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Was traced,—and then it faded as it came;
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows,—but heard not his own words;
And all things reeld around him ! he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been ;
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,–
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love,-oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul : her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,-
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth : she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms—impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight-familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy! but the wise
Have a far deeper madness; and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift :
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real !

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore ;
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him! he was a mark
For blight and desolation,-compass'd round
With hatred and contention : pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment: he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains ! with the stars
And the quick spirit of the universe

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 ! 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 that genius which has aince 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 Baliol 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. He has since been continually before the world, and there is scarcely a branch of literature to which he has not contributed,-a list of his publications would fill this page. In 1813, Southey accepted the office of Poet Laureat, on the death of Pye,--and for nearly the first time, during at least a century, the office, instead of conferring, received dignity.

Southey is tall and handsome, with a clear and noble forehead; an aquiline nose; a profusion of hair; and uncommonly bright eyes : his voice is musical, full of gentleness and persuasion, and his smile is as winning as it is sweet. His hair, once a curling and glossy black, curls still, but is white as snow; and his step has lost some of its

ty,-but his eyes are as bright, and his smile as winning, as ever. He is rarely seen in the great world. His distaste of the turmoils of life induced him to decline the offer of a seat in the House of Commons, to which he had been elected ;-apart from the bustle and feverish excitement of a city, he pursues 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 has 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 is as unspotted as that of any public man-living or dead. The world is aware that he has had some enemies : no one ever deserved them less. His friends are 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 is 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. The career of Southey is the best answer to the absurd, but too generally received opinion, that a critic is of necessity acrimonious or unjust.

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 Roderic. 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

cause 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 generous 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 flowers 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.


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 ;

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