years, and erected this solitary stone, to record what never had been forgotten. Oh! and how many have beheld this lonely monument with thrilling thoughts. Here the gentle Rogers was melted to a soft, pensive mood, and in after years he poured out a liquid melody in memory of that scene;-and Wordsworth, too, the intellectual Wordsworth, had hither come, and felt himself moved by unutterable emotions; -and many a youth with fiery ambition glaring from the eye has paused, and better thoughts have taken hold upon him, and he has wished for the calm blessings of maternal love. A "good and pious mother"-what hallowed memories in this-memories of Alfred, and Louis, and Cowper-memories of the ancient and the modern world-memories of touching sweetness and subduing power. A "good and pious mother:" it hath a liquid language entering into every feeling of the soul! We spoke of Louis. "Under the oak-trees of Vincennes, behold him sitting-his learned counsellors, Pierre de Fontaines and Geoffroy de Vellettes, near by-waiting rather to arbitrate than judge between those who come to his tribunal. How patiently he listens how anxiously he examines all proofs-how kindly he points out the middle way, overlooked by both disputants, which will conduct to justice! Can we still wonder that such a man, in such times, was soon to become a saint in the estimation of men?" Thanks to thee, Blanche, for thy maternal care, and love, and blessing! The scene has changed; prince and people have passed away: those forest-trees which looked so beautiful in the long summer's afternoon have mouldered in the dust, and all their blithe choristers have ceased their silver warblings; the clouds have departed, and the sweet jessamine and luxuriant vine have alike dropped into forgetfulness. We are beneath another sky, and stand on different ground. It is the autumn of 1737, and the winds sweep over this Austrian land, onwards to the mountains of Switzerland: it is the small village of Rohrau, fifteen leagues from Vienna. See how the setting sun throws its last gleams on yonder cottage; that cottage is the home of hallowed peace; within its little parlour are gathered together the loved ones of parental affection; the father touches the harp's vibrating strings, and the mother sings to the issuing notes: there is a child there, gazing fondly into its mother's face; the sunset of the Sabbath-day puts on a more solemn grandeur-the twilight deepens, and yet the holy hymn ceases not; it increases in its magnificence of meaning; now and then a leaf rustles to the earth, first sounding against the lattice window. The father and the mother, and that child of whom we spoke, catch the pensive melodies of nature; the anthem rolls upwards; the leaves drop faster; the winds ever and anon gush loudly, then sink in "dying falls;" the purple and the grey colouring of the western sky fades into a duskier hue; the stars twinkle, then disappear, then twinkle out again. The music of that home arises in deeper harmony and intenser beauty; the heart is moved, and it throbs with immortality: that child throws itself upon its mother's bosom, and weeps wild tears of ecstasy. Mark that child, for he will thrill the world; and the time will come when the recollection of this scene will give a diviner grandeur to his everlasting bursts of song. Nearly seventy years after this, enter Vienna, and in yon fair palace of Prince Lobkowitz, hearken to the issuing sounds, sweet as the nightingale's, yet magnificent as the roll of ocean: the room is large and spacious: fifteen hundred of the nobility and gentry of the Austrian capital are assembled; the orchestra is crowded with near two hundred performers; a dark swarthy man is borne in-he is placed in the midst of that illustrious company; the roof rings with plaudits aud the tremendous swell of gushing music; the theme is Creation's -the confusion of the elements jar and crash; there is the bellowing of dim waters and loud thunders. "The earth is without form and void, and darkness is upon the face of the deep;" but anon, and there are rich symphonies and angelic acclamations, and "the new-created world' mingles in every outburst of praise. Tears glisten in the eye of that old man, and ah! he recals, in this hour of his triumph, the little parlour, and the harp, and the Sabbath evening, and the face of parents, and the maternal affection which beamed on him so long ago, and he blesses his good and pious mother! Such thoughts and such scenes came before us whilst sitting beneath the morning sun and looking upon that stone; and then we would wander to the abode of Ann, Countess of Pembroke, and picture the sports, and amusements, and lonely retirements of her youth: there was a pleasure of a pure and holy kind in such a reverie; the simple monument stood so solitary in the broad blaze of the noonday beams. Ah! it was the record of one sorrowful hour; it spoke of a daughter's feelings-feelings which years could never efface. There might be a want of order in our thoughts, but there was a silvery harmony in the spell; it might have been delusive, but it was one which tended to exalt and purify the spirit. How the good old Izaak Walton would have loved to have gazed upon this hallowed memento of a child's affection! On this spot we could have lingered for hours; there was a divine sorcery binding us; the whole road became henceforth interesting. We can never think of its pathway over hill and through solitary dale, and by the winding river, without a thrilling emotion