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E ENGLISH POETS.

sounds so soft,
Meditation here
ments. Here the heart
the head,
ithout his books

r from being one,
Knowledge dwell

-hts of other men;
to their own.
able mass,
ch Wisdom builds,

and fitted to its place,
seems to enrich

has learn'd so much;

nows no more.

DOL.

some praise,
early days;
e heart is stone

and feels at none
r graving skill,
sisting still;
hile deep employ'd,
new'd, not yet destroy'd;

owing hot,
very spot;
and draw

down at taw;
nded hat,
erous pat;
excites
lights,
st to obtain
s again.
ell-known place,
e's long race,
failing sway,
r latest day.

ON MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here:
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son.
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—
-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-it was.-Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled.

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That Memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a form, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid :
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here

THE CASTAWAY,

OBSCUREST night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away :

But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford ;
And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow :

But be, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell❜d :

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Ilad heard his voice in every blast,

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THE author of "The Botanic Garden," was born at Elston, near Newark, m 1731. He was educated at St John's, Cambridge, and from thence proceeded to Edinburgh, where he studied medicine. After taking his degree there, he settled in Lichfield, where he got into extensive practice. He afterwards removed to Derby, where he published the first part of his "Botanic Garden;" the second and third parts followed in 1789 and 1792. Darwin was the author of several prose works, evincing considerable metaphysical talent. He died 18th April 1802. He left another poem, of the same character as "The Botanic Garden," ready for the press. It was published shortly after his death, under the title of "The Temple of Nature."

ON STEAM.

From "The Botanic Garden."

NYMPHS! you erewhile on simmering caldrons play'd,
And call'd delighted Savery to your aid;
Bade round the youth explosive Steam aspire,
In gathering clouds, and wing'd the wave with fire;
Bade with cold streams the quick expansion stop,
And sunk the immense of vapour to a drop.
Press'd by the ponderous air the piston falls
Resistless, sliding through its iron walls;
Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant birth,
Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth.
The Giant-Power from Earth's remotest caves
Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves;
Each cavern'd rock and hidden den explores,
Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores.
Next, in close cells of ribbed oak comined,
Gale after gale, he crowds the struggling wind;
The imprison'd storms through brazen nostrils roar,
Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore.
Here high in air the rising stream he pours
To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers;
Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils,
And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.
There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl

On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl,
Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind,
Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind.

Now his hard hands on Mona's rifted crest,
Bosom'd in rock, her azure ores arrest;
With iron lips his rapid rollers seize
The lengthening bars, in thin expansion squeeze;
Descending screws with ponderous fly-wheels wound
The tawny plates, the new medallions round;
Hard dyes of steel the cupreous circles cramp,
And with quick fall his massy hammers stamp.
The harp, the lily, and the lion join,

And George and Britain guard the sterling coin.
Soon shall thy arm, unconquer'd Steam! afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car;
Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear
The flying-chariot through the fields of air.
-Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above,
Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move;
Or warrior-bands alarm the gaping crowd,
And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud.

William Falconer.

Born 1730
Drowned 1769.

FALCONER was the son of a poor barber in Edinburgh, and was born there on 11th February 1730. He joined a Leith merchant vessel as an apprentice, and there acquired that intimate knowledge of sea matters which qualified him for the composition of his poem. He was shipwrecked in the Britannia, when second-mate, off Cape Colonna; and the scene there enacted has been vividly described in "The Shipwreck." The He was succeswork was successful, and brought Falconer into notice. sively made midshipman, and then purser, in the Glory. After the peace he was paid off; and among other means that he tried to make a living, he wrote a "Marine Dictionary," which is still the basis of all others. In 1769, the poet, having been appointed purser of the Aurora frigate bound for India, again went to sea; but the vessel, after passing the Cape, was never more heard of, and is supposed to have foundered with all on board.

FROM "THE SHIPWRECK."

In vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now th' audacious seas insult the yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,

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