in placing the scenes and persons he described before the mind of the reader. Whether he paints a storm on the East Coast, or exhibits the succession of images passing through the imagination of the condemned felon, or shows the mental stages by which the enthusiast of virtue proceeds to crime, everything is represented with an appearance of scientific precision, which in an ordinary poet would be offensive, but which from Crabbe's point of view is just and necessary. At the same time, with all this Dutch minuteness, he possessed, as we see in The Lover's Fourney, and Delay has Danger, exceptional skill in describing Nature in the aspect which she presents to minds labouring under strong emotions. His powers of pathos are extraordinary, and his faculty of giving pain is often put to an illegitimate use. When his humour is under his control it is admirable, and of all the poets who have used the heroic couplet, Pope himself not excepted, he is the best writer of easy dialogue. As a painter of character he evidently modelled himself on Pope, but the style of the two poets is as different as their genius. Pope, an unequalled observer within a limited compass, is most careful to choose rare types and to embody their prominent features in the most select and pregnant words; Crabbe, on the other hand, trusts to the largeness of his experience, and to the general human interest of his descriptions, and, though preserving the antithetical form of Pope's verse, makes comparatively little attempt at epigrammatic expression. It is noticeable that, as his subjects become more numerous and extended, his care in composition seems to diminish; there is far more literary finish in The Village than in Tales of the Hall.

W. J. COURTHOPE

THE VILLAGE AS IT IS.

[From The Village, Book I.]

Fled are those times, when in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains:

No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty, or their nymph's rehearse ;
Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.

On Mincio's banks, in Cæsar's bounteous reign,
If Tityrus found the golden age again,
Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?
From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,
Where Virgil, not where fancy, leads the way?

No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast,
Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast;
Where other cares than these the Muse relates,
And other shepherds dwell with other mates;
By such examples taught, I paint the cot,
As Truth will paint it and as bards will not:
Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain,
To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ;
O'ercome by labour, and bowed down by time,
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed ?—
Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,
Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? ·
Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o’er,
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;
From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears;

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye :
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;

There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.

THE CONVICT'S DREAM.

[From The Borough, Letter xxiii.]

Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain:
He see the judge and jury-when he shakes,
And loudly cries 'Not guilty!' and awakes:
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compelled to sleep.

Now comes the dream again: it shows each scene
With each small circumstance that comes between,
The call to suffering, and the very deed-
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;
Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,
While he in fancied envy looks at them:
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be:
A priest attends-it seems the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight,
He sees his native village with delight;
The home, the chamber, where he once arrayed
His youthful person; where he knelt and prayed:

Then too the comfort he enjoyed at home,
The days of joy; the joys themselves are come ;-
The hours of innocence; the timid look

Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took,
And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.

All now is present; 'tis a moment's gleam,
Of former sunshine-stay delightful dream!
Let them within his pleasant garden walk,
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile :
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield;-No! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind:

He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue :
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,
The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows.
Pierced by no crime and urged by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane-then linger in the mead;
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,
And pluck the blossoms where the wild bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;

Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge-and there behold the bay!
The ocean smiling to the fervid sun-

The waves that faintly fall and slowly run-
The ships at distance and the boats at hand;
And now they walk upon the seaside sand,
Counting the number and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea;
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold

The glittering waters on the shingles rolled;
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,

And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,
Or lie like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon.
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glittering by:
Pearl shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour fire-
Tokens of bliss! Oh! horrible! a wave
Roars as it rises-Save me, Edward! save!
She cries -Alas! the watchman on his way
Calls, and lets in-truth, terror, and the day!

STROLLING PLAYERS.

[From The Borough, Letter xii.]

Sad happy race! Soon raised and soon depressed,
Your days all passed in jeopardy and jest ;
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warned by misery, not enriched by gain :
Whom justice, pitying, chides from place to place,
A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race,
Who cheerful looks assume, and play the parts

Of happy rovers with repining hearts;
Then cast off care, and, in the mimic pain

Of tragic woe, feel spirits light and vain,

Distress and hope-the mind's, the body's, wear,
The man's affliction and the actor's tear:
Alternate times of fasting and excess

Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.

Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems, And with your varying views and restless schemes, Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.