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ther, as I last saw her, comes over me as "what a debt of gratitude do I owe thee ! a pleasant dream." He looked on the Alas! must the joy with which I now enpicture, and sighed as he put it into her fold thee so soon pass away? And must I hands. “ Farewell,” he said, “ all I be banished from thy dear presence ? can do for thee I will, and God's blessing Cruel, cruel fate!” he ever with thee!" He pressed her “Nay, dear Herbert?” replied Marian, hand kindly.

Marian's heart was full, " let us not embitter the few moments and she could but weep her thanks, as which remain to us by useless repinings ; the General touched a small silver bell, let us feel grateful that thy life is spared !” when the door was opened, and she “ Banishment from thee is worse than passed forth from the presence of Gene. death !” said Herbert. ral Cromwell with renewed hopes and a “ When thou art abroad, and in safety, thankful spirit.


find means to join thee,” replied Not many days after this interview, Marian. Happy hours may yet be in Marian's nurse came to her, and informed store for us." her that Herbert Lisle, her beloved hus- “ Bless thee, dearest !” said her husband; was at liberty, that he had been band, as he passed his arm around her with her, and desired her to tell Marian waist, and her head reclined on bis shoulhe was impatient to behold her once der. more, and to bid her farewell, as he had They had stood thus for a few seconds, given his promise to the State to depart beside the window, when Herbert quitted forthwith, and his steps were stherefore his position, and advanced towards the watched by their emissaries. She added, inner apartment, whither a sudden call that he would expect Marian at her cot- from the nurse invited him. Marian had tage, at the close of that same evening. taken but a single step to follow him,

It were needless to speak of Marian's when the report of a pistol was heard, and gratitude, when she heard that Herbert Marian, with a deep groan, sunk on the was really at liberty, -of the many affec- cottage floor. tionate messages to him with which she Herbert flew towards her: he raised charged her nurse-of the trembling im- her in his arms : but the ball had entered patience with which she awaited the ap- her side, and the blood flowed freely. pointed hour to behold him.

Herbert bent over her in indescribable Evening came, at length, and the dark- agony. Her face was deathly pale; but ening clouds, and the moaning of the her eyes turned with fondness on her wind, seemed to portend a storm ; but husband, as, with difficulty, she articuMarian heeded not these gloomy appear- lated— This stroke was doubtless meant

She had kept aloof in her cham- for thee. Oh, the bliss that thou art safe, ber from the family all that day, under and that I may die for thee? the plea of indisposition, and it was quite father !” she murmured faintly, as her dusk, and all was still in the house, ere head dropped exhausted on his shoulder. she ventured forth. With noiseless steps “ Help! instant aid, in the name of she passed down the garden at the back God !” wildly cried Herbert; and the of the house, and unfastened the door at nurse, scarcely less distracted, hastened the extremity of it, which led into the to obtain assistance. fields, and hastened onwards, as she be- “ Help is vain,” said Marian ; “ I feel lieved, unheard and unobserved.-Once it here ;” and she pressed her chilly hand or twice, as Marian proceeded through on her side. The dews of death were on the lane which led to the cottage of her her forehead; but her arms were clasped nurse, she thought she heard a footstep firmly around her husband's neck. behind her. She stopped, and listened “ It is a bitter 'pang to leave thee !" intensely, but all was perfectly still and sighed Marian; “ but a few more years, she felt certain that she had been de- and thou wilt be with me, free from sorceived,--that the sound had been merely row, and from suffering." the rustling of the wind through the hedge. The last word was scarcely distinguish

In a few minutes she gained the cottage, able. She sighed heavily : Herbert felt and, hastily unfastening the latch, she en- the arms which were around him relax tered. There was a light in the room, but in their grasp-her gentle soul had fled Marian saw one but her nurse. it was only the lifeless corse of his beri Where is he?" she exclaimed. The loved Marian which he pressed distractold woman pointed to an inner apartment; edly to his bosom, and gazed on in mute but Herbert had heard the sound of her but unutterable despair. voice, and he rushed forth, and caught Marian in his arms. - Beloved of my

