(m carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

But why thus spin my tale-thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier! what's the world to me!"

The lines "To his Wife," are full of delicate affection, full too of his narrow observation of nature and of genial sympathy with all things. They give us a delightful picture of the heart of him who wrote them.

TO HIS WIFE.

"I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest,

A wandering, way-worn, musing, singing guest.

I claim the privilege of hill and plain:

Mine are the woods, and all that they contain;
The unpolluted gale, which sweeps the glade;
All the cool blessings of the solemn shade;
Health, and the flow of happiness sincere.

Yet there's one wish-I wish that thou wert here;
Free from the trammels of domestic care,
With me these dear autumnal sweets to share;

To share my hearts ungovernable joy,

And keep the birth-day of our poor lame boy.

Ah! that's a tender string! Yet since I find

That scenes like these can soothe the harassed mind,
Trust me, 'twould set thy jaded spirits free,
To wander thus through vales and woods with me.
Thou know'st how much I love to steal away
From noise, from uproar, and the blaze of day;
With double transport would my heart rebound
To lead thee where the clustering nuts are found;
No toilsome efforts would our task demand,
For the brown treasure stoops to meet the hand.
Round the tall hazel, beds of moss appear
In green swards nibbled by the forest deer;
Sun, and alternate shade; while o'er our heads
The cawing rook his glossy pinions spreads;
The noisy jay, his wild woods dashing through;
The ring-dove's chorus, and the rustling bough;
The far-resounding gate; the kite's shrill scream ;
The distant ploughman's halloo to his team.

This is the chorus to my soul so dear;

It would delight thee too, wert thou but here;
For we might talk of home, and muse o'er days
Of sad distress, and Heaven's mysterious ways;
Our chequered fortunes with a smile retrace,
And build new hopes upon our infant race;
Pour our thanksgivings forth, and weep the while;
Or pray for blessings on our native isle.

But vain the wish! Mary, thy sighs forbear,

Nor grudge the pleasure which thou canst not share:
Make home delightful, kindly wish for me,

And I'll leave hills, and dales, and woods for thee."

As these extracts sufficiently indicate, the poet was of an affectionate and amiable character. His genius did not get the better of his modesty, nor destroy his attachment for his humble but faithful friends. It is gratifying to know that those excellent and affectionate relations, his mother and brother, both lived to witness the prosperity of him who had been to each, in other days, the object of so much anxious care. It was the dearest of the poet's gratifications, when his book was printed, to present a copy of it to his mother, to whom upon that occasion, he had it in his power, for the first time, to pay a visit, after twelve years' absence from his native village. From a tribute to his memory, by a brother poet, Bernard Barton, we quote a single verse as a conclusion to this imperfect sketch.

"It is not quaint and local terms

Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay,
Though well such dialect confirms,
Its power unlettered minds to sway;

But 'tis not these that most display

Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,

Words, phrases, fashion, pass away,

But Truth and Nature live through all."

WILLIAM FALCONER.

WILLIAM FALCONER, one of the most truthful "

poets of the sea," was the son of a poor Edinburgh barber. He was born in 1730. Two other children, who with himself made up the family of his father, were deaf and dumb. His education, as he himself said, was confined to reading, writing, and a little arithmetic ; but he eagerly grasped after whatever knowledge lay in his way. He was, however, early shut out from even his small opportunities for learning, by being sent to sea on board a Leith merchant ship. To this, he is supposed to refer in a passage in one of his poems.

"On him fair Science dawn'd in happier hour,
Awakening into bloom young Fancy's flower;
But soon adversity, with freezing blast,
The blossom wither'd, and the dawn o'ercast,
Forlorn of heart, and by severe decree,
Condemn'd reluctant to the faithless sea."

Before he was eighteen years of age, he had risen to the rank of second mate in the Britannia, a vessel engaged in the Levant trade. In one of his voyages in this vessel, he was shipwrecked off Cape Colonna, in Greece; and it is here that he lays the scene of "The Shipwreck," the poem by which he will long be remembered. In 1757, he was promoted to the Ramilies man-of-war; and as an opportunity was here afforded of improving his literary taste, he is said to have studied with great assiduity. Certain it is that he

gained a very good knowledge of the French, Spanish, and Italian languages, and learned something of the German. In the Ramilies, he was subjected to a disaster of more magnitude even than his former shipwreck. While making for Plymouth, the ship struck upon the shore; and of a crew of 734 men, only 26 escaped with their lives; among these was the poet. He had already given some evidence of poetic talent, and, two years after this, in 1762, he published the Shipwreck, which he dedicated to the Duke of York. It was subsequently greatly enlarged and improved, and has taken rank among the classical poems of England. Few poets have had such opportunities for observation of nautical life as Falconer enjoyed, and fewer still have had the experience which would enable them to commemorate so fearful a disaster.

The poem seems to be a picture of real life. The sights and sounds of the sea,—the gentle calm at sunset, when the ocean

"Glows in the west, a sea of living gold!"

the still evening, the silent, sombre midnight,-the stories and songs of the sailors,-the call of the boatswain, the sudden rise of the tempest,―the groaning, heaving, straining, of the storm-driven ship, and its final destruction upon the romantic promontory of old Sunium, these are but a few of the points to which the genius of the poet directs the mind of the reader. The scene of the poem is not among the least happy circumstances of the work. It is laid in one of the most charming portions of the shore of a country whose bare name is suggestive of almost all that is beautiful

or profound in ancient literature and art, and of much that is exciting in the history of modern freedom. "In all Attica," says Byron, "if we except Athens itself and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns [the remains of an ancient temple] are an inexhaustible source of observation and design: to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome; and the traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over 'isles that crown the Ægean deep; but for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell

'Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep,

The seaman's cry was heard along the deep.""

A peculiarity of this poem is, that, while its poetic merits are great, it is a safe guide to practical seamen. It shows a thorough acquaintance with the art of navigation, and is replete with directions which have been approved by naval officers of distinguished character. Falconer was himself a thorough seaman. The "Shipwreck," in the words of one of his biographers, "is of inestimable value to this country, since it contains within itself the rudiments of navigation; if not sufficient to form a complete seaman, it may certainly be considered as the grammar of his professional science. I have heard many experienced officers declare, that the rules and maxims delivered in this poem, for the conduct of a ship in the most perilous emergency,