With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.
Guard thy best treasure from the venom'd sting
Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove

How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love!

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,

The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,

May wake the impassion'd lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong;
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry strife;
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,

And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.

Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring

The ruin, not renewal, of his flame:

If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing

He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain!

Indifference comes the abandon'd heart to claim,
Asserts for ever her repulsive reign,

Close follow'd by disgust and all her chilling train.

Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save
The good so cherish'd from thy grasping hand?
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity?
Ah, never more to wake! or e'er expand
His golden pinions to the breezy sky,

Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye.

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway;
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey;
Sees rapture's brilliant colors fade away,
And all the glow of beaming sympathy;
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray

That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy?

Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve
Thy wither'd hopes: conceal the cruel pain!
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve;
But never to the unfeeling ear complain;
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain!
Submit at once-the bitter task resign,

Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain;
Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine-
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine!
Psyche, Canto VI.

THE LILY.

How wither'd, perish'd seems the form
Of yon obscure, unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm
It hides secure the precious fruit.
The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace
What latent loveliness it holds.
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting, slighted thing;
There, in the cold earth buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.
Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still, in undisturb'd repose,
Uninjured lies the future birth!
And ignorance, with skeptic eye,

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view;
Or mock her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.

Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!

The sun, the shower indeed shall come;
The promised verdant shoot appear,
And Nature bid her blossoms bloom.
And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring,
Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,
Unvail thy charms, and perfume shed;
Unfold thy robes of purest white,
Unsullied from their darksome grave-
And thy soft petals, silvery light,

In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave.
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust
Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes intrust,

And watch with patient, cheerful eye;
And bear the long, cold, wintry night,
And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till Heaven's reviving light,
Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom.

May, 1809.

UN RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON WHICH FLOWERED

AT WOODSTOCK.

Odors of Spring, my sense ye charm

With fragrance premature;

And, mid these days of dark alarm,
Almost to hope allure.

Methinks with purpose soft ye come
To tell of brighter hours,

Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom,
Her sunny gales and showers.

Alas! for me shall May in vain

The powers of life restore;

These eyes, that weep and watch in pain,
Shall see her charms no more.

No, no; this anguish cannot last!
Beloved friends, adieu!

The bitterness of death were past,
Could I resign but you.

But oh! in every mortal pang

That rends my soul from life,
That soul which seems on you to hang
Through each convulsive strife,
E'en now, with agonizing grasp
Of terror and regret,

To all in life its love would clasp,
Clings close and closer yet.

Yet why, immortal, vital spark!
Thus mortally opprest?

Look up, my soul, through prospects dark,
And bid thy terrors rest!
Forget, forego thine earthly part,

Thy heavenly being trust!

Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart
Still shuddering clings to dust.

O ye! who soothe the pangs of death
With love's own patient care,
Still, still retain this fleeting breath,
Still pour the fervent prayer:
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye
No more, nor voice my ear,

Who breathe for me the tender sigh,
And shed the pitying tear,

Whose kindness (though far, far removed)
My grateful thoughts perceive,

Pride of my life, esteem'd, beloved,
My last sad claim receive!

Oh! do not quite your friend forget,
Forget alone her faults:

And speak of her with fond regret
Who asks your lingering thoughts.

December, 1809.

This poem was the last ever composed by the author, who expired at the place where it was written, after six years of protracted malady, on the 24th of March, 1810, in the thirtyseventh year of her age. Her fears of death were entirely removed before she quitted this scene of trial and suffering; and her spirit departed to a better state of existence, confiding with heavenly joy in the acceptance and love of her Redeemer.

RICHARD CUMBERLAND, 1732-1811.

RICHARD CUMBERLAND, a celebrated dramatic and miscellaneous writer, was born under the roof of his maternal grandfather, the celebrated Dr. Richard Bentley,' on the 19th of February, 1732. After the usual preparatory studies at Westminster School, he was admitted into Trinity College, Cambridge, where he graduated with distinguished honor in 1750. Soon after this, while pursuing his studies at the university, he received an invitation from Lord Halifax to become his private and confidential secretary. Accordingly he proceeded to London, where he published his first offering to the press-a churchyard Elegy, in imitation of Gray's. It made but little impression. "The public," he observes, "were very little interested in it, and Dodsley as little profited." Soon after this, he published his first legitimate drama, "The Banishment of Cicero;" but it was not adapted for the stage, and it afterward appeared as a dramatic poem.

