in painting the rural life of England in true colours. His picture of the gipsies, and his sketches of venal clerks and rapacious overseers, are genuine likenesses. He has not the raciness or the distinctness of Crabbe, but is equally faithful, and as sincerely a friend to humanity. He pleads warmly for the poor vagrant tribe : Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; This allusion to the dead soldier and his widow on the field of battle was made the subject of a print by Bunbury, under which were engraved the pathetic lines of Langhorne. Sir Walter Scott has mentioned, that the only time he saw Burns, the Scottish poet, this picture was in the room. Burns shed tears over it; and Scott, then a lad of fifteen, was the only person present who could tell him where the lines were to be found. The passage is beautiful in itself, but this incident will embalm and preserve it for ever. When the poor hind, with length of years decayed, If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, But, hapless! oft through fear of future wo, And certain vengeance of the insulting foe; Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, The last extremes of penury they bear. Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher! To something more than magistrate aspire! And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind! The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu! And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side, Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride, As meet no more the wintry blast to bear, And all the wild hostilities of air. That roof have I remembered many a year; It once gave refuge to a hunted deer→→ Here, in those days, we found an aged pair; But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there? Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed of naked fern, two human creatures dead! Embracing as alive!-ah, no!—no life! Cold, breathless!' "Tis the shepherd and his wife. [Appeal to Country Justices in Behalf of the Rural I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold Poor.] Let age no longer toil with feeble strife, Nor leave the head, that time hath whitened, bare O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend! But chief thy notice shall one monster claim; What speaks more strongly than the story toldThey died through want By every power I swear, If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, Through whose default of duty, or design, These victims fell, he dies.' 'Infernal! Mine!-by They fell by thine. Swear on no pretence : A swearing justice wants both grace and sense. [An Advice to the Married.] Should erring nature casual faults disclose, Love, like the flower that courts the sun's kind ray, Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys, The Dead. Of them, who wrapt in earth are cold, No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told, For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time, Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Through Death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long asserted spoil, And lead Oblivion into day? "Tis nature prompts by toil or fear, Unmoved to range through Death's domain; The tender parent loves to hear Her children's story told again ! Eternal Providence. Light of the world, Immortal Mind; And still this poor contracted span, Affliction flies, and Hope returns; O may I still thy favour prove! [A Farewell Hymn to the Valley of Irwan.] Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale, My infant years where Fancy led, And soothed me with the western gale, Her wild dreams waving round my head, While the blithe blackbird told his tale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! The primrose on the valley's side, The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied, The wilding's blossom blushing red; How oft, within yon vacant shade, And watched the wave that wandered by ; Yet still, within yon vacant grove, And watch the wave that winds away; SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. Few votaries of the muses have had the resolution to abandon their early worship, or to cast off the Dalilahs of the imagination,' when embarked on more gainful callings. An example of this, however, is afforded by the case of SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE (born in London in 1723, died 1780), who, having made choice of the law for his profession, and entered himself a student of the Middle Temple, took formal leave of poetry in a copy of natural and pleasing verses, published in Dodsley's Miscellany. Blackstone rose to rank and fame as a lawyer, wrote a series of masterly commentaries on the laws of England, was knighted, and died a judge in the court of common pleas. From some critical notes on Shakspeare by Sir William, published by Stevens, it would appear that, though he had forsaken his muse, he still (like Charles Lamb, when he had given up the use of the 'great plant,' tobacco) loved to live in the suburbs of her graces.' The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse. Where fervent bees, with humming voice, How blest my days, my thoughts how free, Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, In frighted streets their orgies hold; Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, DR THOMAS PERCY. DR THOMAS PERCY, afterwards bishop of Dromore, in 1765 published his Reliques of English Poetry, in which several excellent old songs and ballads were revived, and a selection made of the best lyrical pieces scattered through the works of modern authors. The learning and ability with which Percy executed his task, and the sterling value of his materials, recommended his volumes to public favour. They found their way into the hands of poets and poetical readers, and awakened a love of nature, simplicity, and true passion, in contradistinction to that coldly-correct and sentimental style which pervaded part of our literature. The influence of Percy's collection was general and extensive. It is evident in many contemporary authors. It gave the first impulse to the genius of Sir Walter Scott; and it may be seen in the writings of Coleridge and Wordsworth. A fresh fountain of poetry was opened up-a spring of sweet, tender, and heroic thoughts and imaginations, which could never be again turned back into the artificial channels in which the genius of poesy had been too long and too closely confined. Percy was himself a poet. His ballad, O, Nanny, wilt Thou Gang wi' Me,' the Hermit of Warkworth,' and other detached pieces, evince both taste and talent. We subjoin a cento, The Friar of Orders Gray,' which Percy says he compiled from fragments of ancient ballads, to which he added supplemental stanzas to connect them together. The greater part, however, is his own. The life of Dr Percy presents little for remark. He was born at Bridgnorth, Shropshire, in 1728, and, after his education at Oxford, entered the church, in which he was successively chaplain to the king, dean of Carlisle, and bishop of Dromore: the O, Nanny, wilt Thou Gang wi' Me. O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me, Nae langer decked wi' jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa, Wilt thou not cast a look behind? Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw, Nor shrink before the winter wind? O can that soft and gentle mien Severest hardships learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen wi' me to gae? Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of wae? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? I' And when at last thy love shall die, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? The Friar of Orders Gray. It was a friar of orders gray Walked forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. * Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! I I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.' And how should I know your true love From many another one?' 'Oh! by his cockle hat and staff, But chiefly by his face and mien, His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, "O lady, he is dead and gone! tut Lady, he's dead and gone! ser At his head a green grass turf, onton And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloisters long And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh; Weep no more, lady, weep no more; For violets plucked, the sweetest shower Our joys as winged dreams do fly; 'O say not so, thou holy friar! For since my true love died for me, "Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he never come again Will he ne'er come again? Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave, His cheek was redder than the rose- But he is dead and laid in his grave, 'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 'Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; My love he had the truest heart O he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth? And didst thou die for me? Then farewell home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. But first upon my true love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.' "Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while Beneath this cloister wall; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, And drizzly rain doth fall.' 'O stay me not, thou holy friar, No drizzly rain that falls on me, Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 76 |