THE LOST PLEIAD. AND is there glory from the heavens departed? -Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night! No desert seems to part those urns of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, And was there power to smite them with decay? Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are, When from its height afar A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star! Fill with forgetfulness!—there are, there are Yet pause again!-with memory wilt thou cast No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn? Wouldst thou erase all records of delight That make such visions bright? Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!—yet stay"T is from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band: Pour the sweet waters back on their own rillI must remember still. For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep Yet, mortal, pause!--within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf Rase the one master-grief! Yet pause once more!-all. all thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? Think-wouldst thou part with all? A PARTING SONG. WHEN will ye think of me, my friends? When the last red light, the farewell of day, When will ye think of me, kind friends! Then let it be! When will ye think of me, sweet friends? Thus let my memory be with you friends? THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. I. INTELLECTUAL POWERS. O THOUGHT! O memory! gems for ever heaping As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind Scatter'd to whirling dust!-oh, soon uncrown'd! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern How by meek faith heaven's portals must be pass'd Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. II. SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. THOU art like night, O sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling With low, sweet voices by life's tumult drown'd. Thou art like awful night!-thou gather'st round V.-FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. WHITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? After long strife is rent?-fond, fruitless guest! VI.-FLOWERS. WELCOME, O pure and lovely forms, again Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom, The things that are unseen, though close they lie-Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume, And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Givest their dread presence to our mental eye. -Thou art like starry, spiritual night! High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:-Be welcome then thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God. III-RETZSCH'S DESIGN, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. WELL might thine awful image thus arise With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist!—Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanency? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things?-Let others trembling bow, Angel of death! before thee.-Not to those, Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape!—and oh! for me How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee! IV. REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. O NATURE! thou didst rear me for thine own Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music; more than this ye bring Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like Broods o'er the suffererdrawing fever'd breath, [wing Whether the couch be that of life or death. VII. RECOVERY. BACK, then, once more to breast the waves of life, Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure. TO A FAMILY BIBLE. WHAT household thoughts around thee as their shrine Cling reverently!of anxious looks beguiled, My mother's eyes upon thy page divine Each day were bent; her accents gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child, Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away, To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be A seed not lost; for which, in darker years, O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee! SERJEANT TALFOURD. THOMAS NOON TALFOURD is a native of Reading, and was born about the year 1796. He was educated at a grammar school under Dr. VALPY, and in 1811, while yet a student in the classics, he published his first volume of poems. One of these early compositions is "On the Brotherhood of Mankind," and another on "The Education of the Poor." They won for him the acquaintance and friendship of Lord BROUGHAM, who advised him to work his way through literature to the bar. He studied his profession under Mr. CHITTY, whom he assisted in his great work on the Criminal Laws. His earlier essays as an author were several pamphlets on religion and politics, and, in 1815, "An Attempt to Estimate the Poetical Talent of the Present Age." He was called to the bar by the society of the Middle Temple in 1821, and in 1834 he was elected to Parliament, from his native town, by a large majority of all parties. He was returned again in 1839, but declined being a candidate in 1841. been overshadowed by the fame of his first effort. TALFOURD has earned the gratitude of men of letters by his celebrated defence of Moxon, who was prosecuted as the publisher of SHELLEY, and for his advocacy of the rights of authors, in various speeches in the House of Commons on the copyright question. His writings, whether in prose or verse, bear the marks of patient meditation and careful correction. They display a fine temper, large attainments, an affluent imagination, and great richness and fulness of diction. Few works of the age are characterized by such purity of thought, or display a deeper love and reverence for beauty and