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The most beloved on earth
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,--

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet;
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then, since this world is vain,

And volatile, and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?
Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?

Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me;
Sad monitress! I own thy sway;
A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee:
From sun to sun

My race will run;

I only bow, and say, "My God, thy will be done!"

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds;

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw,

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

1 This piece, for its beautiful and apposite | passed by any thing in our language in so imagery and fine moral tone, is hardly sur- small a compass.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When, marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky,
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye:

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks:
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode;

The storm was loud,-the night was dark;
The ocean yawn'd,-and rudely blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze:
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem,
When suddenly a star arose:

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and dangers' thrall
It led me to the port of peace.

Now, safely moor'd, my perils o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

Forever and for evermore,

The Star,-the Star of Bethlehem!1

CHARLOTTE SMITH, 1749–1806.

MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH, daughter of Nicholas Turner, Esq., of Stoke House, Surrey, was born in London, 1749. From a very early age she had an insatiable thirst for reading, and devoured almost every book that fell in her way. She lost her mother when quite young, and, when her father was about to form a second marriage, the friends of the young poetess made efforts, most foolishly, to "establish her in life," as it is called, and induced her to accept the hand of a Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. She was then but sixteen, and her husband twenty-one years of age. It was a most ill-advised and rash union, and productive of the most unhappy results. In 1776 her father died, and, a few years after this event, her husband's affairs

1"The torch of his inspiration was certainly kindled at the inner shrine; but it was darkly destined that his fair dawn was to have no meridian, and with a heart full of youthful promise and of lofty aspirations, devoted to the noblest and purest objects of humanity,he died while his feet were yet on the threshold of manhood. Three, at least, of the great magnates of literature lamented his fate, and

were loud in his praises. On examining his, posthumous papers, Coleridge and Southey alike expressed their astonishment at so much genius united to so much industry; and Byron, in a truculent satire, wherein almost nobody was spared, truth-stricken, suspended the lash to scatter flowers liberally on his early grave." -MOIR.

were so involved that he was imprisoned for debt. With great fortitude and devoted constancy she accompanied him, and by her untiring exertions was enabled to procure his release. During his confinement she collected her sonnets and other poems for publication. They were much admired, and passed through no less than eleven editions.1

But soon Mr. Smith's liberty was again threatened, and he went to France. His wife and their eight children accompanied him, and they spent an anxious and forlorn winter in Normandy. The next year she returned to England, and, by her great and persevering exertions, enabled her husband to follow her. It now became necessary for her to exert her talents as a means of support, and she translated two or three stories from the French. She then tried her powers in another line of literature, and in 1788 gave to the public her Emmeline, or the Orphan of the Castle, which novel was exceedingly popular. In the following year she published another novel, entitled Esthelinda; and to this succeeded, in very rapid succession, Celestina, Desmond, The Old Manor House, The Wanderings of Warwick, The Banished Man, Montalbert, and others, besides several beautiful little volumes for young persons, entitled Rural Walks, Rambles Farther, Minor Morals,-in all, about forty volumes. During all this time she suffered severe family afflictions, in the loss of three children, as well as pecuniary trials in the adjustment of her husband's affairs. But the hour was arriving when grief was to subdue this long-tried victim. Her husband, it is said, died in legal confinement abroad in March, 1806; and on the 28th of October following she herself died, after a lingering and painful illness, which she bore with the utmost patience, retaining her faculties to the last.

As a poetess, Charlotte Smith takes high rank among her country women. Her Sonnets are "most musical, most melancholy, and abound with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty; and her descriptions of rural scenery are particularly fresh and vivid."

TO THE MOON.

Queen of the silver bow!-by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way:
And, while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!

Read a most genial sketch of her life in 239; and another in his "Imaginative Bio

Er Egerton Brydges's "Censura Literaria," viii. | graphy"

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu!

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,
And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide
Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!

THE HAPPINESS OF CHILDHOOD.

Sighing, I see yon little troop at play,
By sorrow yet untouch'd, unhurt by care,
While free and sportive they enjoy to-day,
"Content and careless of to-morrow's fare."
O happy age! when Hope's unclouded ray

Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth.
Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay
To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth,
Making them rue the hour that gave them birth,
And threw them on a world so full of pain,
Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth,
And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain!
Ah! for their future fate how many fears
Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears!

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my humble hearth;
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song most soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a song as I can give.

Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;

Theirs is but a summer-song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy lay:
Then, insect! let thy simple song
Cheer the winter evening long;
While, secure from every storm,
In my cottage stout and warm,
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be,
And I'll delight to shelter thee.

SUPPLEMENTARY LIST OF AUTHORS

Who Died in the First Decade of the Nineteenth Century,

OR FROM 1800 TO 1809 INCLUSIVE.

Bryant, Jacob, historian and critic (1715-1804), was one of the most profound scholars of his day. His chief works are A New System, or an Analysis of Ancient Mythology, 6 vols. 8vo; A Dissertation concerning the War of Troy; and Observations on the Poems of Thomas Rowley (Chatterton), Vindicating their Authenticity.1 Such was the singular construction of his mind, that in the first two of these works he endeavors to show that Homer's account of the Trojan War was fabulous, and that the city of Troy never existed; while in the last he maintains the integrity of Chatterton,-thus going counter, in both conclusions, to the settled convictions of the literary world.

Carter, Elizabeth, essayist and critic.(1717-1806), was the most learned female of her times. She had a critical knowledge of Greek and Latin, was able to read French, Spanish, and German with tolerable facility, and was well versed in Hebrew." She published a volume of Poems in early life; but she is now best known for her translation of Epictetus, which received the highest encomiums from the scholars of the day. She also contributed Nos. 44 and 100 to The Rambler. Chapone, Mrs. Hester (1727-1801), was the daughter of Thomas Mulso, of Northamptonshire, and was married in 1760 to Mr. Chapone, a young practitioner of law. She sent to the Advertiser the story of Fidelia, which forms Nos. 77, 78, and 79 of that work. In 1773 she published her Letters on the Improvement of the Mind, which has been pronounced “one of the best books that can be put into the hands of female youth." In 1775 she published her Miscellanies in Prose and Verse. She died December 25, 1801.

Darwin, Erasmus, physician and poet, called the "Poet-Laureate of Botany," was born in Nottinghamshire in 1731. He was educated at Cambridge, took his medical degree at Edinburgh, and for a great num

1 See the subject discussed in the Compendium of English Literature, p. 570.

These acquirements were not made, as they never should be, at the expense of more feminine accomplishments. "Upon hearing a lady commended for her learning, Dr. Johnson said, A man is in general better pleased when he h a good dinner upon his table, than when his wife talks Greek. My old friend Mrs. Carter, he added, 'could make a pudding as well as translate Epictetus from the Greek; and work a handkerchief as well as compose a poem.'"-CROKER'S BOSWELL, IX. 129.

a The best of these is the Ode to Wisdom.

4 She was highly complimented for this effort by a writer in the Gentleman's Magazine, ix. 322:

"Be thine the glory to have led the way,

And beam'd on female minds fair science' ray;
Awak'd our fair from too inglorious case,
To meditate on themes sublime as these:
The many paths of nature to explore,
And boldly tread where none have reach'd before."

And Dr. Johnson is reported to have said, when a celebrated Greek scholar was spoken of, "Sir, he is the best Greek scholar in England, except Elizabeth Carter."

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