Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart

Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.

To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers. Flowers to the fair to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you; Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned; The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, The tougher yew repels invading foes, And the tall pine for future navies grows: But this soft family to cares unknown, Were born for pleasure and delight alone. Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these; Your best, your sweetest empire is to please.

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

MRS OPIE-MRS HUNTER-MRS GRANT-
MRS TIGHE.

MRS AMELIA OPIE (1769-1853) was the daughter of a popular physician, Dr Alderson, of Norwich, and widow of John Opie, the celebrated artist. In 1802 she published a volume of miscellaneous poems, characterised by a simple and placid tenderness. She is more celebrated for her novels-to be afterwards noticed-and for her general literary merits and association with all the eminent persons of her day.-MRS ANNE HUNTER (1742-1821) was a retired but highly accomplished lady, sister of Sir Everard Home, and wife of John Hunter, the celebrated surgeon. Having written several copies of verses, which were extensively circulated, and some songs that even Haydn had married to immortal music, Mrs Hunter was induced, in 1806, to collect her pieces and commit them to the press.-MRS ANNE GRANT (1755-1838) in 1803 published a volume of miscellaneous poems, chiefly in illustration of the people and manners of the Scottish Highlands. She was widow of the minister of Laggan in Inverness-shire. Mrs Grant was author of several interesting prose works. She wrote Letters from the Mountains, giving a description of Highland scenery and manners, with which she was conversant from her residence in the country; also Memoirs of an American Lady (1810); and Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders, which appeared in 1811. The writings of this lady display a lively and observant fancy, and considerable powers of landscape-painting. They first drew attention to the more striking and romantic features of the Scottish Highlands, afterwards so fertile a theme for the genius of Scott.

An Irish poetess, MRS MARY TIGHE (17731810), evinced a more passionate and refined imagination than any of her tuneful sisterhood. Her poem of Psyche, founded on the classic fable related by Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul, is characterised by a graceful voluptuousness and brilliancy of colouring rarely excelled. It is in six cantos, and wants only a little more concentration of style and description to be one of the best poems of the period. It was privately printed in 1805, and after the death of the authoress, reprinted, with the addition of other poems, in 1811. Mrs Tighe was daughter of the Rev. W. Blackford, county of Wicklow, and was married to Henry Tighe, M.P., county of Wicklow. Her history seems to be little known, unless to private friends; but her early death, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, in his beautiful lyric—

I saw thy form in youthful prime.

We subjoin some selections from the works of each of the above ladies :

The Orphan Boy's Tale.-From Mrs Opie's Poems.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake;

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home, my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud,

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
'Why are you crying thus,' said I,

'While others laugh and shout with joy?'
She kissed me—and, with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.

'What is an orphan boy?' I cried,

As in her face I looked, and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied:

'You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!'
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;

O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh, were I by your bounty fed!-
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide-
Trust me,
I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!-ha!-this to me?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy, orphan boy!

Song-From the same.

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me :
But oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Song-From Mrs Hunter's Poems.
The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,

Which time can ne'er restore?
O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you indeed for ever past?
55

The fleeting shadows of delight,

In memory I trace; In fancy stop their rapid flight, And all the past replace : But, ah! I wake to endless woes, And tears the fading visions close!

Song.-From the same.

O tuneful voice! I still deplore
Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate on my heart;

In echo's cave I long to dwell,
And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doomed to part.

Bright eyes, O that the task were mine
To guard the liquid fires that shine,
And round your orbits play;
To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay!

The Death-song, written for, and adapted to, an
Original Indian Air.-From the same.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the
pain?

No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son;
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain.

The Lot of Thousands.-From the same.

When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come ;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

Flower of the desert though thou art!

The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food and shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.
Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets, could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild

Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ;

To pluck,thy blossoms in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.
Flower of his dear-loved native land!

Alas, when distant, far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,

Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more!

The Highland Poor.

From Mrs Grant's Poem of The Highlander.
Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene,
The narrow opening glens that intervene
Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure,
One poorer than the rest-where all are poor;
Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief,
Who to her secret breast confines her grief;
Dejected sighs the wintry night away,
And lonely muses all the summer day:
Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charms,
Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms,
Return no more; stretched on Hindostan's plain,
Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main ;
In vain her eyes the watery waste explore
For heroes-fated to return no more!

Let others bless the morning's reddening beam,
Foe to her peace—it breaks the illusive dream
That, in their prime of manly bloom confessed,
Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast;
And as they strove, with smiles of filial love,
Their widowed parent's anguish to remove,
Through her small casement broke the intrusive day,
And chased the pleasing images away!
No time can e'er her banished joys restore,
For ah! a heart once broken heals no more.
The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye,
The 'still small voice of sacred sympathy,
In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile,
Or steal from weary woe one languid smile;
Yet what they can they do-the scanty store,
So often opened for the wandering poor,
To her each cottager complacent deals,
While the kind glance the melting heart reveals;
And still, when evening streaks the west with gold,
The milky tribute from the lowing fold
With cheerful haste officious children bring,
And every smiling flower that decks the spring:
Ah! little know the fond attentive train,

That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain :
Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe,
And of their little all a part bestow.

Let those to wealth and proud distinction born,
With the cold glance of insolence and scorn
Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve
The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve:
Far different these; while from a bounteous heart
With the poor sufferer they divide a part,
Humbly they own that all they have is given
A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven;
And the next blighted crop or frosty spring,
Themselves to equal indigence may bring.

From Mrs Tighe's 'Psyche.

The marriage of Cupid and Psyche in the Palace of Love. Psyche afterwards gazes on Love while asleep, and is banished from the Island of Pleasure.