of pensive delight; it is the lonely pillar that bestows the fascinating charm; every bush, and tree, and rill, and cornfield, and grassy meadow, and wild lane, and hedgerow, becomes sacred; we would ever have it so. Ah! memories of earth's sweetest loveliness cling around them, and they come like blessings to the soul. The sonnets of our poet are finely written : two On Seeing our Family Vault, are nervous and beautiful. The one has all the solemnity and gloominess of death, the other catches the music of immortality; the former is a sad picture of the cold grave, the latter scents of coming Spring and budding flowers. This on an Autumn evening is very pleasing : How soothing is that sound of far-off wheels Full moon, that guides me home this autumn night. What an exquisite description of harvesthome. Dearly do we love this relic of our olden times; and there is something peculiarly sweet in sitting upon some mossy bank in a straggling lane, and listening to the merry laughter of the swains. The scene possesses all the loveliness of a dream: the old farmhouse, with its high-thatched roof and shady trees; the great waggons laden with the golden corn; the rumbling of the heavy wheels; the colours flying on some Maypole; the bright countenances of master and men; and the calm beauty of the coming evening, form one of England's happiest pictures. One other sonnet, and we have done; it is addressed to his "own dear country,' and recounts its many charming beauties; the most lovely features of our sea-girt isle are brought within the compass of fourteen lines. What stirring of old it awakens! We seem again to traverse her sunny roads; to linger in her wild green lanes; to wander along her flowing streams; to recline on her romantic banks, and dream the hours away; to saunter in her shady dells; to walk through her rustic villages; to sit within her quiet church-yards; to gaze on tower and steeple, rising skyward; to hear her silvery bells; to behold her peaceful rectories, and happy dwellings, and ancestral mansions, with their elms and rooks : My own dear country!-thy remembrance comes Of many-voiced laughter shrill and clear? Oh! were I now with thee-to sit and play Alford has increased our love of nature; his poems scent with all the freshness and beauty of an April day; his verse is as clear and deep as the melody which breaks in the air when spring awakes; his productions have invested the outward creation with a more exquisite grace than it heretofore possessed; so much have the intellect and the soul done for this planet, that "when the sun comes up in earliest summer's dawn, flushing with his glorious hues the sweet opal regions of the eastern sky; when the mists of the valley float up at his warm approach in whiteness; when the greenness of woods and meadows, the quiet loveliness of flocks and herds, the glitter of streams, and the smoke of cottages, all send into the heart images of freshness and immortal beauty; when the ocean comes thundering with all his strength and splendour in the midst of such a scene; when noon broods over in a bright stillness; when evening creeps on with its coolness and its shadows, drawing after it the glory of gor. geous sunsets; the sombre gloom of deep woods; the golden beaming of far and clear prospects; the feeling of quiet and rest accompanied by the floating odours of flowers, and the last hum of the bee; and when night builds the canopy of its stars, and showers its moonlight enchantment on the earth below-in all these changes the face of nature has become almost as speaking, as entrancing to the cultivated man as the face of women itself; it is to him rich_ with all the colours of memory and poets. It brings with it wisdom and song, history and the sentiment of music and painting, from the pages of those who have seen these things before him, or perhaps with him, and which have peopled earth for him with the beings of the mind." And so hath the Spirit given to this wide world a language of deeper thought and holier feeling. And it is to such poets as the one who has formed the subject of this criticism, that we owe these richer harmonies and these richer glories. EDWIN ATHERSTONE. of Nineveh renders what little we know more THE mystery which enshrouds the history deeply interesting: we have but few records, but those records characterize it as a city of vast and unparalleled magnificence. We look back upon this great Assyrian capital as on some mighty and stupendous dream. The and the figures broken, but there is one grand outline is indistinct, the colouring imperfect, feature of majesty and glory upon each and all; everything is Titanic; everything is colossal. There is a splendour about the very figments which strikes one with awe and astonishment. And this greatness has passed away, as passes the morning dew or the April shower; a few crumbling walls are all that remain of its pomp and glory. Its voluptuous banquetings have departed; the voice of the singer is no more heard; the dulcimer and harp are mute; the dancing girl has ceased to move; its palm, and cedar, and pine have faded; its flowers, which flung their odours on every breeze, have perished; its temples and palaces are not; its star, once so bright and resplendent, has waned and gone down; there is scarce a streak of twilight in the horizon. The gigantic power and the gigantic monarchy have fallen; their throne is in the dust: they have been; they are not now. Three thousand years ago, the sun shook off its glories in the sky, and