On best or worst which they and Nature give? The snail the house he carries on his back; But most the Bard is true to inborn right, A natural meal,—days, months, from Nature's hand; That life, the flowery path that winds by stealth, Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress With garlands, cheats her into happiness; Give me the humblest note of those sad strains He proud to please, above all rivals, fit In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; A doleful bower for penitential song, Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong; While Cam's ideal current glided by, And antique towers nodded their foreheads high, But Fortune, who had long been used to sport The remnant of his days at least was true; Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim On the humanities of peaceful fame, Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire; And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate! Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind The ethereal eyesight, cramp the wingèd mind! Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.* 1829. * There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realized: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, namely, quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal. IV. POOR ROBIN.* Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power Flowers, or a richer produce (did it suit The season), sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought? Is the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway? Or does it suit our humor to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colors whether they deceive or no? The small wild Geranium known by that name. Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: V. THE GLEANER. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.) THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes, That cheek, a kindling of the morn, That lip, a rose-bud from the thorn, I saw; and Fancy sped To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, Of bliss that grows without a care, |