A WET SHERT AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast,- O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free,The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. yon There's tempest in horned moon, cloud; And hark! the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud, my boys, While the hollow oak our palace is, LEIGH HUNT, the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October the 19th, 1784. He, as well as Coleridge and Lamb, received his early education at Christ's Hospital, and chiefly under the same grammar-master; and, like Lamb, he was prevented from going to the University (on the Christ's Hospital foundation, it is understood to be a preparatory step to holy orders) by an impediment in his speech-which, however, he had the good fortune to overcome. At school, as in after life, he was remarkable for exuberance of animal spirits, and for passionate attachment to his friends,—a feeling, also, which years did not diminish; but he evinced little care for study, except when the exercises were in verse, when he would "give up" double the quantity demanded from him. His prose themes (he has so told us among other interesting facts) were generally so bad, that the master used to crumple them in his hand, and throw them to the boys for their amusement. Mr. Hunt was an ardent, though never an ungenerous, political partizan, and suffered in almost every possible way for the advocacy of opinions which, whether right or wrong, he lived to see in a great measure triumph. The acquaintance of Mr. Hunt and Lord Byron began in prison, where Mr. Hunt was confined for the publication of an article in the "Examiner," which he then conducted. It was pronounced to be a libel on the Prince Regent-and originated in his sympathy with the sufferings of the people of Ireland. To the history of their after intercourse we have not space to refer. Time has pretty nearly satisfied the world that Mr. Hunt by no means overdrew the picture of the noble Bard. The leading feature in Mr. Hunt's character was a love of truth. That was unpalatable to Lord Byron, and, for a time also, to the public. Animal spirits,-a power of receiving delight from the commonest every-day objects, as well as from remote ones, and a sort of luxurious natural piety (so to speak), are the prevailing influences of his writings. His friend Hazlitt used to say of him, in allusion to his spirits, and to his family-stock (which was from the West Indies), that he had "tropical blood in his veins." In person he was tall, and slightly formed; his countenance was singularly fine; his eyes, like his complexion, were dark-but they had a gentle expression, akin to that of the gazelle. His look and his manner were both kindly and persuasive; indeed, we have rarely met any one who so completely realised our notions of benevolence. His conversation was exquisitely pleasing,-" combining the vivacity of the school-boy with the resources of the wit and the taste of the scholar." We know little of his political writings; they must have been fierce and bitter, for they alarmed his opponents and delighted and encouraged his friends; but unquestionably the MAN is to be seen in the tender, graceful, and affectionate effusions of the Poet. He is only at home where the Heart presides. In the earlier part of his career his opinions were assailed with the severest bostility. He outlived the animosity to which he was subjected; the misfortunes to which he was exposed were met with philosophy; and his enemies, like generous antagonists, aided in binding up the wounds they had inflicted. He at length received justice from all,-save his political" friends." Leigh Hunt died at Putney, August 29th, 1859, in the 75th year of his age. The poetry of Leigh Hunt has been, and ever will be, appreciated by all who love nature and sympathize with humanity. It is liable to the charge of occasional affectation; and it is to be lamented that, at times, he defaces the beauty of a composition by some trifling puerilities. Mr. Hazlitt appears to have divined the cause of these defects. "From great sanguineness of temper, from great quickness and unsuspecting simplicity, he runs on to the public as he does at his own fireside,—and talks about himself,-forgetting that he is not always among friends." This disposition, however, is also the main source of his success. His nature was essentially GOOD; and what he wrote made its way to the heart. The models he consulted were the true old English Poets and the gayer spirits of Italy. He was a scholar, and “a special lover of books;" yet we never find in him a touch of pedantry. His poetry is like his mind,-a sort of buoyant outbreak of joyousness; and when a tone of sadness pervades it, it is so gentle, confiding, and hoping, as to be far nearer allied to resignation than repiuing. Perhaps there is no Poet who so completely pictures himself: it is a fine and natural and all-unselfish egotism—and a glorious contrast to the gloomy and misanthropic moods which some Bards have laboured first to acquire, and then to portray. Whatsoe'er of beauty Yearns and yet reposes, Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, Took a shape in roses. Hold one of us lightly,- Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms, Know you not our only Rival flow'r,-the human? Loveliest weight on lightest foot, Joy-abundant woman? LILIES. WE are lilies fair, The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said, "Lo! my thoughts of white." Ever since then, angels Hold us in their hands; You may see them where they take Also do we seem ; And not the less for being crown'd With a golden dream. Could you see around us The enamour'd air, You would see it pale with bliss POPPIES. WE are slumberous poppies, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious beauty show. Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose,Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkest grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain? Visions aye are on us, And Proserpine's bower: There, like bees, the pale souls come Taste, ye mortals, also: Milky-hearted, we; Taste, but with a reverent care; Too much gladness brings to gloom CHORUS. WE are the sweet flowers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;) Utterance, mute and bright, Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath: Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces. Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear, In silence build our bowers, And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers. The dear lumpish baby, Humming with the May-bee, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass; The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. Age, the wither'd clinger, And wraps On us mutely gazes, the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies. |