Pilgrim's Progress" with the prints, "Vanity | The following poems are extracted as speciFair," &c., now scarce. Four shillings. Cheap. mens from the volume for those who are not acAnd also one of whom I have oft heard and had quainted with the poetical value of the author. dreams, but never saw in the flesh-that is, in sheepskin-"The whole theologic works of Thomas Aquinas!"

My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to the shoulders of Æneas; or the Lady to the Lover in the old romance, who having to carry her to the top of a high mountain-the price of obtaining her clambered with her to the top and fell dead with fatigue.

O the glorious old schoolmen !


A Summer Evening.

It is not only while we look upon

A lovely landscape that its beauties please;
In distant days, when we afar are gone

From such, in fancy's idle reveries,

Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize, It comes in living beauty, fresh as when

We first beheld it ;-valley, hill, or trees, There must be something in him. Such great O'ershadowing unseen brooks; or outstretched fen, names imply greatness. Who hath seen Michel With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again. Angelo's things-of us that never pilgrimaged to Rome and yet which of us disbelieves his great- Such pictures silently and sweetly glide ness? How I will revel in his cobwebs and subtleties till my brain spins, &c.

Was the following letter addressed to Bernard Barton? or was it only found among his papers? There is a Latin letter from Lamb to Coleridge, from Enfield, but we cannot lay our hands on it at present:


April, 1831.

Recepi literas tuas amicissimas, et in mentern venit responsuro mihi, vel raro, vel nunquam, inter nos intercedisse Latinam linguam, organum rescribendi, loquendive. Epistolæ tuæ, Plinianis elegantiis (supra quod Tremulo deceat) repertæ, tam a verbis Plinianis adeo abhorrent, ut ne vocem quamquam (Romanam scilicet) habere videaris, quam ad canem," ut aiunt, " rejectare possis."Forsan desuetudo Latinisandi ad vernaculam linguam usitandam, plusquam opus sit, coegit. Per adagia quædam nota, et in ore omnium pervulgata, ad Latinitatis perdita recuperationem revocare te



Felis in abaco est, et ægrè videt.

Omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. Imponas equo mendicum, equitabit idem ad diabolum.

Fur commodê a fure prenditur.

Before my "mind's eye;" and I welcome them
The more because their presence has supplied
A joy, as pure and stainless as the gem
Of the fair garden's queen, the lovely rose,
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem

Ere breeze or sunbeam from her diadem
Have stolen one brilliant; and around she throws
Her perfumes o'er the spot that with her beauty

Bear witness many a loved and lovely scene,
Which I no more may visit-are ye not
Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green,
Sweet Gosfield! or thou wild, romantic spot,
Where, by gray craggy cliff and lonely grot,
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed;
Ye still remain as fresh and unforgot
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed
Upon your charms, and yet months, years, since
then have sped

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years,
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire,
In Meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears

O Maria, Maria, valdé CONTRARIA, quomodo Have been too busy, and we would retire crescit hortulus tuus?

Nunc majora canamus.

Thomas, Thomas, de Islington, uxorem duxit die nuperâ Dominicâ. Reduxit domum posterâ.

Succedenti baculum emit. Postridie ferit illam.

Agrescit illa subsequenti. Proximâ (nempe Veneris) est mortua. Plurimum gestiit Thomas, quòd appropinquanti sabbato efferenda sit.

Horner quidam Johannulus in angulo sedebat, artocreas quasdam deglutiens. Inseruit pollices, pruna manu evellens, et magnâ voce exclamavit, "Dii boni, quam bonus puer fio!"

Diddle-diddle-dumkins! meus unicus filius Johannes cubitum ivit, integris braccis, caligâ unâ tantum, indutus-Diddle-diddle, &c. Da capo.

Hic adsum saltans Joannula. Cum nemo adsit mihi, semper resto sola.

In his nugis caram diem consumo, dum invigilo valetudini carioris nostræ Emmæ quæ apud nos jamdudum ægrotat. Salvere vos jubet mecum Maria mea, ipsa integrâ valetudine.


E'en from ourselves awhile-yet of ourselves

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
For still communion all around is sweet,

And calm, and soothing; when the light breeze


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"Light thickens ;" and the moon advances; slow
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels:
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low
And mossy gray, her silver light reveals;
Now quivering through the lime-tree foliage

And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals

Ab agro Enfeldiense datum, Aprilis nescio qui To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread,

bus Calendis

Davus sum, non calendarius.

P. S. Perdita in toto est Billa Reformatura.

Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the


Not ours the vows of such as plight

Their troth in sunny weather,
While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread
The thorny path of sorrow,
With clouds above, and cause to dread
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those stormy skies,
Have drawn our spirits nearer;
And rendered us, by sorrow's ties,
Each to the other dearer.

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth,
With mirth and joy may perish;
That to which darker hours gave birth
Still more and more we cherish.

It looks beyond the clouds of time,
And through death's shadowy portal,
Made by adversity sublime,

By faith and hope immortal.


Cheerful old man! whose pleasant hours were spent Where Lea's still waters through their sedges glide;

Or on the fairer banks of peaceful Trent,

Or Dove hemmed in by rocks on either side: Thy book is redolent of fields and flowers, Of freshly flowing streams and honey-suckle bow


Although I reck not of the rod and line,

Thou needest no such brotherhood to give
Charm to thy artless pages-they shall shine,
And thou, depicted in them, long shall live
For many a one to whom thy craft may be
A thing unknown, ev'n as it is to me.
Thy love of nature, quiet contemplation,

In meadows where the world was left behind; Still seeking with a blameless recreation

In troubled times to keep a quiet mind; This, with thy simple utterance, imparts A pleasure ever new to musing hearts. And thou hast deeper feelings to revere,

Drawn from a fountain even more divine, That blend thine own with memories as dear,

With names our hearts with gratitude enshrine; Holy George Herbert, Wotton, Ken, and Donne, The pious Hooker, Cranmer, Sanderson.


The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood,

Whose budding boughs confess the genial gale; And thrush and blackbird* tell their tender tale;

*This is very classical.-"Notabile est," says a learned critic, "quod in epigrammatibus, quæ in Anthologia leguntur, semper juncti inveniuntur merula et turdus in venatione." Vide Schneideri Periculum Criticum, p. 66. Both these birds, from their song, were sacred to Apollo, and thus the κίχλη and κόσσυφος (the merle and mavis) were called iɛgot oore9es. This epithet is given in a little epigram in the Anthologia by a poet whose name is not known, which, with a great loss of the beauty of the original, we venture to translate.

Concealed beneath a broad-boughed Platane's shade,
The shepherd-boy his youthful toils had spread,
And soon a thrush his sacred captive made,
Who mourned, in piteous cries, her freedom fled.
Oh! gentle Love! and oh! ye Graces fair!

I would that little songster's fate were mine;
At such sweet bondage would I not repine,

But, in his bosom laid, would weep and murmur there.-REV.

The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has stood,
Shows signs of blossoming; the streamlet's flood
Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each vale
The lowly violet, and the primrose pale,
Have lured the bee to seek his wonted food.
Then up! and to your forest haunts repair,

Where Robin Hood once held his revels gay;
Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal spray;
And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare,
In all your sylvan luxuries shall share
When I peruse them in your minstrel lay.


Beacon for barks that navigate the stream
Of Ore or Ald, or breast the ocean spray:
Landmark for inland travellers far away
O'er heath and sheep-walk-as the morning beam
Or the declining sunset's mellower gleam
Lights up thy weather-beaten turrets gray;
Still dost thou bear thee bravely in decay,
As if thy by-gone glory were no dream!
Yea, now with lingering grandeur thou look'st down
From thy once fortified embattled hill,
As if thine ancient office to fulfil;
And, though thy keep be but the ruined crown
Of Orford's desolate and dwindled town,

Seem'st to assert thy sovereign honor still.

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Why are these tamer landscapes fraught
With charms whose meek appeal
To sensibility and thought

The heart is glad to feel?

Cowper, thy muse's magic skill

Has made them sacred ground:
Thy gentle memory haunts them still,
And casts a spell around.

The hoary oak, the peasant's nest,
The rustic bridge, the grove,
The turf thy feet have often pressed,
The temple and alcove;

The shrubbery, moss-house, simple urn,
The elms, the lodge, the hall,-
Each is thy witness in its turn,
Thy verse the charm of all.

Thy verse, no less to nature true
Than to religion dear,
O'er every object sheds a hue

That long must linger here.

Amid these scenes the hours were spent
Of which we reap the fruit;

And each is now thy monument,
Since that sweet lyre is mute.

“Here, like the nightingale's, were poured
Thy solitary lays,"

Which sought the glory of the Lord,
"Nor asked for human praise."


To Charles Lamb.

It is a mild and lovely winter night,

The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh; The crescent moon and stars of twinkling light Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky. Within the fire burns clearly; in its rays

My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile;

Its antique mouldings brightened by the blaze
Might vie with any of more modern style.
That rural sketch-that scene in Norway's land-
Of rocks and pine-trees by the torrent's foam-
That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful

Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home—
That Virgin and her Child, with those sweet boys-
All of the fire-light own the genial gleam;
And lovelier far than in day's light and noise

At this still hour to me their beauties seem.

