Let the moaning music perish!
Wherefore should we strive to cherish
Sorrow, like the desert rain?

Though we weep, we weep in vain!
They are gone together,

Haply to the summer shores,

Where the bright and cloudless weather
Shineth, and for ever pours

Music with the flooding light,

And the night doth chase the day,
And the morn doth chase the night,
Like a starry fawn away!

They are gone-where pleasure reigns
Sinless on the golden plains,
Far above the scathing thunder,
Far above the storms and jars
Of earth, and live delighted under
The bright silence of the stars!
Therefore let the music die,-
Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly:
They are happy,-happier than
We who, in the mask of man,
Pour our unavailing tears
Over Beauty's number'd years!

SERENADE.

AWAKE!-the starry midnight hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight;
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower,
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!
Awake! awake!

Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!

Awake!-soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! awake!

Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!

Awake!-within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; Ah, come and shew the starry hour

What wealth of love thou hidest from me! Awake! awake!

Shew all thy love, for love's sweet sake!

Awake!-ne'er heed, though listening night
Steal music from thy silver voice;
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright,

And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake! awake!

She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake!

LIFE.

We are born; we laugh, we weep,
We love, we droop, we die!

Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?

Why do we live, or die?

Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?

Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die?

We toil-through pain and wrong;
We fight, and fly;

We love, we lose-and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.

O life! is all thy song

Endure and-die?"

TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.

POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter done thee harm?
We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still

May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild,
Till summer fall on field and fell,

And thou shalt be our feather'd child;
And tell us all thy pain and wrong,
When thou canst speak again in song.

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,
We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word

An accent even тHOU shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach
Disdaineth all peculiar speech:

'Tis common to the bird and brute,
To fallen man, to angel bright;
And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute
Heard in the air at night;
Divine and universal tongue,
Whether by bird or spirit sung!

But, hark! is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat,
Faint, short-but weak-and very clear,
And like a little grateful note?
Another? ha! look where it lies,—
It shivers, gasps,-is still,-it dies!

"Tis dead! 'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,
Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain; the singer's heart is cold,
Its eye is dim,-its fortune told!

AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS.

COME, all ye feathery people of mid air,

Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool;
And ye, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come! O phoenix rare!
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian,-lonely nightingale !
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs,
Until they waken; and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love, come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),

And with it enrich our ears; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

og

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's Sutton, Northamptonshire-a parish of which his father was vicar on the 24th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The Poet received his early education at Winchester school; and he rose to be the senior boy. He was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 1792, he took his degree. On quitting the University, he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire: soon afterwards he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire; in 1803, he became a prebend of Salisbury; and Archbishop Moore presented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where he has since constantly resided,-only now and then visiting the metropolis,-enjoying the country, and its peculiar sources of profitable delight, performing with zeal and industry his parochial duties, and beloved by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of his residence.

The sonnets of Bowles, his first publication, appeared in 1793. They were received with considerable applause; and the writer, if he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found ample recompense in the fact, that they contributed to form the taste, and call forth the genius, of Coleridge, whom they "delighted and inspired." The author of "Christabel" speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from several perilous errors " by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the sonnets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, however, satisfied with expressing, in prose, his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out his gratitude to his first master in minstrel-lore:

"My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring

Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring."

In 1805, he published the "Spirit of Discovery by Sea:" it is the longest of his pro ductions, and is generally considered his best. The most recent of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse Book," a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by comparison with those of Dr. Watts; and which are admirably calculated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed.

Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by his controversy with Byron, on the subject of the writings of Pope. In prefacing an edition of the works of Pope, he advanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered him “no Poet;" and that, according to the "invariable principles" of poetry, the century of fame which had been accorded to the "Essay on Man," was unmerited. Campbell opened the defence; and Byron stepped forward as a warm, and somewhat angry, advocate. A sort of literary warfare followed; and a host of pamphlets on both sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, the question remains precisely where it did. Bowles, however, though he failed in obtaining a victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to his "invariable principles," manifested during the contest so much judgment and ability, that his reputation as a critic was considerably enhanced.

The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popularity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments, than for any loftiness of thought, or richness of fancy. He has never dealt with themes that "stir men's minds;" but has satisfied himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has considered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, "tender, yet manly;" and he has, undoubtedly, brought the accessories of harmonious versification and graceful language to the aid of "right thinking," and sound judgment. His poems seldom startle or astonish the reader: he does not labour to probe the heart, and depict the more violent passions of human-kind; but he keeps an "even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture. The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beautiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignificant: the topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are such, only, as are naturally

excellent.