EDWARD MOXON.

Lord Bacon has observed that some men are born great― others achieve greatness,—and some have greatness thrust upon them. This passage, however true, is chiefly remarkable for being quoted by Shakspere, by his inimitable Maria, when she is about to quiz Malvolio into the belief of the Lady Olivia's love for her cross-gartered steward. It has sometimes occurred to us that a fourth class of human nature might be made out of that portion who thrust themselves upon greatness of this section the amiable author of "Sonnets and sundry other Poems," would be a distinguished ornament: indeed he might not unreasonably be called the Magnus Apollo" of that peculiar race.

One of the happiest strokes of Mr. Croker's pen is in a review of Moxon's Sonnets. The amiable sonnetter has placed, as a motto to this volume, the following quotation from Wordsworth: "In truth, the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is :-and hence to me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground."

The aforesaid Croker whereon remarks thus blandly, and we are bound to add, in justice to the said Croker, most truly, "That might be very well for the author of 'The Excursion,' to say, but it becomes perfectly ludicrous when uttered by Mr. Moxon. What might be a scanty plot of ground for an elephant like Wordsworth,

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would be a boundless wilderness for a flea, like Edward Moxon." It very seldom that we agree with anything we see in the “ Quarterly Review," but here we feel a kind of sympathy that reconciles us even to Croker, 'the last infirmity of a noble mind." Indeed, the whole volume of the respectable "publisher of the poets" convinces us that it must be the volume referred to by Slender, when he says to his man Simple,

"I would give a thousand pounds had

I my Book of Sonnets here."

Were we a Suydam, or a John Jacob Astor, we would give a thousand pounds not to have Moxon's Sonnets in America, if we were compelled to read them; this is, however, a mere matter of taste, as we know one who reads them with peculiar relish to his unhappy wife and children, and that is, the simple-minded author himself.

Lest we should be thought unjust towards this curiosity of type and paper, we proceed to favor our readers with some specimens of the best we can find. Mark the peculiarity of his diction— how sweet his English lisps upon his tongue.

TO A BIRD.

"Sweet captive, thou a lesson me hast taught
Excelling any which the schools convey;
Example before precept men obey.
Methinks already I have haply caught
A portion of thy joy. Contentment rare,
For one in dull abode like thince, I trace,
Blended with warblings of such cheerful grace;

And yet without a listening ear to share,
Save mine, thy melody. Thus all day long,
Even as the youthful bard that meditates
In scenes the visionary mind creates,
Thou to some woodland image turn'st thy song;
A prisoner too to hope, like him, sweet bird,
In lonely cell thou sing'st, and sing'st unheard."

But it is in Sonnet IX that the great poet converts himself into a farthing rush-light, and one of the happiest flights of fancy on record, and resolves to

"Burn through Shakspere's matchless page."

SOLACE DERIVED FROM BOOKS.

Hence Care, and let me steep my drooping spirit
In streams of Poesy, or let me steer

Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where
Mortals immortal fary-land inherit.

Ah me! that there should be so few to merit
The realized hope of him, who deems,

In his Youth's spring, that life is what it seems,
Till sorrow pierce his soul, and storms deter it
From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair
Of genus born, to you I turn, and flee
Far from this world's ungenial apathy;
Too blest, if but awhile I captive share

The presence of such Beings as engage

The heart, and burn through Shakspere's matchless page."

Not content with burning Shakspere, Moxon resolves to let the world know that he is burnt in return: what can be more touching than his sonnet to "Woman's Heart." Edward Moxon, thou art truly the Grand Turk of the fair sex.

"If I were asked what most my soul doth prize
Of all the good gifts men enjoy below,

Whether from Fortune or from Fame they flow,
My answer would be thus. Not wealth, which flies
Away from those who hold it in esteem,

Nor yet the honors proud place hath to give:
These were their donor changing die or live.
Not ev'n earth's fairest mountain, vale, or stream,
For these at times are 'neath dark winter's gloom :
Take the world's pleasure and its loud acclaim,
Leave me but this, like an unsullied name
Which wears for aye the self-same hue and bloom-
Need I the secret of my soul impart ?

Be witness, ye that love, 'tis woman's heart."

We feel almost inclined to forgive Mr. Moxon for his laborious and well printed trash, on account of the following verses to the "Memory of Charles Lamb." It is an invocation to Coleridge:

"Receive him to thy arms, melodious shade!

Thou knowest his worth, for round one fountain ye
Together play'd, green wreaths of poesy

Twining for your young brows that shall not fade.
Few were your summers, when yon reverend pile,

Rear'd by good Edward, your faithful king, whose dress
Marks still the Christ-boy 'mong the crowds that press
Round holy Paul's, you entered with a smile!

Methinks I see you 'neath those cloisters gray

Conning apart some Bard of elder days,

Spenser perchance, or Chauser's pilgrim lay;
Or doth La Mancha's Knight your wonder raise ?
Methinks I see you, as of old ye sate

Within those walls, with studious brows elate!"

The mention of gentle Elia reminds us that Mr. Moxon was one of his kindest friends, and that the old wit testified his sense of it by leaving him one of his executors. We feel inclined to forgive the dull sonnetter on this very account, and hope he will extend a like charity to us, when we link the memory of the "Christ Boy" to his once more in concluding the present paper with a few anecdotes of Elia, hitherto unrecorded.

One very rainy evening when Lamb and a friend of his were enjoying their "potation of spirit and water" over a Beaumont and Fletcher in folio-his sister begged Lamb to go and quiet their dog which in his kennel at the back door was making a dreadful howling. The old wit turned round to her and said, "Pray, my dear Mary, do let the poor beast outside, do as we are doing inside, enjoy his Whine and Water.'"

A Cheesemonger, who having realized a large fortune, retired with a genteel wife and still genteeler daughter to enjoy the "otium cum dignitate" in a nobleman sort of way at Highgate, where he

had a superb villa, was above all things most anxious to conceal from every one of his acquaintances that he had ever been engaged in trade at all-more especially in so low a calling as that of "Cheesemonger." It was the canker in his blooming rose of life, and any allusion, however accidental, was construed by him into a deadly and never to be forgiven insult.

In a large party at the house of the village clergyman, Coleridge, Lamb, and the quondam Cheesemonger were present. In a discussion on the hard Poor Law, which was then agitating the political and social circles of London, the retired tradesman took high ground, and irritated the kind-hearted Elia by violent denunciations of the poor; turning round, and with great appearance of triumph over the silent wit, he said to the company generally but more particularly to Lamb, "You must bear in mind, sir, that I have got rid of all that stuff which you Poets call the 'Milk of Human Kindness.' Lamb looked at him steadily, and gave in his acquiescence in these words-"Yes, sir, I am aware of it—you turned it all into cheese several years ago." The retired Cheesemonger was inconsolable.

Lamb was once invited by an old friend to meet an author who had just published a volume of poems; when he got there (being somewhat early) he was asked by his host to look over the volume of the expected visiter. A few minutes convinced Elia that it possessed very little merit, being a feeble echo of different authors. This opinion of the poetaster was fully confirmed by the appearance of the gentleman himself, whose self-conceit and confidence in his own book were so manifest as to awaken in Lamb that spirit of mischievous waggery so characteristic of the Humorist. Lamb's rapid and tenacious memory enabled him during the dinner to quote fluently, several passages from the pretender's volume. These he gave with this introduction-"This reminds me of some verses I wrote when I was very young"-he then, to the astonishment of