And striding with a step that seemed designed To represent the mighty March of Mind, Instead of that slow waddle Of thought, to which our ancestors inclinedNo wonder, then, that he should quickly find He stood in front of that intrusive pile Where Cross keeps many a kind Of bird confined, And free-born animal, in durance vile A thought that stirred up all the monkey-bile! The window stood ajar It was not far, Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb The hour was verging on the supper-time, And many a growl was sent through many a bar. Unnoticed in the din Of tuneless throats that made the attics ring With all the harshest notes that they could bring; For, like the Jews, Wild beasts refuse In midst of their captivity-to sing. Lord! how it made him chafe, A tiger limited to four feet ten; A leopard to one spot, (It was before the elephant was shot); To gaze upon these captive creatures round; ance They found their durance vile of vile endurance. He went above-a solitary mounter Up gloomy stairs-and saw a pensive group Of hapless fowls Cranes, vultures, owls; In fact, it was a sort of poultry-compter, Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop: Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop, A pining ostrich, moping in a coop; All caged against their powers and their wills, In truth, it was a very ugly scene To fall to any liberator's share, To see those wingéd fowls, that once had been Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air. His temper little mended, Pug from this bird-cage walk at last descended Unto the lion and the elephant, His bosom in a pant To see all nature's free list thus suspended, And beasts deprived of what she had intended. They could not even prey In their own way; A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. Thus he revolved And soon resolved To give them freedom, civil and religious. That night there were no country cousins, raw From Wales, to view the lion and his kin: The keeper's eyes were fixed upon a saw— The saw was fixed upon a bullock's shin; Meanwhile, with stealthy paw, Pug hastened to withdraw The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. And turn a ranger Of Hounslow Forest, and the Regent's Park- Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors suipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above!) THE IMPUDENCE OF STEAM. Over the billows and over the brine, Over the water to Palestine! Am I awake, or do I dream? Over the ocean to Syria by steam! My say is sooth, by this right hand; A steamer brave Is on the wave, Bound positively for the Holy Land! Godfrey of Bulogine, and thou Richard, lion-hearted king, Candidly inform us, now, 66 Captain, is this the land of Pharaoh?" "Now look alive there! Who's for Cairo ?" "Back her!" "Stand clear, I say, old file!" "What gent or lady's for the Nile, Or Pyramids ?" "Thebes! Thebes, sir!" "Steady!" "Now where's that party for Engedi ?" Pilgrims holy, Red Cross Knights, Of a steam trip to Judea? 'Tis a not unlikely tale- THE DEATH-BED. We watched her breathing through the night, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seemed to speak, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes beliedWe thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, John Moultrie. Moultrie (1799-1874) was associated with Praed, Henry Nelson Coleridge, and others in the Etonian and in Knight's Quarterly Magazine. He studied for the Church, and became Rector of Rugby. A complete edition of his poems, with a memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, was published in 1876. Moultrie edited an edition of Gray's poetical works. He was the author of "My Brother's Grave, and other Poems," published in 1837; "Lays of the English Church, 1843," etc. He also edited the "Poetical Remains" of his friend, William Sidney Walker. "FORGET THEE?" "Forget thee?" If to dream by night, And muse on thee by day, If all the worship deep and wild If prayers in absence breathed for thee If winged thoughts that flit to thee,— If busy Fancy blending thee "Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds Forget their sweetest tune; "Forget thee?" Bid the sea forget To swell beneath the moon 5 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink The eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine own "dear land," And its "mountains wild and blue." Forget each old familiar face, Each long-remembered spot,When these things are forgot by thee, Then thou shalt be forgot! Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, Should grow less glad for me; And uncomplaining love;— If these, preserved for patient years. At last avail me not, Forget me then;-but ne'er believe That thou canst be forgot! HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie, Here's a hearty health to thee! For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, And all thy native grace, For the music of thy mirthful voice, Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my glow of youth is o'er, And I, as once I felt and dreamed, Must feel and dream no more,— Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, Has chilled my soul at last, And genius, with the foodful looks Of youthful friendship, passed,- Here's a health, my Scottish lassie,- Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!- Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, Unconscious of my swelling heart, And of my wistful eye, Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Dancing lightsomely along, As it flashes through the baser crowd Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star Come smiling up through heaven: I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice In every wind that grieves, As it whirls from the abandoned oak Its withered autumn leaves; In the gloom of the wild forest, I shall think, my Scottish lassie, Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!- Like the breath of distant flowers;- Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my muse must soon be dumb,— (For graver thoughts and duties With my graver years are come),— Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, And learn to soar on high, And to look on this world's follies With a calm and sober eye, Though the merry wine must seldom flow, Still to thee, my Scottish lassie, Still I'll drink a health to thee! Here's a health, my Scottish lassie, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, Thy heart as light as now! And whatsoe'er my after fate, 1 Monltrie was one of the most graceful and meditative of England's minor poets; but he was not of the "modern school." Robert Pollok. Pollok (1799-1827) was a native of Eaglesham, Scotland. He studied at the Glasgow University, and was five years in the divinity hall under Dr. Dick. His application to study brought on a pulmonary disease, and shortly after he began to preach (1827) he had to seek' a milder air in the South of England. It effected no improvement. The "Course of Time," his principal poem, had a prodigious success, passing through a vast number of editions both in Great Britain and America. It is a strange mixture of prosaic utterances with brief bursts of poetic fervor: a long disquisition in verse, extending to ten books. John Wilson said of it: "Though not a poem, it overflows with poetry." The praise is overstrained. The oases in this desert of words are few and far between. At times we see in the style the influence of Milton, Blair, and Young. It bears all the marks of mental immaturity, and, as Chambers says, "is often harsh, turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety, which repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages." The same year witnessed Pollok's advent as a preacher, and his untimely death. INVOCATION: OPENING OF BOOK I. Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom Me thought, and phrase, severely sifting out The essential truth: Time gone, the righteous saved, PRIDE THE CAUSE OF SIN. Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause |