My children's mother, my Alicia,-laid
On such a bed! so wretched,-so afraid!
And her gay, young seducer, in the guise
Of all we dread, abjure, defy, despise)
And all the fear and terror in his look,
Still more my mind to its foundation shook.
At last he spoke :- Long since I would
have died,

But could not leave her, though for death I sigh'd,

And tried the poison'd cup, and dropt it as I tried."

"She is a woman, and that famish'd thing Makes her to life, with all its evils, cling: Feed her, and let her breathe her last in peace,

And all my sufferings with your promise

cease!"

I could not speak my purpose, but my eyes And my expression bade the creature rise.' "Yet, O! that woman's look! my words are vain

Her mix'd and troubled feelings to explain; True, there was shame and consciousness. of fall,

But yet remembrance of my love withal, And knowledge of that power which she would now recal.'

"But still the more that she to memory brought,

The greater anguish in my mind was wrought;
The more she tried to bring the past in view,
She greater horror on the present threw;
So that, for love or pity, terror thrill'd
My blood, and vile and odious thoughts in-
still'd.'

"This war within, these passions in their strife,

If thus protracted, had exhausted life;
But the strong view of these departed years
Caused a full burst of salutary tears,
VOL. V.

And as I wept at large, and thought alone, I felt my reason re-ascend her throne.' 66 6 My friend !' Sir Owen answer'd, 'what became

Of your just anger?-when you saw their shame,

It was your triumph, and you should have shown

Strength, if not joy-their sufferings were their own.'

"Alas, for them! their own in very deed!
And they of mercy had the greater need;
Their own by purchase, for their frailty paid,-
And wanted heaven's own justice human aid?
And seeing this, could I beseech my God
For deeper misery, and a heavier rod ?'
"But could you help them ?'-' Think,
Sir Owen, how

I saw them then-methinks I see them now!
She had not food, nor aught a mother needs,
Who for another life and dearer feeds:
I saw her speechless; on her wither'd breast
The wither'd child extended, but not prest,
Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry,
Vain instinct! for the fount without supply.'
"Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene,
Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean,
Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome,
and unclean;

That arm,-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek,

Spoke all, Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak!' "And you relieved?'

If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied

66 6

too.'

Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power, the right:

To give it up was heaven's own act to slight.' "Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs,

When my vain help was offer'd, he was past All human aid, and shortly breathed his last; But his heart open'd, and he lived to see Guilt in himself, and find a friend in me.' "Strange was their parting, parting on the day

I offer'd help, and took the man away,
Sure not to meet again, and not to live
And taste of joy-He feebly cried, " 'Forgive!
I have thy guilt, thou mine, but now adieu !
Tempters and tempted! what will thence

ensue

or see.'"

This is somewhat superior to Kotze bue's Stranger and Mrs Haller. Farmer Ellis is but a homely person, it is true-but he is an Englishman, and he behaves like one, with the dagger of grief festering in his heart. Nothing can be more affecting than his conduct in granting an asylum in a lonely spot on his own grounds to the repentant wretch who had once been so dear to him-a sanctuary, as it were, where she may live within the protection of her husband's humanity, though for ever divorced from his love-and where the melancholy man knows that she is making her peace with God, in a calm haven provided for her against the waves of the world by him whose earthly happiness she had for ever destroyed. Never did a more sublime moral belong to a tale of guilt.

But we shall now lay before our readers a picture of gentler sorrowsof a calm and heavenly melancholy on which the soul can repose, as on the still beauty of a moonlight sea, after a dark day of clouds and storms. The brothers are taking their daily walk into the country round the "Hall," when George tells Richard to visit a certain cottage in which a young and fair lady dwells.

"Nor pass the pebbled cottage as you rise Above the sluice, till you have fix'd your eyes

On the low woodbined window, and have seen, So fortune favour you, the ghost within: Take but one look, and then your way pursue, It flies all strangers, and it knows not you.' On his return from the cottage, Richard informs his brother that he had caught a single glimpse of this solitary maid.

"Fair, fragile thing! I said, when first my eye

Caught hers, wilt thou expand thy wings and fly?

