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A most gentle maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle maid! and oft, a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence : till the moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and those wakeful birds Have all burst forth with choral minstrelsy, As if one quick and sudden gale had swept An hundred airy harps! And she hath watched Many a Nightingale perch giddily On bloss’my twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell !
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen ! and I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
The evening star : and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,.
And he beholds the moon, and hushed at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well-
It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends, farewell!

LINES,
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST.

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones .
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood : for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the life within :
Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye
Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs !

My native land !
Filld with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is every where ! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here.

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks with fain caress,

As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where ?

Beloved ! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream. But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in Clamour's hour.

HENRY HART MILMAN was born in London, in 1791, and is the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, an eminent Physician. He received his early education at a school in Greenwich, where Dr. Charles Burney was his tutor. He was afterwards placed at Eton; and in 1810, entered at Brazen-nose College, Oxford. He soon became a distinguished scholar; obtained prizes for English and Latin verse, and for English and Latin essays; and gained first honours in the examinations. In 1815, he became a fellow of his College; and in 1817, took holy orders, and was presented to the vicarage of

821, he was elected Professor of Poetry in the University. Mr Milman's first appearance before the public was as the author of " Fazio,” a Tragedy. It met with considerable success; and, after it had passed the ordeal of periodical criticism, was produced on the 5th of February, 1818, at Drury Lane Theatre. It was written, he states," with some view to the stage;" it was successful in representation, and is still occasionally performed. The nature of his professional duties probably prevented his again writing for the stage; but in 1820, he produced another dramatic work, the" Fall of Jerusalem." “ Belshazzar," the "Martyr of Antioch," and “ Anne Boleyn," are also dramatic; and these, with “ Samor, Lord of the Bright City," and a few minor poems, comprise the whole of his published poetical productions. Hs has, of late years, appeared but seldom before the world as an author. In 1830, he published a " History of the Jews," a work which gave rise to much controversy, and subjected the writer to various attacks, on the ground that he desired to merge the divine in the historian, and to exhibit himself as a simple narrator of facts,--without any regard to the source whence he derived his materials, as an inspired and infallibie record. He was accused of treating the Bible as a philosophical enquirer would treat any profane work of antiquity, -as having ascribed to natural causes, events which the Scriptures unequivocally declare to be miraculous,-and as having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert the bulwarks of the faith he was bound, by every consideration of honour and consistency, to defend. Such criticisms, however, he ably and effectually combated.

Mr. Milman is still the Vicar of St. Mary, Reading, and in that town he continues to reside. He is described as an eloquent preacher, and a zealous clergymnan. In person he is tall; his countenance is fine, and expressive; his manners are distant and reserved; and, however different he may be in the society of his friends, he is described by those who have had but little intercourse with him as perpetually reminding them that he is a dignitary of the church to which he belongs; and that he is indisposed to touch any thing “common or unclean."

Mr. Milman is a learned Poet. His study has been the cloister; and neither in the city nor the green fields has he sought the Muse. Books, and not men, have been his companions. His poems are tine examples of sound intellect and cultivated taste; but we look in vain through them for evidence of inventive power, and originality of thought. He is certainly not an enthusiast, and without enthusiasm there never was a true Poet. He brings Truth before us dressed in "fairy fiction ;" but he permits ber to seek her way to the heart without any of those aids which a warm imagination and a lively sensibility would have lent her. She leans upon judgment rather than upon fancy, and appears loath to receive any votaries who would worship without knowing why, or caring wherefore.” In a preface to one of his later poems, Mr. Milman expresses a hope that his works “will tend to the advancement of those interests, in subservience to which alone our time and talents can be worthily employed,- those of piety and religion." This is honourable to one, whose grand object is to forward, by every means, the cause of which he is the chosen advocate; and, if he had been of a warmer temperament, he might have brought poetry effectually to his aid, -it has often been so brought,-in the task he has undertaken. But there is a cold pomp about his writings, a frigid dignity of style, and a want of sympathy with human passions and desires, which, unhappily, defeat his purpose. The temple to which he would conduct his followers, is grand, lofty, and paved with marble: but it chills us the moment we have passed the inner gate. Among religious readers, therefore, Mr. Milman has never been popular; and from the same causes, added to others, his fame in the world at large is not extensive. His mind is of a high order, his knowledge large and ready; but he has little skill in mastering the heart, or in controlling the feelings, or in guiding the opiWhen God came down from Heaven—the living God

What signs and wonders mark'd His stately way! Brake out the winds in music where He trod ?

Shone o'er the heavens a brighter, softer day?

The dumb began to speak, the blind to see,

And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness fled ; The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with glee,

And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead !

When God went back to Heaven—the living God

Rode He the Heavens upon a fiery car? Waved seraph-wings along His glorious road ?

Stood still to wonder each bright wandering star ?

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