Nineveh stretched herself as a giant beneath its rays: that sun arose to-day, and all was desolation-the million homes swept away, and the million inhabitants in the grave;-once its abodes towered up to heaven, and its chariots poured through its "two-leaved gates," and its vast population rent the air with shoutings: see that mound of bricks; it is the only remnant! "So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord!" History's tale is short and brief; and prophecy, too, says little; but that little shadows out its magnificence and renown. In the year 1237, B. C., Ninus, flushed with victory, laid the foundation of the Assyrian capital. At his death, Semiramis became regent during the minority of their son, and added much to the city. Her strength of mind, energy of will, and boldness of execution, contributed greatly to extend the glory of her husband's kingdom. Ninyas then ascended the throne, but instead of exhibiting any of his parents' vigour, he gave himself up to debauchery and effeminacy; his successors followed but too closely and too well his example; and the people groaned beneath the injustice of sordid ministers. Behold that rectangular city! it has numbered four hundred years. There is a sound of revelling and drunkenness; her daughters have grown wanton; the capital is in one tumultuous uproar; a strange, wild man enters; he travels onwards, crying: :-"Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!" On, still on, he passes; his finger pointed skyward, his eye beams with the prophetic fire, and his lips quiver with the prophetic language. The rose bowers, the myrtle-walks, and the gorgeous palaces are forsaken; the people crowd around; they question: no answer comes, but the everawful denunciation : "Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown." That man has departed. The city sends up its mournings and lamentations: sackcloth instead of royal apparel. Young virgins tear off their fine linen, and clothe themselves in the dark black garb: instead of flowery wreaths, ashes; instead of the dance, the bended knee; the multitude moan; repentance goes upwards; the throne is reached; the capital stands ! Those myriads are dust; the earth covers them all. Five generations have lived, and are here in the tomb. The palaces still look glorious, the rose-bowers and myrtle-walks are as lovely as when last we gazed. The splendour and the magnificence of the city are undiminished. The fresh wind sweeps over her thousand domes and minarets as before; their architecture outspreads its beauties to the sun. There is the rich perfume of jasmine, and the silver music of a million fountains. The daygod westering, sinks; the halls are lighted up, and sparkle with myriad gems; low, sweet harmonies breathe out their divine witcheries. Midnight overhangs the capital of the world. Morning breaks. At the chief entrance stands a stranger of commanding mien; he surveys the princely buildings; his lips move: he speaks "Woe to the bloody city! it is full of lies and robbery; the prey departeth not; the noise of a whip, and the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and of the prancing horses, and of the jumping chariots. The horseman lifteth up both the bright sword and the glittering spear: and there is a multitude of slain, and a great number of carcasses; and there is none end of their corpses; they stumble upon their corpses: because of the multitude of the whoredoms of the well-favoured harlot, the mistress of witchcrafts, that selleth nations through her whoredoms, and families through her witchcrafts. Behold, I am against thee, saith the Lord of hosts; and I will discover thy skirts upon thy face, and I will show the nations thy nakedness, and the kingdoms thy shame. And I will cast abominable filth upon thee, and make thee vile, and will set thee as a gazing-stock. And it shall come to pass, that all they that look upon thee shall flee from thee, and say, Nineveh is laid waste: Who will bemoan her? Whence shall I seek comforters for thee? Art thou better than populous No, that was situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about it, whose rampart was the sea, and her wall was from the sea? Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength, and it was infinite; Put and Lubim were thy helpers: yet was she carried away, she went into captivity; her young children also were dashed in pieces at the top of all the streets; and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all her great men were bound in chains. Thou also shalt be drunken; thou shalt be hid; thou also shalt seek strength, because of the enemy. All thy strongholds shall be like fig-trees with the first ripe figs; if they be shaken, they shall even fall into the mouth of the eater. Behold, thy people in the midst of thee are women; the gates of thy land shall be set wide open unto thine enemies; the fire shall devour thy bars. Draw the waters for the siege, fortify thy strongholds: go into clay, and tread the mortar, and make strong the brick-kiln. There shall the fire devour thee; the sword shall cut thee off; it shall eat thee up like a canker-worm: make thyself many as the canker-worm-make thyself many as the locusts. Thou hast multiplied thy merchants above the stars of heaven: the canker-worm spoileth, and fleeth away. Thy crowned are as the locusts, and thy captains as the great grasshoppers, which camp in the hedges in the cold day, but when the sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are. Thy