Or wilt thou vanish? beauteous spirit, stay!—
For will it not (I question'd) melt away?
No! it was mortal-I unseen was near,
She thought profoundly, for I stay'd to look,
And saw the bosom's sigh, the standing tear!
And first she read, then laid aside her book;
Then on her hand reclined her lovely head,
And seem'd unconscious of the tear she shed.'
"Art thou so much,' I said, to grief a
prey ?'

·

Till pity pain'd me, and I rode away.' "Tell me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread For the great change that bears her to the

dead?

Has she connexions? does she love?—I feel Pity and grief, wilt thou her woes reveal ? George then tells the story of her grief. A youth of sensibility and genius, in the lowly and despised situation of tutor in her noble father's family, had fallen in love with her-but in despair left his native country.

"Greece was the land he chose; a mind deAnd ruin'd there through glorious ruin cay'd stray'd;

There read, and walk'd, and mused-there

loved, and wept, and pray'd. Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live, But gave to study all his mind could give; Till, with the dead conversing, he began To lose the habits of a living man, Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried

To soothe-some doubtful, them he strove to guide;

Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy Of that new state that death must not destroy; What Time had done we know not-Death was nigh,

To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh, But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his wish to die."

At last the death of Ellen's proud and unrelenting parent awakens hope in the young man's heart, and he returns to England. But having been, in an hour of caprice, refused an interview with Ellen, he thinks his case hopeless, and again abandons his country-for ever. The deserted lady then feels how deep is her love and her despair.

home!'

But when she heard that he on foreign ground Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found;

But still she felt a varying hope that love Would all these slight impediments remove; Has he no friend to tell him that our pride

Resents a moment and is satisfied? Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made, A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade; Have I no friend to say, "Return again, Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain ?" " "With suffering mind the maid her prospects view'd,

That hourly varied with the varying mood; As past the day, the week, the month, the year,

The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear. "No Cecil came !- Come, peevish and unjust !'

Sad Ellen cried, why cherish this disgust? Thy Ellen's voice could charm thee once,

buys,

From this are doled the favourite charities;
And when a tale or face affects her heart,
This is the fund that must relief impart.

"Such have the ten last years of Ellen been!
Her very last that sunken eye has seen!
That half angelic being still must fade
Till all the angel in the mind be made ;-
And now the closing scene will shortly come-
She cannot visit sorrow at her home;
But still she feeds the hungry, still prepares
The usual softeners of the peasant's cares,
And though she prays not with the dying now,
She teaches them to die, and shows them how.
"What is the sin of grief I cannot tell,
Nor of the sinners who have loved too well;
But to the cause of mercy I incline,
Or, O! my Brother, what a fate is mine!'"

This little story, of which we fear our extracts can scarcely give an adequate idea, is, we think, one of the

most simple, graceful, and pathetic of all Mr Crabbe's compositions,

For the present we close our extracts from these admirable volumes

with some passages from the last of the "Tales," which is entitled "Smugglers and Poachers," and which is perhaps the most characteristic of them all, of Mr Crabbe's genius. It opens in this beautiful and natural way. "There was a widow in the village known To our good Squire, and he had favour shown By frequent bounty-She as usual came, And Richard saw the worn and weary frame, Pale cheek, and eye subdued, of her whose

mind

Truly deep,

And very still, and therefore seems to sleep;
To borrow simile, to paint her woes,
Theirs, like the river's motion, seems repose,
Making no petty murmuring-settled, slow,
They never waste, they never overflow.
Rachel is one of those for there are some.
Who look for nothing in their days to come,
No good nor evil, neither hope nor fear,
Nothing remains or cheerful or severe;
One day is like the past, the year's sweet prime
Like the sad fall-for Rachel heeds not time:
Nothing remains to agitate her breast,
Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest;
But while it raged her peace its ruin met,
And now the sun is on her prospects set ;-
Leave her, and let us her distress explore,
She heeds it not-she has been left before.'

The squire then recounts this widow's melancholy history. "There were two lads call'd Shelley hither brought,

But whence we know not-it was never sought;

Their wandering mother left them, left her

name,

And the boys throve and valiant men became: Handsome, of more than common size, and

tall,

And no one's kindred, seem❜d beloved of all ; All seem'd alliance by their deeds to prove, And loved the youths who could not claim their love."

