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SCORN NOT THE SONNET.

Scorn not the Sonnet. Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honors: with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
Camöens soothed with it an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ;-
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.

EVENING.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea.
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl, that walkest with me here!
If thou appearest untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thon liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worshippest at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

THE FAVORED SHIP.

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy

Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
"Her tackling rich, and of apparel high."
This ship was naught to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover's look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she, and due north her journey took.

TO SLEEP.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky,-
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

THE MIND THAT BUILDS FOR AYE.

A volant tribe of bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play,
On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay:
How quickly, from that aerie hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye,
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within the chosen ring,
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

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WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1803.

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

THY ART BE NATURE.

A poet!-He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand; must

laugh

By precept only, and shed tears by rule!
Thy art be nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when critics grave and cool
Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold!
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold;
And so the grandeur of the forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;-
O miserable chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee: air, earth, and
skies:

There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

LONDON, 1802.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour!
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
Oh, raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

PHILOCTETES.

When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
Lay couched,-upon that breathless monument,
On him, or on his fearful bow unbent,
Some wild bird oft might settle, and beguile
The rigid features of a transient smile,
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent,
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment
From home affections and heroic toil.

Nor doubt that spiritual creatures round us move,
Griefs to allay that reason cannot heal;
And very reptiles have sufficed to prove
To fettered wretchedness that no Bastile

Is deep enough to exclude the light of love,
Though man for brother-man has ceased to feel.

WE MUST BE FREE, OR DIE.

It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which to the open sea
Of the world's praise from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters unwithstood,"
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,-
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish, and to evil and to good

Be lost forever! In our halls is hung
Armory of the invincible knights of old:
We must be free or die who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake, the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.-In everything we are sprung
Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

OCTOBER, 1803.

These times touch moneyed worldlings with dismay:
Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
With words of apprehension and despair;
While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,—
Men unto whom sufficient for the day,

And minds not stinted or untilled, are given,—
Sound, healthy children of the God of heaven,-
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May.
What do we gather hence but firmer faith
That every gift of noble origin

Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath?
That virtue and the faculties within
Are vital, and that riches are akin

To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death.

ON PERSONAL TALK.

IN FOUR SONNETS.

I.

I am not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,-
Of friends who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbors daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk;
These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering its faint under-song.

II.

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blessed, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet
And part far from them: sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave-the meanest we can meet!

III.

Wings have we-aud as far as we can go,
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which, with the lofty, sanctifies the low;
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we
know,

Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store
Matter wherein right voluble I am,

To which I listen with a ready ear;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,-
The gentle lady married to the Moor;

And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.

IV.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancor, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignaut truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
thought:

And thus, from day to day, my little boat
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them—and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares-
The poets-who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh, might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

Joseph Hopkinson.

AMERICAN.

Hopkinson (1770-1842) was a native of Philadelphia, son of Francis Hopkinson, a member of the Continental Congress, and one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Francis was also the author of several humorous picces in verse, of which "The Battle of the Kegs" is the best known. Joseph became a member of Congress, and in 1828 was appointed United States District Judge. His one patriotic song of "Hail, Columbia" possesses but slight lyrical merit, and owed much of its popularity to the felicitous music of "The Presi dent's March," to which it was adapted. It was written in 1798, when a war with France was thought imminent. The song drew large audiences to the theatres where it was sung night after night for a whole season. It has made the melody one of the national airs.

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.-HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.

HAIL, COLUMBIA!

Hail, Columbia! happy land!

Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band!

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoyed the peace your valor won.

Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost;
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.
Firm, united let us be,
Rallying round our Liberty;
As a band of brothers joined,
Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more:
Defend your rights, defend your shore;

Let no rude foe with impious hand,
Let no rude foe with impious hand,
Invade the shrine where sacred lies
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize.
While offering peace sincere and just,
In Heaven we place a manly trust,
That truth and justice will prevail,
And every scheme of bondage fail.
Firm, united let us be, etc.

Sound, sound the trump of Fame!
Let Washington's great name

Ring through the world with loud applause,
Ring through the world with loud applause;
Let every clime to Freedom dear
Listen with a joyful ear!

With equal skill and godlike power,
He governed in the fearful hour
Of horrid war; or guides with ease
The happier times of honest peace.
Firm, united let us be, etc.

Behold the chief who now commands,
Once more to serve his country stands-

The rock on which the storm will beat;
The rock on which the storm will beat.
But, armed in virtue firm and true,
His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you.
When hope was sinking in dismay,
And glooms obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind, from changes free,
Resolved on death or liberty.

Firm, united let us be, etc.

Hon. William Robert Spencer.

295

Spencer (1770-1834), a younger son of Lord Charles Spencer, was educated at Harrow and Oxford. He held for some time the appointment of Commissioner of Stamps. He became a society-man, and his poetical fame rests chiefly on three short stanzas, beginning "Too late I stayed." His ballad of "Beth Gêlert" is also well known. His poems are mostly ephemeral "society verses. Falling into pecuniary difficulties he removed to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and published in 1835. As a companion he was courted by the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but if we may credit the account given of him by Rogers, he was heartless and artificial-less a friend than a pleasure-seeker.

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Too late I stayed,-forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time, That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of the glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass!

Oh, who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have leut Their plumage for his wings!

BETH GÊLERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE
GREYHOUND.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:
"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear!

Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam-
The flower of all his race:

So true, so brave-a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gêlert fed;

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,

And sentinelled his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found,

And all the chase rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,

All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood!

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise,

Unused such looks to meet;

His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewelyn passed, And on went Gêlert too;

And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view! O'erturned his infant's bed he found,

With blood-stained cover rent, And all around, the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.

He called his child-no voice replied-
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child!
"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured!"
The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gêlert's side!

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;

But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh:

What words the parent's joy could tell,

To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap,

His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kissed!

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantie blow which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.

There, never could the spearman pass
Or forester unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,

In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gêlert's Grave."

Henry Luttrell.

Luttrell (1770-1851), said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton, was well educated, and grew to be a man of wit and fashion in London. He published "Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme" (1820), and "Crockford House" (1827). Rogers, the poet, said of him: "None of the talkers whom I meet in London society can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does." The following epigram was made by Luttrell on the once famous vocalist, Miss Maria Tree:

"On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, The tree will return her as good as she brings." Luttrell's graphic and truthful description of a London fog is quite equal to the best passages to be found in the

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