It was Philip Godfrey who had fólsoul!” said the young Cavalier, as he lowed Marian on that fatal night. He tenderly bent over his weeping wife, had watched her into the cottage-he


My poor


saw her in the arms of a young cavalier, They met l-how kind the chance that led though he distinguished not that it was

Them both to Thespia's shrine ! Herbert Lisle, he witnessed their en

They heard !-but poor to them, I ween,

The poet's words divine ! dearments, and fraught with madness at For words they had themselves, and these the disgrace which he imagined had been Weighed all the poet's tale ; thus brought upon his family, he drew And, ere they parted, asked and gave

A meeting in the vale ! forth his pistol and aimed it at Herbert. But Marian, his sister, was fated to be They met !-the evening breeze was there, the unhappy sufferer from his deadly Singing its love-spun lay; purpose. He stayed not to know the The twilight smiled a blessing down

Fair substitute for day ! event; as fearful of pursuit, he hastened

While heav'ns white lamps their soft beams immediately from the spot. Bitter was

gave his repentance, when he found that he To cheer th' enchanting hour, had sacrificed his beloved sister ; and But not so bright as might disclose when the true circumstances of the case

To vulgar eyes love's bower ! were made known to him, he was unable They met !-What moments of delight to bear his reflections, and sailed soon Flew rapidly along ; after for America, where he died at the Unmark'd, unthought of, till the lark close of a few years.

Woke morning by his song From the moment of Marian's death, Howloften did they strive to part !

But still the fond " adieu ! Herbert Lisle was a melancholy man; Brought new-born kisses to their lips, and though Matthew Godfrey, softened The parting to renew ! and almost broken hearted by the misfortune which had befallen his family, with many a vow of endless truth, blessed and forgave him ere he left Eng. Where social pleasures could not break land, he moved no inore in scenes of The depth of sorrow's gloom ! gaiety, for the light of his existence had their happiest hours were gone,



The chance that might again passed away for ever ; and, soon after the

Give love so blest a time as that, restoration of King Charles the Second, Spent on the night-dew'd plain; he died at his paternal mansion, in Kent, For friends were stern, and cruel pride young in years, but willingly resigning Because the youth was poor, aná rich the load of life which had pressed heavily

The maid of heart divine !
upon him since the death of his eyer
fondly-rememberad Marian.

The fair one felt the deadly dart
La Belle Assem. of hopeless grief strike deep :-

To see her lie, Death's speedy prey,

Parents, relenting, weep :-
But useless came the proffered grace;

Too late the lingering boon;

She now but hoped to see her love,

Ere Death had closed her doom !

They met !-'twas in the busy scene,

Where bustling commerce reigns ;
Where all her courtiers ronnd her throng,

And press their petty gains.-
And many a mingled crowd was there,

And many a face between;
But their young eyes met in one glance,

As thongh none else had been

They met! Her pallid cheek was flush'd

With fond affection's fire !
But one embrace !-her lover saw

The murder'd maid expire !
Grief had gnaw'd deep into his heart,

And, when this blow was given,
It burst -he sank with her in death;
To meet, we hope, in heaven !


In that one look, what years of speech

Came trembling to their hearts, Sweet as the silent rich perfume

The new blown rose imparts ? And, as they slowly lingered past,

Fond thoughts spread o'er their minds A mystic haze, like summer's dew,

That o'er the warm scene climbs : That look, like sailors' silent words

Becollections of Books and

their Authors.No. 6.

That flutter in the air,
Had meaning in it, and it told,

That love had sent it there?

Days, weeks, and months went slowly on,

Went sad as well as slow; And Fate seem'd bidding each, the hope

of meeting to forego:
Sadly each counted v'er the hours,

That weaken'd, as they fell,
Hope's heav'nly nectar, with the drops

From disappointment's well!

JOHN KEATS, THE POET. I NEVER think of John Keats, but I regret that I knew him, for if I had not known him, the sorrow that I feel for his death would be less, and perhaps little more than that felt for the loss of any young man of genius, who did not live to complete the glorious task set down for him.

John Keats was handsome, indeed his nais," an extravagant rhapsody ; and face might be termed intellectually beau- yet there is in it a true portrait of that tiful ; it expressed more of poetry than young man of genius, whr, if he had even his poetry does, beautiful as it is, lived, would have proved himself the with all its faults, and these are not few. only mind worthy to be placed side by It was such a face as I never saw before side with Milton in blank verse and epic nor since. Any one who had looked on genius. it would have said “ That is no common His fragment called Hyperion” is man." There was a lustre in his look the noblest piece of blank verse that has which gave you the idea of a mind of appeared since Milton's. It would be exquisite refinement, and high imagina. difficult to produce a passage of equal tion; yet, to an observing eye, the seeds length from Young, or from Blair's Gjave, of early death were sown there ; it was or from Cumberland's Calvary, or Townimpossible to look at him, and think him send's Armageddon (which is a fine and long-lived. Jeremy Taylor says, in one andeservedly neglected work), or from of his admirable sermons, that “ there Wordsworth's Excursion, that might comare but few persons upon whose foreheads pete with it. It was an overpowering every man can read the sentence of death, avalanche from the very mountain of written in the lines of a lingering sick- the Muses, which ought to have crushed ness ;” but on his forehead it was writ- and buried those poor blind moles and ten sufficiently palpable for some to read miners who are still uselessly labouring it as they ran.

to underwork his fame. It was fortunate These signs were somewhat contradict- for his reputation that his booksellers ed by a look of strength and durability about persuaded him to publish it, for there his chest and shoulders, which might have were but two or three pieces in his last deceived a casual looker-on; but he volume (Isabel, the Eve of St. Agnes, who could perceive the inner-workings, and one of his Odes) which could have who could estimate the wear and wasting added to his reputation. His publishers, which an ardent, ambitious, and restless however, should have spared such a intellect makes in the “ human form silly excuse for the fragment-like appeardivine,” must have felt persuaded that the ance of Hyperion : the poet who could flame burning within would shortly con- write so noble a fragment ought to have sume the outward shell. His spirit was been above the idle criticism of the day : like burning oil in a vessel of some pre- he should have finished what he had 'so cious and costly wood, which when the nobly began, though a million of reviewers flame has consumed its nutriment, will had cried " hold ! Would Shakspeare, then burn that which contained it. U::. had he lived in these days, have cared to like the pyre that consumes the devoted please such never-pleasable cynicks? widow of the Hindoo husband, where Would Milton? The only poet of this we may see the fire but not the victim, time who has placed himself with those in him we saw the fire and the victim too. great names, set himself above criticism, He, however, was self-devoted martyr and then criticism, instead of trampling to intellect, and not to a senseless and him under fout, as it would have done, brutal custom; and if literature had its bad he been humble, seeing that his army of martyrs, as Religion gloriously spirit would not bow to it, bowed even has, his name would not be forgotten in to prostration to him. This was what its calends.

John Keats should have done, and he Poor fellow, I shall never forget him; might have lived. those who did not know him, and who There are few errors in Hyperion. I have only read his too early productions do not like this simile in it :may ; but those who knew him well never can, if there be any fellowship in man,

" For as in crowded theatres of men and human kindness be anything more

Hubbubi ncreases more they call out 'Hush !' than a word. He was kind, affectionate, a delightful friend, an excellent compa. It is a very poor anachronism, and what nion, a young man wiser than his years, is worse, has in it an air of vulgarity : a true and tender brother (this affection to come back to earth from the “highest it was that sacrificed his life,) a boy in heaven of invention,” for such a simile, ook, but a man in mind, a mortal in

was as illustrative of sinking as it would seeming, but a spirit in spirit. Shelley, have been in Michael Angelo to leave who with all his liberal opinio.is, was at working out his sublime and colossal heart an aristocrat (and I speak this not Moses to carve a cherry stone. It may offensively), slighted him till he knew his be excuse enough for so young a poet, worth, but knew it too late. He after- that Milton has sinned in the same manwards made some amends in his “ Ado- ner ; though some may say that the error

of a great, will not warrant the error of the spirit of literary persecution under a lesser, poets It is, of course, inevita. which he suffered, that we shall insert it. ble and unavoidable, that we should de- It seems to have passed into an estascribe things with which we are not fa- blished maxim," says the Contemplatist, m.liar by things with which we are. But “ that to write badly is a crime of such what is classical should only be illustrated magnitude, as admits of no atonement : it by classical comparisons; or else should so thoroughly strips the delinquent of all be left alone.