These brothers love the same damsel, and their mutual jealousy by degrees destroys their affection for each aversion and hatred. Robert, whom other, and at last ripens into settled the maiden loves, has linked himself with a desperate band of smugglers and poachers, while James has become a gamekeeper. In a nocturnal fray between some of James' assistants and

the gang to which Robert belongs, one of the former is killed; and Robert being thrown into prison, expects no punishment short of death. James tells the terrified girl that if she will marry him, he will procure his brother's pardon, but that otherwise, the law must take its course. She visits

her lover in prison, and but hear

Mr Crabbe himself.

"She saw him fetter'd, full of grief, alone, Still as the dead, and he suppress'd a groan At her appearance-Now she pray'd for strength;

And the sad couple could converse at length. "It was a scene that shook her to repeatLife fought with love, both powerful, and both sweet.

"Wilt thou die, Robert, or preserve thy life?
Shall I be thine own maid, or James's wife ?
His wife!-No!-Never will I thee resign-
No, Rachel, no!' Then am I ever thine:
I know thee rash and guilty-but to thee
I pledged my vow, and thine will ever be:
Yet think again-the life that God has lent
Is thine, but not to cast away-Consent,
If 'tis thy wish; for this I made my way
To thy distress-Command, and I obey.'
"Perhaps my brother may have gain'd thy

heart!"

Then why this visit, if I wish'd to part? Was it, ah, man ungrateful! wise to make Effort like this, to hazard for thy sake A spotless reputation, and to be A suppliant to that stern man for thee? But I forgive thy spirit has been tried, And thou art weak, but still thou must decide. "I ask'd thy brother, James, would'st thou command,

Without the loving heart, the obedient hand? I ask thee, Robert, lover, canst thou part With this poor hand, when master of the

heart ?'

He answer'd, Yes! I tarry thy reply, Resign'd with him to live, content with thee to die.'

"Assured of this, with spirits low and tame, Here life so purchased-there a death of shame;

Death once his merriment, but now his dread, And he with terror thought upon the dead:

O! sure 'tis better to endure the care

And pain of life, than go we know not where! And is there not the dreaded hell for sin, Or is it only this I feel within ?

That, if it lasted, no man would sustain, But would by any change relieve the pain: Forgive me, love! it is a loathsome thing To live not thine; but still this dreaded sting Of death torments me-I to nature clingGo, and be his-but love him not, be sure Go, love him not-and I will life endure: He, too, is mortal!'-Rachel deeply sigh'd, But would no more converse: she had com

plied,

And was no longer free-she was his brother's bride.

"Farewell!' she said, with kindness, but not fond,

Feeling the pressure of the recent bond, And put her tenderness apart to give Advice to one who so desired to live: Reflected-wept was sad was satisfied.” She then departed, join'd the attending guide,

Robert and his comrades are rescued from prison by a sudden assault of the gang-and their first social meeting after liberation is thus described: "Now met the lawless clan-in secret met, And down at their convivial board were set; The plans in view to past adventures led, And the past conflicts present anger bred; They sigh'd for pleasures gone, they groan'd Their ancient stores were rifled-strong desires

for heroes dead:

Awaked, and wine rekindled latent fires. "It was a night such bold desires to move, Strong winds and wintry torrents fill'd the

A spy in the pay of James has informed him of the intended plan of the poachers, and he and his assistants go to encounter the gang in the woods. James has by this time been married to Rachel, who makes a dutiful, and even a loving wife. She feels an unusual terror in her heart when her husband leaves her on this fearful

night, and at last, unable to endure
her solitary forebodings of evil, she
rushes out into the stormy darkness.
"Softly she left her door, her garden gate,
And seem'd as then committed to her fate;
To every horrid thought and doubt a prey,
She hurried on, already lost her way;
Oft as she glided on in that sad night,
She stopp'd to listen, and she look'd for light;
An hour she wander'd, and was still to learn
Aught of her husband's safety or return:
A sudden break of heavy clouds could show
A place she knew not, but she strove to know;
Still further on she crept with trembling feet,
With hope a friend, with fear a foe to meet :
And there was something fearful in the sight,
And in the sound of what appear'd to-night;