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George Choly was born in Ireland, towards the close of the last century. Being intended for the Church, he entered the Irish University, Trinity College, Dublin, at an early age, obtained a scholarship, and successively proceeded to the degrees of A.B. and A.M. He was ordained by O’Beirne, Bishop of Meath—the friend of Edmund Burke—and put in charge of a parish in his diocese. His residence was favourable to the study of his profession: the village church stood on the borders of an immense lake, imbedded in mountains; and the solitude amid which the Poet thought and wrote, strengthened his mind, and prepared it to contest for eminence in the great world he was to enter. After remaining some years in this retirement, he visited London;—it was at the animating period when England first embarked in the Spanish war. Sharing the general impulse of the time, and intending to see, in person, the land whose sudden achievements restored almost her old days of romance, he applied himself vigorously to acquire the Spanish language. On the first announcement that the Elbe was open, he went to Germany. No moment could have been more interesting to a British observer. The Continent had been a sealed book since the short peace of Amiens. During the interval the most singular changes had been wrought in every Continental state. The three great capitals of the Continent had been entered by the French armies. The population had been alternately broken down by military severity, and roused to resistance by foreign extortion. Men and manners had changed; half a generation had gone down into the grave;—all was now strange, and impressed with the character of the great convulsion. Dr. Croly has given some account of this aspect of things, in a lately published volume, entitled, the “Year of Liberation,"— formed from his recollections of the time. He resided chiefly in Hamburgh,-the return of the French troops preventing all intercourse with the interior of Germany. Napoleon had flooded the Continent again with his conscripts, and all was confusion. In 1815, Paris was opened to the world. The lost army of France capitulated behind the Loire, and the conqueror of Waterloo replaced the old family of the French kings on the throne. The curiosity of the English led them to Paris in multitudes; and Dr. Croly remained there for some time. But his chief interest seems to have been excited by the localities and monuments of the Revolution; while the generality of the visiters occupied themselves with the later memorials of the empire which abound in Paris, and which form some of the most striking ornaments of that capital, he was engrossed by the scenes which had been distinguished in the revolutionary period and reign of terror, the Temple, the Carmes, the site of the Bastille, the prison of the Abbaye, &c. With those impressions on his mind, on his return to England, he produced his first poem, entitled, “Paris in 1815." It was successful, and was followed at intervals by other poems, “The Angel of the World,” a Tragedy on the subject of the Catilinarian Conspiracy, “Gems from the Antique,” &c.

Dr. Croly is, thus, a writer of tragedy and comedy;—an almost universal Poet; a painter of rich and glowing romance; a daring interpreter of the darkest mystery of the Scriptures,-the Apocalypse of St. John ; a skilful and searching critic; and an eloquent and accomplished preacher. His poems have not obtained a popularity adequate to their merit—perhaps because he manifests but little sympathy with his kind. He is grand and gorgeous, but rarely tender and affectionate; he builds a lofty and magnificent temple, but it is too cold and stately to be a home for the heart. In several of his minor productions, he is exceedingly vigorous and animated,—and from his “Gems" may be selected some of the boldest and most striking compositions in the language.

A few years since he published his first work in prose, “Salathiel, a story of the Past, the Present, and the Future,” founded on the legend of the “Wandering Jew."

But, as we have intimated, in subjects of this order, which are, indeed, analogous to his profession, Dr. Croly had not neglected the more direct studies of theology. He has produced several works on the chief matters of divinity; among the rest, a New Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St. John, which has arrived at a third edition. In the year 1831, Lord Brougham, on taking the seals, gave him one of the livings in his gift as Chancellor. In 1835, Lord Lyndhurst, then Chancellor, gave him the rectory of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, which involved the surrender of his former living. A few years previously he had received from his own University, what he probably felt as scarcely a less gratifying mark of recollection, the unsolicited degree of LL.D.


LARGE, lofty, gorgeous, all that meets the eye,
Strong with the stamp of ancient majesty;
The impress which so undefined, yet clear,
Tells that the former mighty have been there.
All looking hoary pomp ; the walls rich scroll'd,
The roof high flourish'd, arras stiff with gold,
In many a burning hue and broad festoon
Wreathing those casements, blazon'd now with noon;
The marble tablets on their silver claws,
Loaded with nymph, and grace, and pix, and vase.

Beside the mirror foot, the Indian screen
Dazzling the eye with dragons red and green;
The mighty mirror, brightning, doubling all,
In its deep crystal lit an endless hall.

The rout a moment paused, gave glance and smile, Then scatter'd on, to wonder through the pile; Yet there was beauty in the very light That round the chamber roll'd its gush of white; And well the wanderer there might feel his gaze Tranced by the bright creations of the blaze. + × :k + xk x sk


This was the ruler of the land,
When Athens was the land of fame :
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame:
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men, the more than king !

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear,
His sovereignty was held or won;
Fear'd,—but alone as freemen fear;
Loved,—but as freemen love alone :
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,
By Nature's first great title—mind

Resistless words were on his tongue;
Then eloquence first flash'd below !
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,
Minerva, from the thunderer's brow!
And his the sole, the sacred hand,
That shook her aegis o'er the land!

And thron'd immortal, by his side,
A woman sits, with eye sublime,
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;
But if their solemn love were crime,
Pity the beauty and the sage,
Their crime was in their darken'd age.

He perish’d—but his wreath was won— He perish'd on his height of fame ! Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun; Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not die— Her conquest was posterity'


HARK to the knell !
It comes in the swell
Of the stormy ocean wave;
'Tis no earthly sound,
But a toll profound
From the mariner's deep sea grave.

When the billows dash,
And the signals flash,
And the thunder is on the gale;
And the ocean is white
In its own wild light,
Deadly, and dismal, and pale.

When the lightning's blaze
Smites the seaman's gaze,
And the sea rolls in fire and in foam;
And the surges' roar
Shakes the rocky shore,
We hear the sea-knell come.

There 'neath the billow,
The sand their pillow,
Ten thousand men lie low;
And still their dirge
Is sung by the surge,
When the stormy night-winds blow.

Sleep, warriors' sleep
On your pillow deep
In peace for no mortal care,
No art can deceive,
No anguish can heave
The heart that once slumbers there.


Shout for the mighty men
Who died along this shore,
Who died within this mountain glen
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on valour's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae

Shout for the mighty men,
Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den,
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd—a storm of sword and spear—
Like the roused elements,
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land 1

But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
LEoNIDAs no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now:
No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-wash'd grave.
The voice that should be raised by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.

And it is given the surge—
The tree—the rock—the sand—
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!
The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell,
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?
Mother of men like these !
Has not thy outcry gone
Where Justice has an ear to hear *
Be holy God shall guide thy spear;
Till in thy crimson'd seas
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
GREEcE shall be a new-born star !

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