THE HYMN. BUT ah! what glories yon blue vault emblaze? Perplex'd the isle-born bard in fiction's maze? Like shooting stars around his regal seat Pursuing, circling, whirling, twining, leading, Till the gay pageant from the sky descends Hail, mountain of delight, Palace of glory, bless'd by glory's king! dove Of coy repulse and mild reluctance talks; From whose fresh laps in young fantastic mazes Bathing the lithe convolvulus, that winds When sapient Brahma this new world approved, Dazzling the moon he rears his golden head: This feast in memory of the churned wave Now, while each ardent Cinnara persuades Soon, where the bands in lucid rows assemble, Hush'd was every breezy pinion, Every breeze his fall suspended: Silence reign'd; whose sole dominion Soon was raised, but soon was ended. He sings, how "whilom from the troubled main Narayan's gem, the moonlight's tender languish ; The solemn leech, slow-moving o'er the strand, A vase of long-sought Amrit in his hand. "To soften human ills dread Siva drank The poisonous flood, that stain'd his azure neck; The rest thy mansions deck, High Swerga! stored in many a blazing rank. 64 Thou, god of thunder! satt'st on Meru throned, With various praise in odes and hallow'd story Thou, Vasava, from this unmeasured height Shedd'st pearl, shedd'st odours o'er the sons of light!" The genius rested; for his powerful art He smiled; and, warbling in a softer mode, On pastures dry the maids and herdsmen trod : What furies potent modulation sooths! His lance, half-raised, with listless languor sinks. O! pluck (she said) yon gems, which nature To grace my darker tresses." In form a shepherd's boy, a god in soul, “The reckless peasant, who those glowing flowers, Shackled the god who gave him showers. "Straight from seven winds immortal Genii flew, They with the ruddy flash, that points his thunder, Rend his vain bands asunder. Th' exulting god resumes his thousand eyes, Soft memory retraced the youthful scene; GEORGE CRABBE. in Dorsetshire, and the rectories of Muston and West Allington, in the diocese of Lincoln. In the meantime, in 1785, he published The Newspaper, a poem; followed by a complete edition of his works, in 1807, which were received with marked and universal approbation. In 1810, appeared his admirable poem of The Borough ; in 1812, he published his Tales in Verse; and in 1819, his celebrated Tales of the Hall. He had, in the interim, been presented to the rectory of Trowbridge, with the smaller benefice of Croxton Kerryel, in Leicestershire. His only prose publications are a funeral sermon on one of his early noble patrons, Charles, Duke of Rutland, preached in the chapel of Belvoir Castle, in 1789; and An Essay on the Natural History of the Vale of Belvoir, written for Mr. Nichols' History of Leicestershire. GEORGE CRABBE was born at Aldborough, in | him successively, the living of Frome St. Quintin, Suffolk, on the 24th of December, 1754, where his father and grandfather were officers of the customs. He received his education at a neighbouring school, where he gained a prize for one of his poems, and left it with sufficient knowledge to qualify him for an apprentice to a surgeon and apothecary in his native town. His poetical taste is said to have been assisted in developing itself by a perusal of all the scraps of verses which his father used to tear off from different newspapers, and which young Crabbe collected together, and got most of them by heart. The attractions of the muse had probably overcome those of Esculapius, for, on the completion of his apprenticeship, giving up all hope of succeeding in his profession, he determined at once to quit it, and to depend for support upon his literary abilities. Accordingly, in 1778, he came to London with little more in his pocket than a bundle of his best poems, and took a lodging in the city, where he read and composed, but could prevail upon no bookseller to publish. At length, in 1780, he ventured to print, at his own expense, a poem, entitled The Candidate, which was favourably noticed in the Monthly Review, to the editor of which it was addressed. Finding, however, that he stood no chance of success or popularity whilst he remained personally unknown, he is said to have introduced himself to Edmund Burke, who received him with great kindness, and read his productions with approbation. Our author fortunately found in this gentleman both a friend and a patron; he took Crabbe into his house, and introduced him to Fox; and, under their united auspices, appeared his poem of the Library, in 1781. In the same year, he was ordained deacon, and in the following one, priest, and, for a short time, acted as curate at Aldborough. About the same period, he entered his name at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, but withdrew it without graduating, although he was subsequently presented with the degree of B. C. L. After residing for some time at Belvoir Castle, as chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, by the recommendation of Mr. Burke, our author was introduced to Lord-chancellor Thurlow, who bestowed upon Mr. Crabbe died February 3d, 1832, at Trowbridge, the scene of his latest ministrations as a Christian pastor. His parishioners, in grateful remembrance of his virtues and labours for their improvement, caused an elegant monument to be erected over his grave in the chancel. His character as a man is not less worthy of admiration, than his genius as a poet. His biography, accompanied by a volume of posthumous poetry, have since been published by his son. The works of Crabbe have gone through several editions, and deservedly become popular; Mr. Wilson Croker has justly observed of Crabbe, that his having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, and too painfully just, may have rendered his popularity less brilliant than that of some of his contemporaries; though for accurate description, and deep knowledge of human nature, no poet of the present age is equal to him. The great charm of his poetry lies in his masterly treatment of the most ordinary subjects, and in his heart-rending but true descriptions of the scenes which his muse delights to visit,-those of poverty and distress. He depicts nature living and circumstantially; and in this respect, his poetry may justly be compared to the painting of Teniers and Ostade. Thus bless'd with children, friend, and wife Bless'd far beyond the vulgar lot; Of all that gladdens human life, Where was the good that I had not? But my vile heart had sinful spot, And heaven beheld its deepening stain; Eternal justice I forgot, And mercy sought not to obtain. Come near, I'll softly speak the rest!- And his who so much truth avow'd, I call'd on vengeance; at the word She came ;-Can I the deed forget? She pined, she died, she loathed to live ;I saw her dying-see her yet: Fair fallen thing! my rage forgive! Those cherubs still, my life to bless, Were left; could I my fears remove, And would at last have won my will, In youth! health! joy! in beauty's pride! And I was cursed-as I am now- They try us all, if false or true; PHYSICIAN. Peace, peace, my friend; these subjects fly; Collect thy thoughts-go calmly on. PATIENT. And shall I then the fact deny ? I was,-thou know'st,-I was begone, Like him who fill'd the eastern throne, To whom the watcher cried aloud !* That royal wretch of Babylon, Prophecy of Daniel, chap. iv. 22. Like him, with haughty, stubborn mind, Then was I cast from out my state; Is sad to tell :-but you shall hear Through this unpitying world to run. They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth, Lands, manors, lordships, every one; So was that gracious man undone, Was spurn'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor, Whom every former friend would shun. And menials drove from every door. Then those ill-favour'd Ones,* whom none And, with resistless terror, drew. Upon that boundless plain, below, The setting sun's last rays were shed, Where all were still, asleep, or dead; And clothed the crumbling spoils of time. There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay: The setting sun's sad rays were seen. We ran through bleak and frozen land; I had no strength their strength t' oppose, An infant in a giant's hand. They placed me where these streamers play, It would the stoutest heart dismay, * Vide Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. |