GEORGE CRABBE. CRABBE is a powerful writer, but destitute of elegance or sweetness. He describes with great strength and truth the workings of the morbid passions, and the external appearances of nature and of human society, as it existed in his own "borough." His poetry is like a painting, of which the scene is exceedingly gloomy, and the colours coarsely and roughly applied; but in which every object is expressive, and protrudes strongly from the canvass. The moral lessons to be derived from his poems are very salutary. THE WINTER STORM AT SEA. VIEW now the winter-storm! above, one cloud, All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam, Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep, May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Far off the petril in the troubled way And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. High o'er the restless deep, above the reach In shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping surge; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind; But frights not him, whom evening and the spray In part conceal-yon prowler on his way: Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace, As if he fear'd companion in the chace; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Slowly and sorrowing-"Was your search in vain?” Gruffly he answers, "'T is a sorry sight! A seaman's body: there 'll be more to-night!" Hark! to those sounds! they're from distress at sea: How quick they come! What terrors may there be ! Yes, 't is a driven vessel: I discern Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern; Their wives pursue, and damsels urg'd by dread, Their head the gown has hooded, and their call See one poor girl, all terror and alarm, Has fondly seiz'd upon her lover's arm; "Thou shalt not venture ;" and he answers "No! I will not "-still she cries, "Thou shalt not go." No need of this; not here the stoutest boat From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear? I see them not! the storm alone I hear: And lo! the sailors homeward take their way; THE FRENZIED CHILD OF GRACE." SUCH were the evils, man of sin, That pride, wrong, rage, despair can make; But pity will the vilest seek, If punish'd guilt will not repine,- Come hear how thus the charmers cry And some will knock and enter in : For he that winneth souls is wise; Now hark! the holy strains begin, " And thus the sainted preacher cries: Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate, There, till mercy let thee in, Knock and weep and watch and wait. Knock! He knows the sinner's cry: Weep! He loves the mourner's tears: Hark! it is the bridegroom's voice; Safe and seal'd and bought and blest! Seal'd-by signs the chosen know, Bought by love, and life the price, Holy Pilgrim! what for thee, But though my day of grace was come, Thus, though elect, I feel it hard, Stern, rugged men my conduct view, Must you, my friends, no longer stay? My kind physician and his friend; S. T. COLERIDGE. COLERIDGE has published comparatively but little poetry, yet many of his pieces exhibit a poetical genius not inferior even to Milton's. The intense vividness of his fancy is oftentimes astonishing; and there is an eloquent majesty of thought and a lofty elevation of moral feeling in all his productions, which imparts to them a noble mein of intellectual grandeur. There is no piece in the English language which is so truly sublime as his hymn before sunrise in the vale of Chamouny. When he speaks of the torrents that rush down the sides of the mountain, his sentences are so strong that they seem to the mind like something material, as if they were hewn out from the eternal adamant itself. But it is not his language, it is the spirit with which he has transfused it, the stupendous conceptions he has made it convey, which thrill through, and dilate the soul of the reader. Besides this unrivalled power of sublimity, he has exhibited the qualities of tenderness and pathos in an almost equal degree. He is also unsurpassed in his descriptions of the loveliness of nature, especially in some of her most striking scenes. He looks upon the universe with the enthusiastic fondness of a poet, but likewise with the eye of a philosopher and a Christian; and the thoughts with which he connects its appearances are of that eloquence which seems almost too deep and sacred for utterance. It is ennobling to the mind to converse with his exalted conceptions. The rhyme of the Ancient Mariner combines in an extraordinary degree great wildness of fancy, richness of imagery and description, and gentleness of feeling; and the moral of that beautiful piece, though simple, is rendered truly sublime. Coleridge's writings, both prose and poetry, are peculiarly refined and elevated in their moral character, and rich in philosophy which seems to have been "baptised" “In the pure fountain of eternal love.” Besides all this, the thoughts of domestic affection and intimate friendship-home, the husband, father, companionhave never been expressed with more endearing tenderness and delicious imagery than in some of his productions. His language is chaste, rich, and beautiful beyond description; and he adapts its character with remarkable facility to all the varieties of his subjects, be they pathetic, fanciful, or sublime. FROM FEARS IN SOLITUDE. BUT, O dear Britain! O my mother isle! A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all O native Britain! O my mother isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, |