Well might that lullaby be said,
For not one single friend she had
On this cold-hearted earth;
The sea will not give back its prey,--
And he was wrapt in foreign clay
Who gave the orphan birth.

Stedfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,
She gazed upon the bosom

And fair brow of her sleeping son :"O merciful Heaven! when I am gone, Thine is this earthly blossom!"

While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke
Into the room;-the babe awoke,
And from his cradle smiled!

Ah me! what kindling smiles met there,
I know not whether was more fair,
The mother or her child!

With joy fresh sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretch'd his rosy arms,
And to her bosom leapt ;

All tears at once were swept away,
And, said a face as bright as day,
"Forgive me—that I wept!"

Sufferings there are from Nature sprung,
Ear hath not heard, nor Poet's tongue
May venture to declare;

But this as Holy Writ is sure,
"The griefs she bids us here endure,
She can herself repair!"

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

WITH laughter swimming in thine eye,
That told youth's heartfelt revelry!
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;

With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright

That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,-
Thy image such, in former time,
When thou, just entering on thy prime,
And woman's sense in thee combined
Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
First taught'st my sighing soul to move
With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace ;-
Though happy still-yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness!

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child ;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own,
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime

Assured, I smile at hoary time!

For thou art doom'd in age to know

The calm that wisdom steals from woe;

The holy pride of high intent,

The glory of a life well spent.

When earth's affections nearly o'er,

With Peace behind, and Faith before,

Thou render'st up again to God,

Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul,-then harp and hymn,

From bands of sister seraphim,

Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality!

GEORGE CRABBE was born on the 24th of December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his father was an officer of the customs. He was originally apprenticed to a surgeon-apothecary; but disliking the profession, and encouraged by the praise accorded to some early attempts at composition, he ventured to London, and had the good fortune to meet a friend in the illustrious Edmund Burke, under whose auspices, in 1781, "The Library" was published. "The Village" soon followed; and both received the praise of Dr. Johnson. The Poet, however, had no ambition to become an author by profession: he took holy orders, and obtained the rectory of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire: here-away from the busy world-in calm and contented tranquillity, the remainder of his long life was passed. In 1807, he published a collection of "Poems;" in 1810, "The Borough;" in 1812, the "Tales;" and in 1819, the "Tales of the Hall." The whole of his works have been recently collected, with the addition of several posthumous poems, and published by his son.

The character of Mr. Crabbe forms a singular contrast to his writings:-he was amiable, benevolent, and conciliatory to a degree. All who knew him loved him; In every family

Alike, in every generation dear,

The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend,
Tried, trusted, and beloved."

"To him it was recommendation enough to be poor and wretched." We quote this
passage from the "Life," by his son, which prefaces the edition of his works. It is a
gracefully and sensibly written biography; and altogether worthy of the memory of the
admirable Poet and estimable man. His conversation was easy, fluent, and abundant
in correct information; but distinguished chiefly by good sense and good feeling.
"Kindness, meekness, and comfort were in his tongue." He died on the 3rd of Febru-
ary, 1832.
Mr. Lockhart thus describes his person:-"His noble forehead, his bright
beaming eye, without any thing of old age about it-though he was then, I presume,
above seventy-his sweet, and, I would say, innocent smile, and the calm, mellow
tones of his voice, -all are re-produced the moment I open any page of his poetry."
A high contemporary authority characterises Crabbe as

"Nature's sternest painter-yet the best."

It is certain, that those who read his poems derive from them greater pain than pleasure; and while admitting the general truth of his pictures, and the accuracy of his portraits, turn from them with a feeling of dissatisfaction approaching to disgust. It may be that

"The fault was not in him-but in mankind:"

there can be, however, no doubt that the Poet wilfully exaggerated in his descriptions of human vice, and details of human suffering; and that he himself neither believed nor imagined his fellow-beings so odious and depraved as he describes them. His desire to be original led him into this large error,-to reject the garb in which poetry had for ages been wont to array the works of the creation, and to clothe them in a dress quite as unnatural, and equally opposed to reality. The rustic population of our country are neither so wretched nor so degraded as they are, with few exceptions, made to appear. The poor, as well as the rich, have their vices-but their virtues also. It is not only while writing of men and women that Crabbe "looks askance :" he can perceive in the people who surround him little that is good, and less that is gracious; but he has neither eye nor ear for the beautiful sights and delicious sounds of inanimate nature. To him, the breeze is ever harsh and unmusical,-seldom moving except to produce wrecks; and hill, and stream, and valley, are barren, muddy, and unprofitable. He contemplates all things, animate and inanimate, "through a glass, darkly." The consequence has naturally been, that Crabbe never was a popular Poet. Yet the rough energy of his descriptions, the vigorous and manly style of his versification, the deep though oppressive interest of his stories, and his stern maxims of morality,-with a little more of a kindly leaning towards humanity-must have secured for him universal admiration.

The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe; 6 vols. London. Murray.

TURN to the watery world!-but who to thee
(A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint--the sca?
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,

When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,
Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,
In limpid blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,

Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye.

Be it the summer noon: a sandy space

The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above,

Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;

99

(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends),-
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,—
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide ;
Art thou not present, this calm scene before,
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,

And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake;

As an awaken'd giant with a frown

Might show his wrath, and then to slecp sink down.

View not the winter-storm! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud; Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;

And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.

All, where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising, all the deep

Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells:
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then, reflowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last,