In 1759, he married Elizabeth, the only daughter of George Ridge, Esq., of Kilminston, and, through the influence of his patron, Lord Halifax, was appointed crown-agent for Nova Scotia; and in the next year, when that nobleman, on the accession of George III., was made lord-lieutenant of Ireland, Cumberland accompanied him as secretary. He now began to write with assiduity for the stage, and produced a variety of plays, of which the most successful was the comedy of "The West Indian," and thus he became known to the literary and distinguished society of the day. The character of him by Goldsmith, in his "Retaliation," is one of the finest compliments ever paid by one author to another.2

In 1780, Cumberland was sent on a confidential mission to the courts of Madrid and Lisbon, to induce them to enter into separate treaties of peace with England. But he failed to accomplish the object of his mission, and returned in 1781, having contracted, in the public service, a debt of five thousand pounds, which Lord North's ministry meanly and unjustly refused to pay. He was compelled, therefore, to sell all his paternal estate, and retire to private life. He fixed his residence at Tunbridge Wells, and there poured forth a variety of dramas, essays, and other works: among which were "Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in Spain ;" a poem in eight books entitled "Calvary, or the Death of Christ," and another called the "Exodiad." Here, also, in 1785, he first published, in two volumes, the collection of Essays known as "The Observer," which the next year was considerably enlarged, in 1790 was published in five volumes, and in 1803 was incorporated with the British Classics. In 1806, he published "Memoirs of his Own

1 See "Compendium of English Literature," p. 429.

2 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
THE TERENCE OF ENGLAND, THE MENDER OF HEARTS;
A flattering painter, who made it his care

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that, vainly directing his view

To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Life;" and, in 1811, his last work, entitled "Retrospection, a Poem in Familiar Verse." He died on the 11th of May, in the same year.

Of the personal character of Mr. Cumberland, a pretty accurate judgment may be formed from his "Memoirs,""—a very amusing book, full of interesting anecdotes of the men of his time, and giving a pretty good insight into the character of the author. His self-esteem was great and his vanity overweening, but he possessed as kind a heart as ever beat in a human breast. In society, few men appeared to more advantage in conversation, or evinced a more perfect mastery of the art of pleasing. As a writer, he may be said to be more remarkable for the number than for the distinguished excellence of his works; but many of them, it should be remembered, were hastily produced in order to better his income. and it has been justly said, that "if he has produced much that is perishable or orgotten, he has also evolved creations which have been enregistered as among the finest efforts of genius." His "Observer" is among the most interesting and instructive of the series called the British Classics, and affords honorable evidence of the author's fertility of imagination, knowledge, humor, and varied power of composition.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.

The poet, therefore, whether Hebrew or Greek, was in the earliest ages a sacred character, and his talent a divine gift, a celestial inspiration men regarded him as the ambassador of Heaven and the interpreter of its will. It is perfectly in nature, and no less agreeable to God's providence, to suppose that even in the darkest times some minds of a more enlightened sort should break forth, and be engaged in the contemplation of the universe and its author: from meditating upon the works of the Creator, the transition to the act of praise and adoration follows as it were of course. These are operations of the mind, which naturally inspire it with a certain portion of rapture and enthusiasm, rushing upon the lips in warm and glowing language, and disdaining to be expressed in ordinary and vulgar phrase. Poetry then is the language of prayer, an address becoming of the Deity; it may be remembered, it may be repeated in the ears of the people called together for the purposes of worship; this is a form that may be fixed upon their minds, and in this they may be taught to join.

The next step in the progress of poetry, from the praise of God, is to the praise of men: illustrious characters, heroic acts are singled

1 For an extract from this poem, see "Compendium of English Literature,” p. 714.

* Dr. Johnson, in a letter to Mrs. Thrale, thus speaks of him: "The want of company is an inconvenience, but Mr. Cumberland is a million."

Of this, Dr. Drake thus speaks in the fifth volume of his Essays, p. 393: "The Observer," though the sole labor of an individual, is yet rich in variety, both of subject and manner; in this respect, indeed, as well as in literary interest, and in fertility of invention, it may be clasel with the 'Spectator' and 'Adventurer; if inferior to the latter in grandeur of fiction, or to the former in delicate irony and dramatic unity of design, it is wealthier in its literary fand than either, equally moral in its views, and as abundant in the creation of incident, I consider it, therefore, with the exception of the papers just mentioned, as superior, in its powers of attraction, to every other periodical composition."