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He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries:
To him the book of night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret,-Be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality; the one

To end in madness,-both in misery!

FAREWELL !

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For others' weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air-

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell! Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain,—
I only feel-Farewell! Farewell!

ROBERT SOUTHEY was born in Bristol, on the 12th of August, 1774. Having given early tokens of the genius that has since placed his name foremost among British worthies, his friends resolved that the advantages of a liberal education should be added to those which Nature had bestowed upon him, and sent him, in 1788, to Westminster School. In 1792, he was entered at Balliol College, Oxford. During his residence in the University he became infected with Jacobinical principles; but if some of his earlier productions contributed to disseminate pernicious doctrines, he has amply compensated mankind by the labours of a long life in the cause of virtue. In 1796, his first great poem, "Joan of Arc," appeared; and his fame was completely established when, in 1801, the romance of "Thalaba" issued from the press. In 1813, Southey accepted the office of Poet Laureate, on the death of Pye,-and for nearly the first time, during at least a century, the office, instead of conferring, received dignity. He died at his residence, Keswick Hall, in Cumberland, on the 21st March, 1843. Some years before that event his mind had given way, from "over-work," having been upwards of fifty years "a man of letters by profession." He declined a Baronetcy, offered him by Sir Robert Peel, but received one of the Crown Pensions; and his circumstances were "easy" up to the period of his call from earth.

Southey was tall and handsome, with a clear and noble forehead, an aquiline nose, a profusion of hair, and uncommonly bright eyes: his voice was musical, full of gentleness and persuasion, and his smile was as winning as it was sweet. Some time before his death, his hair, once a curling and glossy black, became as white as snow; and his step had lost its elasticity, but his eyes were as bright, and his smile as winning as ever. He was rarely seen in the great world. His distaste for the turmoils of life induced him to decline a seat in the House of Commons, to which he had been elected, Apart from the bustle and feverish excitement of a city, he pursued his gentle and useful course from year to year:

"And to his mountains and his forests rude
Chaunts in sweet melody his classic song."

He led the life of a scholar with as much steadiness of purpose and devotion as if he had bound himself to his books by a religious vow. His works are sufficient to form a library; they are proofs of his amazing industry, not less than his vast and comprehensive learning. His wonderful genius may excite our admiration; but the extent of his "profitable labour" is, indeed, prodigious. There is nothing like it, we believe, in the history of the human mind. His character was as unspotted as that of any public manliving or dead. The world is aware that he had some enemies: no one ever deserved them less. His friends were numerous, devoted, and firm. No one ever earned them better, or merited them more:

"We soon live down

Evil or good report, if undeserved."

His political opponents have tendered evidence to the estimable character of both his head and heart. One of the harshest arraigners of what he calls the inconsistency of Dr. Southey-as if that were inconsistency which induces to leave a path after it is known to be the wrong one-states, that “in all the relations and charities of private life he is correct, exemplary, generous, just." He was one of the leading critics of the age, and, although there is abundant proof of his generous zeal in aiding young talent, there has never attached to him the suspicion of depressing it.

Of late years the prose of Southey has been preferred to his poetry. It rarely happens that there is a preference without a disparagement. No poet in the present or the past century has written three such poems as Thalaba, Kehama, and Roderick. Others have more excelled in DELINEATING what they find before them in life, but none have given such proofs of extraordinary power in CREATING. He has been called diffuse, because there is a spaciousness and amplitude about his poetry-as if concentration was the highest quality of a writer. He lays all his thoughts before us, but they never rush forth tumultuously. He excels in unity of design and congruity of character; and never did poet more adequately express heroic fortitude and gene ous affections. He has not, however, limited his pen to grand paintings of epic character. Among his shorter productions will be found some light and graceful sketches, full of beauty and feeling, and not the less valuable because they invariably aim at promoting virtue.

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I MARVEL not, O Sun, that unto thee

In adoration man should bow the knee,

And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love; For like a God thou art, and on thy way

Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray,

Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.

No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud,These cold, raw mists that chill the comfortless day; But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud, And cheer the earth once more. The languid flower

Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain;

Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers!

O lord of light! put forth thy beams again,

For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.

REMEMBRANCE.

MAN hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends,
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends;
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh,
The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother's arms,-
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern;
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours
Before his wish'd return.

From hard controul and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,
In thought he loves to roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh
The comforts of his home.

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life
Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find?

Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd,
And feelings blasted or betray'd,
The fabled bliss destroy;
And Youth remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.

Maturer Manhood now arrives,
And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of Youth
Its generous warmth is gone;

Cold calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye;
Remembering with an envious sigh
The happy dreams of Youth.

So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old Experience learns too late
That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by,
Its idle hopes are o'er,

Yet Age remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.

HANNAH.

PASSING across a green and lonely lane
A funeral met our view. It was not here
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd
Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl,
They answer'd, of the village, who had pined
Through the long course of eighteen painful months
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the time. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
Which makes the eye turn inward: hearing then
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead;
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains,
And he who should have cherish'd her, far off
Sail'd on the seas.
Left thus a wretched one,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues

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