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“And I heard him say, as he sate apart,
“And then those heavy iron chests,
“And out from the bottom of the sea,
“And a furious boiling wave rose up,
With a rushing, thundering roar;
I saw the captain fall to the deck,-
“Two days before, when the storm began,
“The child and I, we were but two,
“At length, as if his prayers were heard,
“And on we drove, and on we drove,
“There was no bread within the wreck,
“Still on we drove, I knew not where,
“Still on we went, as the west wind drove, On, on, o'er the pathless tide;
And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death, And the child was at my side.
“And it chanced, as we were drifting on
“The young child at the cheer rose up,
“Again unto the wreck they came,
“Oh, joy it was when sense returned,
“ I thought at first that we had died,
And all our pains were o'er, And in a blessed ship of Heaven
Were sailing to its shore.
“ But they were human forms that knelt
Beside our bed to pray;
Did watch us night and day.
“ 'Twas a dismal tale I had to tell,
Of wreck and wild distress; But, even then, I told to none
The captain's wickedness.
“ For I loved the boy, and I could not cloud
His soul with a sense of shame;
A sinless orphan's name!
And of honourable fame.
“ And in after years when he had ships,
I sailed with him the sea,-
He was a son to me;
With a great prosperity.”
DWELLERS by lake and hill!
Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
No crowd impedes your way,
Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray
The sunshine and the flowers,
The pleasant evening, the fresh, dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd :
The grey 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,
For in His spirit God has clothed the earth,
The voice of hidden rills
And awfully the everlasting hills
Ye sit upon the earth
And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.
Hence is it that the lands
Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!
Children of pleasant song
For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
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
Thom. As K. HER v EY 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 vigourous; 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 class him considerably above the host of minor Poets, of whom our age has been so amazingly fertile. Some of his productions, indeed,