goodness. The mildness of his disposition, his tenderness of feeling and sentiment, the calm, brooding spirit diffused over his compositions, and his tendency to overload his diction with glittering words and images, have subjected him, at times, to the charge of effeminacy and euphaism; but there is no lack of true power discernible in him, if we pass behind the profuse ornaments of his style, to the thought and emotion they are intended to decorate. Previous to the publication of his great dramatic poem, he was only known on this side of the Atlantic as the author of various critical articles in the "New Monthly Magazine," the "Edinburgh Review," the "Encyclopedia Metropolitana," and the " Retrospective Review," written with much grace of style, and abounding in metaphor and illustration. He was the friend of LAME, Hazlitt, Hunt, and the other members of the literary coterie of which they formed a part, and has repeatedly borne testimony to their genius and cha-cian's Daughter," and others, have written racter, even at those periods when to praise some of them was to participate in their unpopularity. Of all the authors of the present age, however, he seems to have the most veneration for WORDSWORTH. He has poured forth the full wealth of his own mind in illustrating the poetry and poetical character of his idol. The publication of " Ion" gave him an immediate reputation both in Great Britain and in this country,-a reputation which promises to be lasting. The two tragedies he has since produced, "The Athenian Captive," and "Glencoe," though of much merit, have No recent age has produced in England more fine dramatic poetry than the present. Of the acted dramatists, TALFOURD, Bulwer, and KNOWLES have been most successful. It is wonderful, considering the condition of the stage, that the faultless, classical poetry of "Ion" was received with such applausę. BROWNING, author of "Paracelsus" and "Strafford," MARSTON, author of the "Patri pieces full of passionate and imaginative poetry, but failed of audience, except in the closet, and after a few efforts, unsuccessful with the managers, have abandoned the dramatic for the epic or lyric forms of composition. A collection of TALFOURD's "Critical and Miscellaneous Writings," comprising all his more important contributions to the literary magazines, was published by Carey and Hart in 1843, and about the same time Moxon brought out in London a complete edition of his tragedies and minor poems. VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB. OUR gentle Charles has pass'd away, Here, by the restless ocean's side, Seem'd omen of our own. That eager joy the sea-breeze gave, When first it raised his hair, Sunk with each day's retiring wave, Beyond the reach of prayer. The sun-blink that through dazzling mist, Yet not in vain with radiance weak But that from whence it streams. That world our patient sufferer sought, As if his mounting spirit caught With boundless love it look'd abroad A year made slow by care and toil Then Lamb, with whose endearing name Still 't was a mournful joy to think For years on earth, a living link To name that cannot die. And though such fancy gleam no more The nurseling there that hand may take Though 'twixt the child and childlike bard Within the infant's ample brow Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd, Though the soft spirit of those eyes That calm and unforgotten look In thought profound, in wildest glee, Endured no spot or change. From traits of each our love receives While light which childlike genius leaves And in that hope with sweetness fraught To blend in one delightful thought LINES WRITTEN AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALUM BAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, AFTER A WEEK SPENT AT THAT PLACE. How simple in their grandeur are the forms That constitute this picture! Nature grants Scarce more than sternest cynic might desireEarth, sea, and sky, and hardly lends to each Variety of colour; yet the soul Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps Wreath'd into waving eminences, clothed [ceive Spread thence in softest blue-to which a gorge, Is felt, if ever, here; for he who loves Like that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep Yet deem not that these sober forms are all Of purpled crimson,-while bright streaks of red Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, Shall bare to unborn gazers. If this scene Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy On the blue ocean, pour'd around the heights, As it embraced the wonders of that shield Which the vow'd friend of slain Patroclus wore, To grace his fated valour; nor disdain The quiet of the vale, though not endow'd With such luxurious beauty as the coast On cliff, and tower, and valley, by the side KINDNESS. THE blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. "Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 't will fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honour'd death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels. TO THE MEMORY OF THE POETS. THE fame of those pure bards whose faces lie Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even, Fringing the western skirts of darkening heaven, And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie With mighty chiefs' renown;-from ages gone, In low, undying strain, it lengthens on, Earth's greenest solitudes with joy to fill,Felt breathing in the silence of the sky, Or trembling in the gush of new-born rill, Or whispering o'er the lake's undimpled breast; Yet blest to live when trumpet-notes are still, To wake a pulse of earth-born ecstasy In the deep bosom of eternal rest. |