shepherds slumber, O king of Assyria; thy nobles shall dwell in the dust; thy people is scattered upon the mountains, and no man gathereth them. There is no healing of thy bruise; thy wound is grievous; all that hear the bruit of thee shall clap the hands over thee: for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed continually?" The people scoff and the princes taunt; they believe not. Sardanapalus, the king, returns back to his palace, and again attires himself in woman's apparel; music, the song, and the dance will drown every presentiment! Ever and anon mockeries arise. Revel on-the storm is breaking! A few hours, and there is the rumour of a revolt: the melodies cease; the monarch girds himself for war; he rushes out, followed by his troops, and defeats the rebels. Joy once more is in the city! Belesis and Arbaces twice again offer resistance, and twice again are driven back. The moon shines softly down, and the whole heaven is gemmed with burning stars: Orion there, and the Pleiades, and Mazzaroth; the mountains stand stilly in the clear bright night, and the palm and fir wave their branches in the hollow gust that ever and anon sweeps up their sides. There is the sound as of a human voice in prayer; the supplication deepens in its intonations; the language every moment grows more impassioned; it beseeches destruction on Assyria's king: the words wax louder and more eloquent; there is a struggle as of death; it breaks into one tremendous ejaculation-"Nineveh must fall! Nineveh must fall!" The sun arises; the streak of light chequers the horizon; the stars fade out; the moon is as some small fleecy cloud; the mountain-tops are crimsoned with the coming brightness; the dark, majestic trees are tinged with the same rich colouring; twilight wanes; the sun ascends higher yet and higher; the last words come on the ear, as the dashing of a cataract beneath a stormy sky, or the crash of a forest oak splintered by the lightning's flash-"Nineveh must fall! Nineveh must fall!" Belesis for that is the man-now joins his companions, and promises help in five days, if they will but tarry. The first morning comes up, and fades into dim night; the second and the third pass away-there is breathless suspense; the other two have gone, and still no assistance. We will return home to our wives and our little ones is the general thought. Suddenly there are tidings of the march of the Bactrian troops on their way to the monarch; these are gained over to revolt, and the rebels, thus reinforced, attack the royal camp, and drive Sardanapalus to the city. Two long years have passed, and the capital of the world still uprears its magnificent front to the sky, and the third has come ;-there is yet energy and vigour in the besiegers and the besieged. The river, once its safeguard as well as ornament, heaves, swells, and overflows; it has now become its enemy, according to ancient prediction. Silence is in the palace, and everlasting leave-taking; smoke curls upwards; it is from the funeral-pile of the Assyrian empire! Atherstone's poem on this subject is perhaps the most gorgeous and brilliant in the English language; nothing can equal its oriental splendour and voluptuousness. The verse is laden with the richest perfumes, and the loveliest flowers, and the silver spray of fountains, and delicious fruits, and deep-toned symphonies, and dream-like melodies, and golden wines, and softest alabaster lamps, and marble walls, and thrones as of one huge diamond, and orange groves, and myrtle walks, and rose bowers, and whisperings of trees and birds, and the distant hum of the vast city, and the din of battle, and purple banners, and the thunderous clashings of the chariots, and the tremendous shoutings of the hostile hosts, and the dashing of the heavy rain, and the flash of lightnings, and the ponderous thunder-peals. There are ravishing strains of music, and long banquetings, and moonlight nights, and shady groves, and invocation to the stars, and the voice of tenderness, and love's sweet looks, and festivals, and dark councils, and the mighty murmurings of rebellion, and the sounds of defeat, and the cries of triumph. The events move but slowly, but they move with majesty and grandeur; the poem intoxicates one with its beauties-stuns by its magnificence. We might have been wandering in some luxurious Eden, with its perfection and glory, for years, and then have suddenly seen the enchanting spot swept over by the howling winds and lashed to atoms. We are at first astonished, and then sink back palled; there is a dazzling vividness about all his descriptions, but it is often too bright for common eyes. What a picture of eastern voluptuousness is this: The moon is clear, the stars are coming forth; Heard by the lonely traveller through the vale; Again in the fifteenth Book: BOOK I. And as the eve drew on, with the cool breeze, The damsels of the city came abroad, And with the nobles and the captains danced, And with the soldiers each in her degree. Their garments were of every delicate hue; Linen like snow, silk light as gossamer. Their anklets were of silver, and of gold; And golden chains, and strings of pearls, and gems Circled their necks: their ear-rings were pure gold, And jewels; and their zones, of Tyrian dye, Round the slim waist with buckles of fine gold And gems were clasped. Adown the shoulders some Let fall the ambrosial ringlets, waving loose; Some the rich tresses into graceful knots Had woven, and in golden network bound, Or strings of orient pearl. |