GEORGE CRABBE. 1812, his "Tales ;" and in 1819, his "Tales of the Hall." He died at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, in February, 1832. As a man, CRABBE was admired and loved by all who knew him. LOCKHART, in describing his person, says "his noble forehead, his bright beaming eye-without any thing of old age about it, though he was then above seventy-his sweet and innocent smile, and the calm, mellow tones of his voice, all are reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry." A perfect edition of his poetical writings, with a graceful and sensible memoir by his son, has been issued by MURRAY, since his death. THIS poet was born on the twenty-fourth of December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his father and grandfather were officers of the customs. At the school where he received his education he gained a prize for one of his poems; and on leaving it he became an apprentice to a surgeon and apothecary in his native village. On the completion of his apprenticeship, abandoning all hope of success in his profession, he went to London to commence a life of authorship. Unknown and unfriended, he endeavoured in vain to induce the booksellers to publish his writings. At length, in 1780, two years after his arrival in the great metropolis, he ventured to print at his own expense a poem entitled "The Candidate," which was favourably received. He was soon after introduced to EDMUND BURKE, who became his friend and patron, and presented him to Fox and other eminent contemporaries. In 1781 he published "The Library," and was ordained a deacon. In the following year he became curate of Aldborough, and in 1783 he entered his name at Trinity Hall, Cambridge; but left the Uni-ed by his pictures is often fearful, merely versity without graduating, though he was subsequently presented with the degree of B. C. L. After residing for a considerable period at Belvoir Castle, as chaplain to the Duke of RUTLAND, he was introduced to the Lord Chancellor THURLOW, who bestowed upon him successively the living of Frome St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, and the rectories of Muston and West Allington in the diocese of Lincoln. In 1807 he published a complete edition of his works then written, which was received with general applause. Three years afterward appeared "The Borough;" in STANZAS. LET me not have this gloomy view To cool my burning brows instead. Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 3 The lovers of homely truth may appeal to CRABBE in proof that its sternest utterance is dramatic. No poet has ventured to rely more entirely on fact. He paints without delicacy, but his touches are so very literal as to be striking and effective. The poor have found in him their ablest annalist. The most gloomy phases of life are described in his tales with an integrity that has rendered them almost as imposing as a tragedy. The interest awaken from their appalling truth and touching minuteness. He was a mann rist, and some of the features of his mannerism-his monotonous versification, and minute portraitures of worthless characters, with their rude jests and familiar moralizing-are unpleasing; but his powerful and graphic delineations of humble life, his occasional touches of deepest tenderness, and the profoundness of his wisdom, mark not less strongly than these blemishes, all that he wrote, and will keep green his reputation while the world we live in is the scene of sin and suffering. Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, There let my maiden form be laid, Nor for new guest that bed be made. As innocent, but not so gay. Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, In clammy beds of cold blue clay, Through which the ringed earth-worms creep; And on the shrouded bosom prey; I will not have the bell proclaim When those sad marriage rites begin,- I cannot these cold truths allow :- That man a maiden's grave may trace; And let affection find the place. And not a man to meet us there. RECONCILIATION. Mr Damon was the first to wake The faithful bosom's softest sigh: Oh! cast it from my thought away; Think of the day that gave it birth, And this, its sweet returning day. Buried be all that has been done. Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live, But that we meet, and that we love. WOMAN, PLACE the white man on Afric's coast, Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast, And paint their very demons white: There, while the sterner sex disdains To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains, And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow, From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope reflow, That languish'd in the fainting heart. "What though so pale his haggard face, So sunk and sad his looks,"-she cries: "And far unlike our nobler race, With crisped locks and rolling eyes; Yet misery marks him of our kind,— We see him lost, alone, afraid! And pangs of body, griefs in mind, Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. Perhaps in some far distant shore There are who in these forms delight; Our kindness may preserve them all." Can her warm flow of pity freeze;— "From some sad land the stranger comes, Where joys like ours are never found; Let's soothe him in our happy homes, Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. ""Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, To see the famish'd stranger fed; To milk for him the mother-deer, To smooth for him the furry bed. The powers above our Lapland bless With good no other people know; T' enlarge the joys that we possess, By feeling those that we bestow!" Thus, in extremes of cold and heat, Where wandering man may trace his kind; Wherever grief and want retreat, In woman they compassion find: She makes the female breast her seat, And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know, Determined justice, truth severe; And woman holds affliction dear: And bid life's fairer views appear. THE WRETCHED MIND. Ta' unhappy man was found, The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd; And all the dreadful tempest died away, To the dull stillness of the misty day! And now his freedom he attain'd-if free The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be; The playful children of the place he meets; Playful with them he rambles through the streets; In all they need, his stronger arm he lends, And his lost mind to these approving friends. That gentle maid, whom once the youth had Is now with mild religious pity moved; [loved, Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be; And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs; [vade Charm'd by her voice, the harmonious sounds inHis clouded mind, and for a time persuade : Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught, From the maternal glance, a gleam of thought; He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear, And starts, half-conscious, at the falling tear! Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes; But, soon returning, with impatience seeks [speaks; His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and Speaks a wild speech, with action all as wildThe children's leader, and himself a child; He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends; Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more, And heedless children call him Silly Shore. THE DREAM OF THE CONDEMNED. WHEN first I came Within his view, I fancied there was shame, Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain; The hours of innocence; the timid look Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took And told his hope; her trembling joy appears, Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears. Yes! all are with him now, and all the while Life's early prospects and his Fanny smile: Then come his sister and his village friend, And he will now the sweetest moments spend Life has to yield :-No! never will he find Again on earth such pleasure in his mind. He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, Love in their looks and pleasure on their tongue. Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire For more than true and honest hearts require, They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Through the green lane,-then lingerin the mead,Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum; Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed! [way Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their O'er its rough bridge-and there behold the bay !— The ocean smiling to the fervid sunThe waves that faintly fall and slowly runThe ships at distance, and the boats at hand: And now they walk upon the sea-side sand, Counting the number, and what kind they be, Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea: Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold The glittering waters on the shingles roll'd: The timid girls, half-dreading their design, Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, And search for crimson weeds, which spreading Or lie like pictures on the sand below; With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun Through the small waves so softly shines upon; And those live-lucid jellies which the eye Delights to trace as they swim glittering by: Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire, And will arrange above the parlour fireTokens of bliss!" A SEA FOG. [flow, WHEN all you see through densest fog is seen; When you can hear the fishers near at hand Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand; Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, Or, half-conceal'd, some figure at the stern; Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast, Will hear it strike against the viewless mast; While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain, At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain. "Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past, Net after net, till you have seen the last; And as you wait till all beyond you slip, A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship, Breaking the silence with the dipping oar, And their own tones, as labouring for the shore; Those measured tones with which the scene agree, And give a sadness to serenity. THE SUDDEN DEATH AND FUNERAL. THEN died lamented, in the strength of life, A valued mother and a faithful wife, Call'd not away, when time had loosed each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our kind, She felt fast bound as charity can bind ;Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, The drooping spirit for its fate prepare; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart ;But all her ties the strong invader broke, In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke! Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew, till every hope was gone: Still those around appear'd for hope to seek! But view'd the sick, and were afraid to speak.— Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead, Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill, THE DEATH OF RUTH.* SHE left her infant on the Sunday morn, A creature doom'd to shame! in sorrow born. She came not home to share our humble meal,Her father thinking what his child would feel From his hard sentence!-Still she came not home, The night grew dark, and yet she was not come ! The east-wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound, And the rain fell as if the world were drown'd: There were no lights without, and my good man, To kindness frighten'd, with a groan began To talk of Ruth, and pray! and then he took The Bible down, and read the holy book: * Ruth is betrothed-something more than betrothed— to a young sailor, who, on the eve of marriage, is carried relentlessly off by a press-gang, and afterward slain in battle. A canting, hypocritical weaver afterward becomes a suitor of the widowed bride, and her father urges her with severity to wed the missioned suiter. The above extract is from the conclusion of the story, in the "Tales of the Hall." The heroine has promised to give her answer on Sunday. For he had learning: and when that was done, I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout, And she was gone! the waters wide and deep But oh! what storm was in that mind! what strife, That could compel her to lay down her life! For she was seen within the sea to wade, By one at distance, when she first had pray'd; Then to a rock within the hither shoal, Softly, and with a fearful step, she stole; Then, when she gain'd it, on the top she stood A moment still-and dropt into the flood! The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain,She heard not then-she never heard again! A GROUP OF GIPSIES. A WIDE And sandy road has banks on either side; state, [by: Cursing his tardy aid-her mother there To trace the progress of their future years; [ceit, They talk, indeed; but who can choose a friend, THE POOR-HOUSE. YOUR plan I love not:—with a number you Have placed your poor, your pitiable few; There, in one house, for all their lives to be, The pauper-palace which they hate to see! That giant building, that high bounding wall, Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thundering hall! That large, loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour, Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power: It is a prison with a milder name, Which few inhabit without dread or shame.— Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell; They've much to suffer, but have naught to tell: They have no evil in the place to state, And dare not say, it is the house they hate: They own there's granted all such place can give, But live repining,—for 'tis there they live! Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, The lost, loved daughter's infant progeny ! Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race. Is not the matron there, to whom the son Was wont at each declining day to run; He (when his toil was over) gave delight, By lifting up the latch, and one "Good night ?" Yes she is here; but nightly to her door The son, still labouring, can return no more. Widows are here, who in their huts were left, Of husbands, children, plenty, ease, bereft; Yet all that grief within the humble shed Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed : But here, in all its force, remains the grief, And not one softening object for relief. Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet? Who learn the story current in the street? Who to the long-known intimate impart Facts they have learn'd, or feelings of the heart? Some, champions for the rights that prop the crown, |