One picture more there is, which should not be
Unhonored or unsung, because it bears
In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee,
Heightening to fancy every charm it wears—
A quaint familiar group-a mother mild

And young and fair, who fain would teach to read That urchin, by her patience unbeguiled,

The volume open on her lap to heed.

With fingers thrust into his ears, he looks

As much he wished the weary task were done; And more, far more, of pastime than of books

Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun. Graver, or in the pouts, (I know not well

Which of the twain,) his elder sister plies Her needle so, that it is hard to tell

What the full meaning of her downcast eyes. Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know Where such a picture hung in days of yore, Its highest worth, its deepest charm, to show I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more.

It is not womanhood in all its grace

And lovely childhood plead to me alone; Though these each stranger still delights to trace, And with congratulating smile to own; No-with all these my feelings fondly blend A hidden charm unborrowed from the eye; That wakes the memory of my absent friend, And chronicles the pleasant hours gone by.


My own beloved, adopted town!
Even this glimpse of thee,
Whereon I've seen the sun go down
So oft-suffices me.

For more than forty chequered years
Hast thou not been my home?
Till all that most this life endears
Forbids a wish to roam.

I came to thee a stranger youth,
Unknowing and unknown;

And Friendship's solace and Love's truth
In thee have been mine own.

Loved for the living and the dead,
No other home I crave;

Here would I live till life be fled,
Here find a nameless grave.


Bird of the free and fearless wing,
Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray,
Until the spacious welkin ring

With thy enlivening matin lay:
I love to track thy heaven-ward way
Till thou art lost to aching sight,

And hear thy numbers blithe and gay,
Which set to music morning's light.
Songster of sky and cloud! to thee

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assigned;
And thou, to hear those notes of glee,
Would'st seem therein thy bliss to find
Thou art the first to leave behind

At day's return this lower earth, And, soaring as on wings of wind,

To spring where light and life have birth. Bird of the sweet and taintless hour, When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea, Ere yet upon the bending flower

Has lit the busy humming-bce ;Pure as all nature is to thee

Thou, with an instinct half divine, Wingest thy fearless flight so free

Up toward a yet more glorious shrine. Bird of the morn! from thee might man, Creation's lord, a lesson take:

If thou, whose instinct ill may scan

The glories that around thee break,
Thus biddest a sleeping world awake
To joy and praise ;-oh! how much more
Should mind immortal earth forsake,
And man look upward to adore!

Bird of the happy, heaven-ward song!
Could but the poet act thy part,
His soul, up-borne on wings as strong
As thought can give, from earth might start,
And with a far diviner art

Than ever genius can supply,

As thou the ear, might glad the heart,
And scatter music from the sky.


The butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing;
The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray,
As it goes dancing on its idle way;
The sunflower, in broad daylight glistening;
Are types of her who in the festive ring

Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display,
And glittering through her bright but useless day,
"Flaunts, and goes down a disregarded thing!"
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee,

Whose industry for future hours provides; The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides Unseen along; the flower which gives the lea Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee,

And of the active worth thy modest merit hides.


The lamp will shed a feeble glimmering light
When the sustaining oil is nearly spent ;
The small stars twinkle in the firmament,
And the moon's paler orb arise on night,
When day has waned; the scathed tree, despite
Of age, look green, with ivy-wreaths besprent;
And faded roses yet retain a scent

When death has made them loveless to the sight.
So linger on, as seeming loath to die,

Light, color, sweetness; thus unto the last
The poet o'er his worn-out lyre will cast
A nerveless hand, and still new numbers try;
Not unrewarded, if its parting sigh

Seem like the lingering echo of the past.


It was a happy thought, upon the brow
Of this slight eminence, abrupt and sheer,
This artless seat and straw that ched roof to rear;

Where one may watch the laborer at his plough;
Or hear well-pleased, as I am listening now,

The song of wild birds falling on the ear,
Blended with hum of bees, or, sound more drear,
The solemn murmur of the wind-swept bough.

Tent-like the fabric-in its centre stands
The sturdy oak, that spreads his boughs on high
Above the roof: while to the unsated eye

Beauteous the landscape which below expands,
Where grassy meadows, richly cultured lands,
With leafy woods and hedge-row graces vie.


Old age is dark and unlovely.—OSSIAN.
Oh say not so! A bright old age is thine;
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine

At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all He sends with gratitude receives;-
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!