social rights, it casts him forth from the “ Hyperion” will do more, in more hospitable circle of his fellow-creatures candid times, to preserve his name, than with such marks of disgrace and infamy, all the rest of his poetry. It is, to be that humanity itself forbears to appear in sure, but a fragment; so is the Theseus his behalf whom all have doomed to reamong the Elgin marbles; but we may lentless persecution. Nothing that is judge by that portion what the entire vented against him ; no reproach, howwork must have been. Would to heaven ever bitter; no lampoon, however maligthat he had been urged by some one who nant; no satire, however false, and therehad influence over his mind to finish it : fore the more poignant; no ridicule, he should have left the pretty and the however intolerable; no contempt, however fantastic to others he had sublimer pow- blasting ; in short, not the most savage ers, which should not have been wasted ferocity which can come into action in minor efforts.--But it is now too late under the veil of literary rancour, is to accuse him of the error of neglecting thought to be misapplied when directed his own reputation. A certain crew against him who has written without examong critics did their best to nip his ge- cellence. Common malefactors, for the nius in the bud, and it is but justice to most infamous crimes, find compassion in them to say that they succeeded.

some breast; but the bad author none. When we think of the abused and fe. His miseries are sport; his sorrows are rocious power which those canker-worms festivity to the literary blood-hounds enof literature exert upon authors, it makes gaged in the pursuit. The murderer is one envy the good old writers. Then if treated with decency and feeling; and a man had merit in his works he was read brutality itself disdains, wantonly, to for that merit, and praised without fear probe the' sores of a corrupted heart. and without deduction; he was not damn- But let an author publish a work that is ed and made a bye-word of reproach, deficient in excellence, who is there that for scorn to point his filthy finger at, be- does not think he has a right to lay the cause he was unfortunate enough to know feelings of that avthor at his feet, with all a brother author, who was hostile in the insulting mockery of derision? Is he taste or politics to the self-created critic; not marked out for acrimonious ridicule nor was he excommunicated because he or lordly contempt ? Is not even his was guilty of the literary heterodoxy of moral character often implicated by some publishing in the city instead of Albe. ungenerous sarcasm, or by some facetious marle-street, or in London instead of parallel ? Is he not derided as a dunce, Edinburgh.

or despised as an idiot ? Is not his name We cannot deprecate this cruel and un mercilessly sported with ? And whence is just kind of criticism better than in the in- all this ? What offence has been comdignant and forcible language of a writer mitted ? What violation of public or who has had much more to do with politi- private welfare has been attempted ? cal than poetical criticism, since he wrote What injury has been, or can be, comthis stirring appeal to the common sense mitted by the publication of a work not of the reading public, and the common just so good as it might be, that it should candour of critics. The remarks we be thought a fitj plea for over-stepping quote are from a work very little known, every boundary of feeling and humanity entitled “ The Contemplatist ; a Series every limit of justice and liberality ? . . of Essays upon Morals and Literature,

