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Mount Jerome, Harold's Cross. His tomb is placed in Section C of the burial ground, and is a plain obelisk of mountain granite, capped by a monumental urn, and bears the simple inscription
JULY 10TH, 1843.
"And thus we leave our good Judge to receive a just reward of his integrity from the Judge of Judges, at the great assize of the world."*
ART. IV.-ENGLISH CONVIVIAL SONG WRITERS. 1. Bibliotheca Madrigaliana.-A Bibliographical Account of the Musical and Poetical Works published in England during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, under the Titles of Madrigals, Ballets, Ayres, Canzonets. By Edward F. Rimbault, LL.D., F.S.A., 1 vol. 8vo. London: John Russell Smith.
2. A Little Book of Songs and Ballads, gathered from Ancient Music Books, MS., and Printed. By Edward
F. Rimbault, LL.D., F.S.A., 1 vol. 8vo. London:
3. Lyra Urbanica; or the Social Effusions of the Celebrated Captain Charles Morris of the Life Guards, 2 vols. 8vo. London: Richard Bentley.
THERE are, in no modern language, so many songs, beautiful in thought, poetic in inspiration, charming and melodious in structure, as in the English. We possess songs that steal into the heart in its hours of gloom, and brighten all its sorrows like a dream of heaven; songs that sung round the winter fire, bring back the days of youth, and hope, and joy, when those between whose faces and ours, the veil of death is drawn, were beside us in all the pride of health and strength; songs that call up the dreams of half forgotten joys, and from
*Fuller's "The Good Judge."
the dim past bring back once more the glowing visions of that time, when life was but the dawning of a long summer day of bliss, ere we had learned to know with Fenwick, that "youth is but the death of infancy, and manhood but the death of youth, and to-morrow but the death of to-day;" songs that make the heart swell, and the pulse quicken, at the memory of great deeds of high and noble daring; songs that cause the eyes to glisten, and the breast to throb, as some old ballad, or rhyming story, tells how sorrow, or pain, or disappointment has crushed a noble spirit; songs that in the deep poetry of thought, or in the flowing strain of a glorious melody, send all the heavenly portion of our nature upward to its primal home→→→
"Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound-" songs so sweet, so touching, that, as they steal upon the ear in a soft, slow cadence, or swell upon the air in a deep, full diapason, we recall the memory of some summer morning when we watched a sky-lark, trilling as he soared, till poised in an atmosphere of his own sweet music. Moore, whose songs come upon the listener's ear, like the music of fairy land, remembered in the morning vision of a past night's dream; Bailey, whose lyrics are the relics of a poet's mind, spoiled by a drawing-room malaria of fashion, and perfume, and foppery; Lover, whose songs, like his genius, are ever fresh, and fraught with charms that prove the land and the race from which he sprung; Mrs. Norton, whose birth-right is fancy, and eloquence, and glowing thought; Felicia Hemans, whose life was but a brief span of time, in which all her hours were devoted to poetry, the strains of whose melody can never be forgotten till all that glorifies nature, or makes love, and hope, and truth, a heaven, shall have passed away for ever; Motherwell, whose Jeanie Morrison, and My Heid is like to rend, Willie, touch
* What an exquisite picture these lines present of the child loversO dear, dear Jeanie Morrison
The thochts o' by-gane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
the feelings like the last bitter sob of a breaking heart; James Hogg, glorious James Hogg, with his bright fancies, and quaint thoughts, his genial humor, and his true souled naturalness; greatest of all, brightest glory of English song writers, the bard of nature, the self-taught, glowing, ardent child of genius and of song, the poet of every passion and of every feeling that heaven has placed in the breast of man, he whose lays are but the outpourings of his own great, deep heart-Robert Burns-these, all these, and with them Ramsay, and Sheridan, and Dibden, and Campbell, and Charles Swain, form the glory of our modern song-writers.
We do not, however, confine the lyric bards of England to the epoch of which Robert Burns is the earliest, as he is also the chief. Who, in looking through Doctor Rimbault's most admirable volumes, will not feel pride at the many charming songs that grace our language! What lover of English music will not recall Ben Jonson's songs, in which every thought is bright and tender, as :—
Kiss me, sweet! the wary lover
Who forgets the gallant, courtly Raleigh, and—
Hey down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens more unfitting:
And so think I with a down down derry.
Or who recollects not—
Shall I, like a hermit, dwell,
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Who does not recall Suckling's-"Why so wan and pale,
Who does not remember Waller's
Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Or that exquisite ballad
It is not that I love you less,
But to prevent the sad increase
Then we have Carew, and
As old time makes these decay,
Lovely cheeks, or lips or eyes.
Who does not recollect Lovelace's famous "When Love with unconfined wings," and Herrick's "Fair Daffodils," and "Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee," and "Gather sweet Rose buds." But our paper is not devoted to English song writers generally; so we turn to that band of bards who have written convivial songs.
We take it to be a general rule, that most great poets could, had they been so inclined, have penned convivial lyrics. The heart of the true poet is ever young and ever joyous, and when turning to itself for consolation or hope, in sorrow or in misfortune, it ever finds relief. So it was with Tasso. So it was with Lovelace, when he sang :
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
If I have freedom in my love,
The true poet loves all nature, and all her gifts. Her sunshine is not more bright than that which gleams from the heaven within his own breast; and though grief come upon him, though his form be bent, and his footstep slow, yet his heart is light and bounding, and in the philosophy of a sober Pantagruelist he finds a balm for every sorrow, and a soother for every care.
Thus it is that the poet becomes a convivial song writer; and as there can be no great bard in a state of barbarism, so there can be no good convivial songs in any language, unless the people who speak it have arrived at that phase of civilization at least, where the interchange of thoughts and feelings is held to form a considerable portion of the enjoyment which rational beings experience when, gathered together, they "sit at good men's feasts."