And hence thy fire-side chair appears to me
A peaceful throne-which thou wert formed to fill;
Thy children, ministers who do thy will;
And those grand-children, sporting round thy

Thy little subjects, looking up to thee
As one who claims their fond allegiance still.*

From Bentley's Miscellany.


FROM 1776 To 1805.

In August, 1794, at his majesty's suit, the cause respecting the marriage of the Duke of been solemnized in Italy, and afterwards at St. Sussex and Lady Augusta Murray, which had George's, Hanover Square, was finally determined in Doctors' Commons, when Sir William Wynne delivered the judgment of the court, that the marriage was utterly null and void, declaring that the ceremony performed at Rome was also, by the law of this country, invalid and illegal.

MY LORD, I begin my letter with a thousand thanks for your very kind attention to me in offering the city living for any one of my young people. 1 hope that Lord Aylesbury has by this time informed you of the happy young man who I knew some years ago to bear a very good character at Christ Church, which was the only reason that could have induced me to name him, and I trust that he will be worthy of your protection.

I have the pleasure of acquainting you, my lord, that his majesty is, thank God, quite well; that our sea-excursions proved of great benefit to him, and that in point of bodily exercise he is very careful; and though hunting is not quite given over, yet do we readily stay at home when the clouds threaten us with storms. We have also had very good accounts of my son Augustus, who must by this time have arrived at Pisa. This tour is made for precaution, for his old complaint was greatly abated since last year, and he would himself rather have chosen to stay at home.

It would give me great satisfaction to receive such good accounts of you as I sent from hence, and have it confirmed that Worcestershire air proves more salutary than that of London, of which I hear you do not intend to make any trial this year, at least not for any length of time. I cannot blame you, my lord, but may pity your friends, who must consequently be deprived of your agreeable society. I wish it was not so, but as it is for your good, I sincerely wish that it may prove beneficial, and be the means of prolonging the life of an excellent man to this country, in which nobody can more rejoice than myself. CHARLOTTE.

Windsor, the 23d Dec., 1789.
To the Bishop of Worcester.

Ir will have been abundantly apparent in the letters we have already presented, addressed by George III. to the Bishop of Worcester, that the king was a sovereign perfectly aware of his responsibilities as such-although, perhaps, he did not always wisely interpret them; that he was a sincere and attached friend, and that he was a most exemplary husband and father. Unhappily, our history shows us so few good kings, that it is but small praise of George III., when we say that no monarch ever ascended the throne of these realms with a deeper conviction of the greatness of the charge committed to him. He emphatically believed himself to be "defender of the faith y the grace of God," and he did what seemed to him best to acquit himself of the awful trust reposed in him. Too much respect cannot be accorded to his domestic character, which furnishes an example of old English sterling worth and virtue, that the succeeding regency and reign not only could not obscure, but only rendered more conspicuous; which example we now behold, not The thanksgiving which the king, in the folrevived but continued in his well-beloved grand-lowing letter, speaks of ordering, was a very soldaughter, her present majesty.

The following letter from Queen Charlotte contains an allusion to the Duke of Sussex, which we must not pass over. If that prince, who "would himself rather have stayed at home," had been indulged in his wish, in all probability he would never have contracted the marriage which was the source of such disquiet to his parents.

* "A good Sonnet. Diri."-C. LAMB.

MY LORD, I am very agreeably employed by she has not misunderstood you concerning your Mamma in writing to you to say, that she hopes coming to Windsor to-morrow, and that your apartment is well-aired. Mamma also desires you will be so good as to answer this note; and I am happy to take this opportunity of assuring you that nobody can be happier with the idea of your intended visit to Windsor than your friend,


emn and splendid ceremony. We know not-or rather, we think we know-what Mr. Cobden and his friends would say of it, were such a procession to take place now-a-days; but the spirit of Englishmen is not altered, who, in the last resort, will take up arms in a just cause, and who will return thanks to the Almighty when their arms have been successful.

The 19th of December, 1793, was the day ap

pointed for a general thanksgiving, for the three Recurring to the above letter, we would call the great naval victories obtained by his majesty's attention of the reader to the sentiments expressed fleets, under Lords Howe, St. Vincent, and Dun- in the concluding portion of it. If, during the can a grand procession to St. Paul's by the last twelvemonth, the subjects and potentates of royal family and the two houses of Parliament, Germany had been similarly impressed, we should took place. This procession was also composed never have seen with indignation and horror the of the officers of state, the officers of the house- inhuman barbarities that have been committed both hold, the municipal authorities, and seamen and by imperialists and “patriots." marines bearing the captured French, Spanish, and Dutch flags.

