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Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL.
The laverock loves the dewy light,
The bee the balmy foxglove fair; The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
When song and sunshine fill the air: But I love best the summer moon,
With all her stars, pure streaming still ; For then, in light and love I meet
The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The violets lay their blossoms low,
Beneath her white foot, on the plain; Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain. O might I clasp her to my heart, And of her ripe lips have my
will ! For loath to woo, and long to win,
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.
Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
O’er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Refused to set our heads aboon :
Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
Our mixing breaths,—all was so still, Till morning's light shone on her locks,
Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.
Wert thou an idol all of gold,
Had I the eye of worldish care,I could not think thee half so sweet.
Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,Thine
every wish of joy and love, My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!
THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.
O! My love's like the steadfast sun,
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Though I see smiling at thy feet
0, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower! 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit from fortune's tree; And sweeter still, to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine; A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,-
And bends the gallant mast :
While, like the eagle free,
Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind !
I heard a fair one cry;
And white waves heaving high :
The good ship tight and free,-
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon
The wind is piping loud :
The lightning flashing free,
Our heritage the sea.
LEIGH Hunt is the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, and was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October the 19th, 1784. He, as well as Coleridge and Lamb, received his early education at Christ's Hospital, and chiefly under the same grammar-master ; and, like Lamb, he was prevented from going to the University (on the Christ's Hospital foundation, it is understood to be a preparatory step to holy orders) by an impediment in his speech—which, however, he had the good fortune to overcome. At school, as in after life, he was remarkable for exuberance of animal spirits, and for passionate attachment to his friends,-a feeling, also, which years have not diminished; but he evinced little care for study, except when the exercises were in verse, when he would "give up” double the quantity demanded from him. His prose themes (he has so told us among other interesting facts) were generally so bad, that the master used to crumple them in his hand, and throw them to the boys for their amusement. Mr. Hunt has been an ardent though never an ungenerous, political partisan, and has suffered in almost every possible way for the advocacy of opinions, which, whether right or wrong, he has lived to see in a great measure tri. umph. He is not the only early struggler for “ Reform,” who has been left by Reformers in power, to be recompensed by his own feelings.
The acquaintance of Mr. Hunt and Lord Byron began in prison, where Mr. Hunt was confined for the publication of an article in the “Examiner,” which he then conducted. It was pronounced to be a libel on the Prince Regent ;—and originated in his sympathy with the sufferings of the people of Ireland. To the history of their after intercourse we have not space to refer. Time has pretty nearly satisfied the world that Mr. Hunt by no means overdrew the picture of the noble Bard. The leading feature in Mr. Hunt's character is a love of truth. This was unpalatable to Lord Byron, and, for a time also, to the public. Animal spirits,—a power of receiving delight from the commonest every-day objects, as well as from remote ones,—and a sort of luxurious natural piety, (so to speak), are the prevailing influences of his writings. His friend, Hazlitt, used to say of him, in allusion to his spirits, and to his familystock (which is from the West Indies), that he had “ tropical blood in his veins."