She rose, and all enchanted gazed
On the rare beauties of the pleasant scene:
Conspicuous far, a lofty palace blazed
Upon a sloping bank of softest green;
A fairer edifice was never seen;

The high-ranged columns own no mortal hand,
But seem a temple meet for beauty's queen;
Like polished snow the marble pillars stand,
In grace-attempered majesty, sublimely grand.
Gently ascending from a silvery flood,
Above the palace rose the shaded hill,
The lofty eminence was crowned with wood,
And the rich lawns, adorned by nature's skill,
The passing breezes with their odours fill;
Here ever-blooming groves of orange glow,
And here all flowers, which from their leaves distil
Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow,

And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade bestow.
The sun looks glorious, 'mid a sky serene,
And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide ;
The clear blue ocean at a distance seen,
Bounds the gay landscape on the western side,
While closing round it with majestic pride,
The lofty rocks 'mid citron groves arise;
'Sure some divinity must here reside,'

As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche cries,
And scarce believes the bliss, or trusts her charmed

eyes.

When lo! a voice divinely sweet she hears,
From unseen lips proceeds the heavenly sound;
"Psyche, approach, dismiss thy timid fears,
At length his bride thy longing spouse has found,
And bids for thee immortal joys abound;
For thee the palace rose at his command,
For thee his love a bridal banquet crowned;
He bids attendant nymphs around thee stand,
Prompt every wish to serve a fond obedient band.

Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul,
For now the pompous portals opened wide,
There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole
Through halls high domed, enriched with sculptured
pride,

While gay saloons appeared on either side,
In splendid vista opening to her sight;
And all with precious gems so beautified,
And furnished with such exquisite delight,

That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre

bright.

to these were afterwards added Wild Flowers, Hazlewood Hall, a village drama, and Mayday with the Muses. The last was published in the year of his death, and opens with a fine burst of poetical, though melancholy feeling.

O for the strength to paint my joy once more!
That joy I feel when winter's reign is o'er;
When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow,
And seeks his polar realm's eternal snow :
Though bleak November's fogs oppress my brain,
Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain;
Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand,
And frost-like bids the stream of passion stand.

The worldly circumstances of the author seem to have been such as to confirm the common idea as to the infelicity of poets. His situation in the Seal-office was irksome and laborious, and he was forced to resign it from ill-health. He engaged in the bookselling business, but was unsuccessful. In his latter years he resorted to making Æolian harps, which he sold among his friends. We have been informed by the poet's son-a modest and intelligent 'man, a printer-that Mr Rogers exerted himself to procure a pension for Bloomfield, and Mr Southey also took much interest in his welfare; but his last days were embittered by ill-health and poverty. So severe were the sufferings of Bloomfield from continual headache and nervous irritability, that fears were entertained for his reason, when, happily, death stepped in, and released him from 'the world's poor strife.' He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, on the 19th of August 1823. The first remarkable feature in the poetry of this humble bard is the easy smoothness and correctness of his versification. His ear was attuned to harmony, and his taste to the beauties of expression, before he had learned anything of criticism, or had enjoyed opportunities for study. This may be seen from the opening of his principal poem:

Humble Pleasures.

O come, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art,

Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my heart;
Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy,
That poverty itself can not destroy,

Be thou my Muse, and faithful still to me,

Retrace the steps of wild obscurity.

No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe till breath itself stands still :
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charmed mine eyes,
Nor science led me through the boundless skies;

From meaner objects far my raptures flow:

O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow,

And lead my soul to ecstacies of praise

For all the blessings of my infant days!

Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells;

But mould to Truth's fair form what memory tells.

Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song,
That to the humblest menial belong :
To him whose drudgery unheeded goes,
His joys unreckoned, as his cares or woes :
Though joys and cares in every path are sown,
And youthful minds have feelings of their own
Quick-springing sorrows, transient as the dew,
Delights from trifles, trifles ever new.

'Twas thus with Giles, meek, fatherless, and poor, Labour his portion, but he felt no more;

No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursued,
His life was constant, cheerful servitude;
Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look,
The fields his study, nature was his book ;
And as revolving seasons changed the scene
From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene,
Through every change still varied his employ,
Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

It is interesting to contrast the cheerful tone of Bloomfield's descriptions of rural life in its hardest and least inviting forms, with those of Crabbe, also a native of Suffolk. Both are true, but coloured with the respective peculiarities, in their style of observation and feeling, of the two poets. Bloomfield describes the various occupations of a farm-boy in seed-time, at harvest, tending cattle and sheep, and other occupations. In his tales, he embodies more moral feeling and painting, and his incidents are pleasing and well arranged. His want of vigour and passion, joined to the humility of his themes, is perhaps the cause of his being now little read; but he is one of the most characteristic and faithful of our national poets.

Harvest.

A glorious sight, if glory dwells below,

Where heaven's munificence makes all things shew,
O'er every field and golden prospect found,
That glads the ploughman's Sunday-morning's round;
When on some eminence he takes his stand,
To judge the smiling produce of the land.
Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide;
What is there here to flatter human pride?
The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,
And steadfast columns may astonish more,
Where the charmed gazer long delighted stays,
Yet traced but to the architect the praise;
Whilst here the veriest clown that treads the sod,
Without one scruple gives the praise to God;
And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,
From gratitude and admiration joined.
Here midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;
Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From infancy to age alike appears,

When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.

No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-
Children of want, for you the bounty flows!
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along;
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come Health! come Jollity! light-footed come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home.
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moistened brow that scorns to wear a frown:
The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants strayed:
E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid
Hies to the field the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow-chair,
His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word
To turn the swath, the quivering load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down: