Adown the gulf of time! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight,—the brands In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun, "Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. "What though beneath thee man put forth And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. "Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back, "Ev'n I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death, The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, "This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recall'd to breath, "Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste; On earth's sepulchral clod; Or shake his trust in God!" THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce,-for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,— The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, -rest, thou art weary and worn; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. BRYAN WALLER PROCTER was born in London: he received his education at Harrow; and on his removal from the school was articled to a solicitor, of the name of Atherton, at Calne, in Wiltshire,—one of the most uninteresting towns in the kingdom, yet celebrated as having been the residence of Moore, Crabbe, Coleridge, Bowles, and Procter. Mr. Procter continued here about four years, acquiring a knowledge of the profession for which he was intended, and proceeded to the metropolis, where he became the pupil of an eminent conveyancer; and where he applied himself diligently to a pursuit as opposed to that to which his genius inclined him, as can be well imagined. He has since been called to the bar. Mr. Procter is below the middle size; his countenance is not characteristic of energy, but its expression is peculiarly gentle, and his manners are kindly and conciliating to a degree. There is no living Poet more universally respected and esteemed he is said to be exceedingly sensitive, and he is evidently averse to force his way to that professional distinction, which the extent of his acquirements might readily achieve for him. Of late, however, he has written but little poetry; and, it is understood, has devoted himself so assiduously to acquire legal knowledge, that, as a chamber counsel, his skill is largely appreciated, and his practice extensive. We trust, he will not long remain known only to the "attorneys;" among his contemporaries he may find at least one instance of fame achieved in the opposite paths of Law and Poetry. BARRY CORNWALL-for under that name he obtained his fame as a poet, and he has hitherto published under no other first appeared before the world in the year 1815. His "Dramatic Scenes" at once established a reputation, which he has since sustained by the publication of the " Sicilian Story,” “Marcian Colonna,” the “ Flocd of Thessaly," the tragedy of "Mirandola," and various "Miscellaneous Poems ;" and, although we believe he has not issued any work in prose, he has afforded proof, in various periodical works, of his large capacity in this department of literature. Mr. Procter, in an advertisement to his "Dramatic Scenes," states that his leading intention was to "try the effect of a more natural style than that which had for a long time prevailed in our dramatic literature." The experiment was successful: he is the undoubted restorer of those quick and natural turns of impulsive dialogue, to which the drama had been a stranger since the times of Beaumont |