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So he grew to be a man of wealth,
And of honourable fame.

"And in after years when he had ships, I sailed with him the sea,

And in all the sorrow of my life

He was a son to me;

And God hath blessed him every where
With a great prosperity."


DWELLERS by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee!

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirit free!

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall proscribes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening,-the fresh, dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd:

The gray and ancient peaks,

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth,-
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in His spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills

Its quiet way into your spirits finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth

Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee ; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirit silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;

Whom the world reverences,—the patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song

Are taught within the mountain solitudes;
For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth,-earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!

THOMAS K. HERVEY was born on the banks of the river Cart, near the town of Paisley, in Scotland. He is the oldest of his family by his father's second marriage, and was taken to Manchester by his parents while yet an infant. In this town he resided many years, and passed a portion of them in the office of a solicitor there, as a preparatory step in his education for the bar: he was entered at one of the inns of court; but has not yet been "called;" having been compelled, probably, like most literary men, to the sacrifice of future prospects to present necessities.

Mr. Hervey obtained a considerable portion of his reputation by contributing to various periodical works. A few years ago, he collected his poems into a volume, under the title of “the Poetical Sketch Book ;" it consists chiefly of short pieces; their merit has been largely acknowledged,—and, although his appearance among the Poets was at an unfavourable period, his work has obtained considerable popularity. Mr. Hervey has also published the "Book of Christmas," a work which displays great industry and research; a poem, the "Devil's Progress," written after the model of the celebrated lines attributed to Southey and Coleridge; and the "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," which are introduced by an essay, giving a sketch of the history of that art from the earliest times. They were issued in numbers, but have recently been formed into a volume; they contain the choicest specimens of the British school, and each is accompanied by a poem from the pen of the Editor. We apprehend this publication was not successful; and regret it. While every other class of art has prospered in this country, but little encouragement has been given to sculpture. With two or three exceptions, its professors have been compelled to limit their chisels to "the making of busts ;" and where loftier attempts have been tried, they have been rarely profitable. Mr. Hervey's volume was calculated to direct towards it the attention of wealthy patrons. It was produced in a manner creditable to all parties; and could not fail to impress upon the public a more just estimate of the genius of our artists. Hitherto, their pecuniary advantages have been for the most part derived from the dead. The churches, and not the palaces, of England have been made the depositories of their works. A few noblemen have indeed given "commissions," and the good Earl of Egremont has filled

every nook of his galleries with them; but efforts, either private or public, to render the art prosperous in this country, have been unhappily rare.

The poetry of Mr. Hervey may not be of the highest order; but among the minor Poets of England he must hold a foremost rank. His imagination is rich and vigorous; and his versification exceedingly easy and graceful. He has avoided the error into which so many of his contemporaries have fallen,-the effort to be effective by the sacrifice of nature, under the idea that the artificialities and affectations of the old Poets were the secrets of their success,forgetting that imitation is always perilous; and that it is far less easy to copy perfections than defects. Within the last twenty years, thousands of " Books of Poems" have issued from the press. It would be difficult to find a dozen that have made their way beyond the friendly and indulgent circles of their respective authors. Yet half a century ago, a large proportion of them would have been received with favour, and have conferred repute. The public is usually correct in its judgment: few recent poetical productions are addressed to the heart; and the mere act of dealing with a subject in verse, although it may have the aid of knowledge and fancy, is insufficient to render a poem popular. It would, however, be easy to select from the numerous poetical productions to which we refer, and which have been consigned to unmerited oblivion, specimens of merit sufficient to form a valuable and interesting volume; and the Editor who undertakes such a task, will render good service to literature. That which Mr. Sergeant Talfourd describes as the "freezing effect of the scientific spirit of the age," has had its depressing influence upon the best and greatest of our Poets; it has completely destroyed the ambitious hopes of those who were seeking after distinction. We trust, nevertheless, that a time will come when in poetry, as in art, some portion of celebrity may be attained by all who deserve it.

If we must place Mr. Hervey somewhat below the great "makers," whose names precede his in this volume, we must place him considerably above the host of minor Poets, of whom our age has been so amazingly fertile. Some of his productions, indeed, verge upon the higher standard; and none of them are much beneath it.



OH! Come at this hour, love! the daylight is gone,
And the heavens weep dew on the flowers;
And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan,
Through the shade of the eglantine bowers:
For, the moon is asleep on her pillow of clouds,
And her curtain is drawn in the sky;

And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds,
Falls faint on the ear-like a sigh:

The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright

For a heart that has suffered like mine;

And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light,
To a spirit so broken as thine!

The birds, as they mingled their music of joy,
And the roses that smiled in the beam,
Would but tell us of feelings for ever gone by,
And of hopes that have passed like a dream!

And the moonlight,-pale spirit! would speak of the time When we wandered beneath its soft gleam,

Along the green meadows, when life was in prime,

And worshipped its face in the stream:

When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path as bright,
And as cloudless, to fancy's young eye,

As the star-spangled course of that phantom of light,
Along the blue depths of the sky!

Then come in this hour, love! when twilight has hung
Its shadowy mantle around;

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