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My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

GG

ERASMUS DARWIN was born at Elton, near Newark, Nottinghamshire, in 1732. He studied at St. John's College, Cambridge, and afterwards at Edinburgh, where he took his medical degree. In the year 1756 he settled as a physician at Lichfield; where, and afterwards at Derby, he pursued his professional career with considerable success. It was late in life when he sought to achieve fame in the service of the Muses; he had indeed cultivated a natural taste for poetry, and occasionally satisfied his circle of friends of his ability to compose agreeable verses; but he knew that a poetic reputation, though flattering, is by no means profitable; and until he felt his station as a physician perfectly secure, he did not venture to commit his compositions to the press. In 1781, he published the first part of his "Botanic Garden." In 1789 and 1792 the other two parts appeared. His only other production of any note is "The Temple of Nature." - This was printed after his death, and is but a weak echo of his greater poem. Darwin was twice married, and died in 1802.

The person and character of Dr. Darwin were both singular. On his first visit to Lichfield he is described as of a thick and clumsy form, with heavy and ungainly limbs; much seared with the small-pox; and stuttering exceedingly. Twenty years afterwards he is pictured with "hard features on a rough surface; older in appearance than in reality." His personal defects were in part redeemed by his wit and talents; yet both in awkwardness of person and unamiability of mind he resembled Dr. Johnson, whom he greatly disliked. Both were despots in habit, intolerant of opposition, and sarcastic to an extreme; but the great genius of the native of Lichfield was not the prerogative of him who resided there.

Dr. Darwin was an avowed sceptic;-a coarse mind, rude habits, and an ungenerous disposition were in him uncontrolled by religion; he was naturally uncourteous, boisterous, and tyrannical, and the coldness of his creed did not soften his temper or subdue his passions. "He dwelt so much and so exclusively on second causes, that he too generally seems to have forgotten there is a first." This defect in his philosophy is also the great defect of his poetry. He writes in a clear, sensible, and manly style, with a strong desire of communicating information in an attractive form, and some of his Episodes are both interesting and affecting, but he rarely warms into enthusiasm, excites the imagination, or touches the heart; he is indeed seldom more than merely satisfactory. His poem consists of two parts-the first contains the Economy of Vegetation, and the Second the Loves of the Plants; both are accompanied by learned, interesting, and useful explanatory notes. The plants are personified, and the descriptions are full of gorgeous beauty; their habits are given in a clear and lucid manner, so as to fix themselves upon the memory. The Goddess of Botany descends to earth to receive the welcome of Spring; and the four elements, represented by gnomes, water-nymphs, sylphs, and nymphs of fire, are in attendance to do her bidding. To each class she gives the allotted task-and the enumeration of their several duties forms the first four cantos of the poem. It will be at once perceived that this plan gives the author abundant opportunities for introducing descriptions of all objects in nature or in art: he has availed himself of them; and tells not only of the wonders of earth, sea, and sky, but of the uses to which science has applied them. Thus, when the Botanic Queen reminds her gnomes that they have seen subterranean fires producing clay-a compliment is conveyed to Mr. Wedgwood, who brought the manufacture of it to such perfection in England; and immortality is promised even to his "medallions." In the second part, the Loves of the Plants, the allegory is carried still farther-every flower and shrub is personified: the Sun-flower becomes a dervise, and leads his train to worship the sun; the Mimosa is a shrinking nymph; and the Miseltoe a spirit seeking her lovers among the clouds. This division of the work abounds in episodes - relieving its more scientific details, and producing the effects of so many interesting stories in carrying the reader untired through the whole. Thus, the Orchis Morio, the parent root of which shrivels up and dies, as the young shoot flourishes, is transformed into a fond mother, nourishing her infant at the cost of her own life; and the fable is illustrated by the story of a wounded deer flying with her fawn to the woodlands, and by the history of a soldier's wife, who, watching with her babe the distant battle, is mortally wounded by a random shot.

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So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight,
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And view'd his banner, or believ'd she view'd.
Pleas'd with the distant roar, with quicker tread
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;

And one fair girl amid the loud alarm

Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm;

While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.

-Near and more near the intrepid beauty press'd,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Saw on his helm, her virgin-hands inwove,
Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love;
Heard the exulting shout, "They run they run!"
"Great GOD!" she cried, "He's safe! the battle's won!"
-A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some Fury wing'd it, and some demon guides!)
Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck;
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.-

Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound;
"Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return!
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far!—
The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war!—
Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age!
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!"-
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caress'd,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest.
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes;
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,

Eliza echoes through the canvass walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood!—

-Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds:-
Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;

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Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers press'd,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake—
Why do you weep?-Mamma will soon awake.”

"She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp'd his hands, and sigh'd:
Stretch'd on the ground awhile entranc'd he lay,
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart;

"Oh, Heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow forgive;
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!"—
Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest,
And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast.

And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine
Dart round the globe from Zembla to the Line;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light,
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.
From realm to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd,
Where'er mankind and misery are found,

O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow,
Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew'd with many a mouldering bone,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose,
No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health,
With soft assuasive eloquence expands
Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands;
Leads stern-ey'd Justice to the dark domains,
If not to sever, to relax the chains;

Or guides awaken'd Mercy through the gloom,
And shows the prison, sister to the tomb !—
Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life!-

The spirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first, array'd in Virtue's purest robe,
They saw her Howard traversing the globe;
Saw round his brows her sun-like glory blaze
In arrowy circles of unwearied rays;
Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest,

And ask'd what seraph-foot the earth imprest.
-Onward he moves!-disease and death retire,
And murmuring demons hate him, and admire.

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