But let us pause for a moment, By William Mudford.” He is defending and consider under what conplicated pain bad authors from the persecution and in- a delicate and apprehensive mind must sult which follow them after their first labour, who sees every art employed to false step in literature; what we are render him an object of ridicule and conabout to quote may consequently be con- tempt—the public called upon to feast at sidered as in some measure inapplicable a banquet, where his heart and mind are to the case of John Keats, who, whatever served up for the repast? Think how faults he might have as a poet, was cer- contracted is the circle of human happitainly not wanting in genius, and a highly ness; why, then, delight so much in the poetic mind and imagination ; but the production of human misery, that you passage is so eloquent a deprecation of can, unprovoked, fix a sting in the bosom of an unoffending individual, whose only lar War, who states by way of giving crime is, that his talents are beneath per- additional value to his work, one of great fection ? Prove that the want of ability, interest, that many of the transactions he that the mere publication of an indiffer• has therein related, he was an eye witness ent book is a crime, and one that entitles to, and as we are well aware that all narits perpetrator to malignant aspersion and rations that are founded upon fact, are unfeeling scorn, and then I consent that, valued highly, and read with intense as a crime, it meets its due punishment : interest, we cannot refrain from giving but, until that be done, I must ever eon- the following: sider the wanton abuse of such writers “ From the spot where he fell, the among those actions which a wise and general who had conducted the attack was feeling mind should blush to remember." carried mortally wounded to the town by

With every sentence of this eloquent a party of soldiers. The blood flowed appeal to the better feelings of critics in. fast, and the torture of his wound ingeneral we most cordially agree : the en- creased; but such was the unshaken firmtire paper, indeed, should be framed and ness of his mind, that those about him, hung up as a sort of homily, in the closets judging from the resolution of his counteof all critics, to teach them two moral nance that his hurt was not mortal, exlessons which they are, too prone to for- pressed a hope of his recovery. Hearing get, humanity and humility.

this, he looked steadfastly at the injury for ILUSCENOR. a moment, and then said, “ No; I feel that to be impossible.'

Several times he caused his attendants to stop and turn

him round, that he might behold the field TO MISS S GD. of battle ; and when the firing indicated On the Death of Mr.

the advance of the British, he discovered

his satisfaction, and permitted the bearers Nay tho' the wave closed o'er thy love,

to proceed. Being brought to his lodgMourn not, he left a world of woe; And thou indeed, didst truly prove,

ings, the surgeon examined his wound, How deeply rankling was the blow.

but there was no hope ; the pain increas

ed, and he spoke with great difficulty. At Oh! weep not, that he left a scene

intervals, he asked if the French were But seldom free from toil and care ;

beaten ;

and addressing his old friend Save, when thy form would intervene, For all was gay when thou wert there.

Colonel Anderson, he said, You know

that I always wished to die this way.' Did he not love ? methinks a sound

Again he asked if the enemy were defeatComes gurgling from the limpid wave ; ed; and being told they were, observed, Methinks he wildly looks around,

It is a great satisfaction to me to Alas, no friendly hand to save.

know we have beaten the French." His He thinks on thee it is a spell

countenance continued firm, and his He struggles hard with angry death

thoughts clear ; once only, when he Exhausted, murmurs love farewell!" And gives to thee his latest breath.

spoke of his mother, he became agitated.

He inquired after the safety of his friends, 'Tis ever thus when true hearts meet

and the officers of his staff, and he did 'Tis ever thus with holy love ;

not even in this moment forget to recomIts halo is too pure and sweet ;

mend those whose merit had given them Love's only native sphere 's above.

claims to promotion. His strength was Then mourn not-dry that tearful eye, failing fast, and life was just extinct, For, oh! to thee it still is given,

when, with an unsubdued spirit, as if anThat thou, dear girl-wilt surely die, And meet-to part no more-in heaỹen.

ticipating the baseness of his posthumous

calumniators, he exclaimed, “ I hope Farewell !-farewell !--thou wilt refuse, the people of England will be satisfied, To weep at heay'ns supreme decree; Farewell ! sweet maid-forgive the muse,

I hope my country will do me justice!The stranger muse-who thinks of thee.

The battle was scarcely ended, when his EB. COLLINS, corpse, wrapped in a military cloak, was

interred by the officers of his staff in the citadel of Corunna. The guns of the

enemy paid his funeral honours, and, THE DEATH AND CHARACTER

Soult, with a noble feeling of respect for OF SIR JOHN MOORE. his valour, raised a monument to his me

mory. The account of the last moments and Thus ended the career of Sir John character of the gallant but ill-fated hero Moore, a man whose uncommon capacity of Corunna here inserted, we extract from was sustained by the purest virtue, and Colonel Napier's History of the Peninsu- governed by a disinterested patriotism

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