The next letter refers to the Princess Amelia. The illness, of which the fond father fancies he As soon as the king arrived at the naval circle perceives an amendment, was most protracted and in the cathedral, he stopped and spoke for some painful. She died on the 2d November, 1810. time to Lord Duncan, who supported the captive Shortly before her death, she wished to present colors of the Dutch Admiral De Winter. He also her father, whom she tenderly loved, with a last paused to speak to Sir Alan Gardiner, who bore token of her affection, and placed on his finger a the principal French standard, taken from that ring made under her own direction, containing a enemy on the first of June. The king appeared small lock of her hair, inclosed under a crystal in blue and gold; the queen in mazarine blue, tablet, set round with a few sparks of diamonds. with a diamond head-dress; the princesses in the The loss of this his youngest daughter-so long same colored vests, with head-dresses of gold and feared, till perhaps fear began to give place to white feathers. Their majesties were received hope, so preyed upon the feelings of the king, with great applause as they passed the body of the that he sank a victim to that mental disorder under church to and fro. The gallant Lord Duncan was which he had suffered twenty years before. greeted with rapturous and repeated plaudits. Mr. Pitt and Mr. Dundas were received much MY GOOD LORD,-The entering on a new century more favorably in the church than they had been is so natural an occasion of writing to one whom I in their passage to it; for Mr. Pitt was very gross- so thoroughly love, that I cannot refrain, though at ly insulted on his way to the cathedral, in conse- the risk of breaking in upon your retirement. I quence of which he did not return in his own car- shall not add to it by unnecessary compliments on riage. The whole business was conducted (with the season, as I trust you are sensible of my feelings this exception) with the utmost order and pro- on that subject at all times. priety, and the beauty and clearness of the day greatly increased the splendor and brilliancy of the spectacle.

Windsor, Oct. 19th, 1797.

MY GOOD LORD,-The "Hanoverian Quarterly Messenger" has brought the annual prize essays from the University of Gottingen: I therefore send the copy I have usually forwarded for Hartlebury, but find that for 1793 was omitted; it goes with the other. I was happy to learn from Mr. Stillingfleet, at Weymouth, that your health has been better the last summer than in common. hope it remains so now.


The valor of the navy never shone more than in the late glorious action off Camperdown, on the Dutch coast, and I trust its effects will render our enemies more humble; and trust that while my subjects praise the conduct of the officers and sailors, that they will return thanks where most due, to the Almighty, who has crowned their endeavors with success. I feel this last sentiment so strongly, that I propose to order a thanksgiving on the occasion, in which I mean to join, in consequence of the success over the Dutch, the two memorable battles of Earl Howe over the French, and the Earl of St. Vincent over the Spaniards. Without true seeds of religion, no people can be happy, nor will be obedient to legal authority, nor will those in command be moderate in the exercise of it, if not convinced that they are answerable to an higher power for their conduct. But were I to indulge myself on this subject, I should certainly obtrude too long on your patience. I will, therefore, conclude, with every assurance of feeling much interest, my good lord, in your health and happiGEORGE R.

Windsor, Jan. 1st, 1800.

I have the satisfaction of assuring you that all my family are well; even dear Amelia is, with gigantic steps, by the mercy of Divine Providence, arriving at perfect health. She was on the 24th of last month confirmed, by her own request, by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who seemed much pleased in the preparatory conversations he had with her, of her being well grounded in our holy religion, and the serious duty she was taking upon herself. On Christmas-day he administered the Holy Communion in my chapel, with a solemnity and propriety that could not but give pleasure to those who partook of it. The sermon was preached by the Bishop of St. David's, and a more excellent discourse or exposition of the Christian religion I never heard; indeed, the five sermons he has preached at the Cathedral on the five Sundays in December, were equally admired; and all on Christianity, not mere moral subjects. I have pressed him to collect them, with such further explanations as a treatise in support of our holy religion might require, and then to publish what may be useful to others, as well as highly creditable to himself. Young bishops ought to write, that their talents may be known.

I know you are no great lover of political subjects, yet the impudent overthrow of the monstrous French Republic by a Corsican adventurer, and his creating himself sole lawgiver, and executor of his own decrees, must have astonished you. Without more foresight than common sense dictates, one may conceive that his impious preeminence cannot be of long duration.

My good lord, most affectionately yours, GEORGE R. P. S.-My son, the Duke of York, who is here, has desired me to express the pleasure he has reTo the Lord Bishop of Worcester, Hartlebury Castle.ceived from reading the letters I have shown him


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