ALARIC WATTS. FOR fastidiousness of taste and elaborateness of finish, few poets of the present century excel Alaric Watts; and he has written some pieces no less distinguished for true pathos. "He has given abundant proof," says Mr. Moir, "if not of high creative strength, of gentle pathos, of cultivated intellect, and an eye and ear sensitively alive to all the genial impulses of nature, of home-bred delights, and heartfelt happiness: he is always elegant and refined, and looks on carelessness—as every man of taste and accomplishment should-as a vice unworthy of an artist; for poetry, assuredly, requires the learned skill, intuitive as that may occasionally seem, as well as the teeming fancy." Mr. Watts's publications are "Lyrics of the Heart, and other Poems;" "Poetical Album, Two Series," (a most judicious and tasteful selection of the fugitive poetry of living English poets;) "Sketches," and "Scenes of Life, and Shades of Character," two volumes. DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. "Fare thee well, thou first and fairest."-BURNS. My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;— I turn'd to many a wither'd hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain;— I gazed upon thy quiet face, half blinded by my tears, Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears: them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, It came at length;-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast, Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from me, And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee; She would have chid me that I mourn'd a doom so blest as thine, Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers not more fair and sweet,- Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, The First! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst; Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst, TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES. Thrice happy babe! what radiant dreams are thine, To share thy simple sports and sinless glee; To feel a power within himself to make, Like thee, a rainbow wheresoe'er he goes; Who would not give his all of worldly lore, The hard-earn'd fruits of many a toil and care,- Thy guileless thoughts and blissful ignorance share! Yet life hath bubbles, too, that soothe awhile The sterner dreams of man's maturer years; Thrice happy child! a brighter lot is thine; MY OWN FIRESIDE. "It is a mystic circle, that surrounds Comforts and virtues never known beyond Its hallow'd limit." Let others seek for empty joys SOUTHEY. At ball or concert, rout or play; Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise, Her gilded domes and trappings gay, I wile the wintry eve away, 'Twixt book and lute the hours divide; My own fireside! Those simple words And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. A gentle form is near me now; A small white hand is clasp'd in mine; And ask, what joys can equal thine? My refuge ever from the storm Of this world's passion, strife, and care; Shrine of my household deities! Bright scene of home's unsullied joys; To thee my burden'd spirit flies When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys! Thine is the bliss that never cloys; The smile whose truth has oft been tried;— What, then, are this world's tinsel toys Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, THE GRAY HAIR. Come, let me pluck that silver hair That charm'd me once, that chains me now; And Envy's self-love cannot trace One wrinkle on thy placid brow. Thy features have not lost the bloom That brighten'd them when first we met: No; rays of softest light illume Their unambitious beauty yet. And if the passing clouds of Care Have cast their shadows o'er thy face, And sounds more sadly than of yore, Methinks I never mark'd before. Thus young, and fair, and happy, too,- In spite of all that care can do, In spite of all that Time hath done; Is yon white hair a boon of love, To thee in mildest mercy given; A sign, a token from above, To lead thy thoughts from earth to heaven? To speak to thee of life's decay; Of beauty, hastening to the tomb; Of hopes, that cannot fade away; Of joys, that never lose their bloom? Or springs the thread of timeless snow, With those dark, glossy locks entwined, Mid Youth's and Beauty's morning glow, To emblem thy maturer mind? It does, it does;-then let it stay, Even Wisdom's self were welcome now: Who'd wish her soberer tints away, When thus they beam from Beauty's brow! MRS. JAMESON. No work pretending to give an account of the prominent English authors of the nineteenth century would be complete without the name of this charming and instructive writer.' Accident, she says, made her an author, and she thus expounds some of her aims in continuing to write: "It is not by exposing folly and scorning fools that we make other people wiser or ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by images and examples of the kindly and generous affectionsto show how the human soul is disciplined and perfected by suffering-to prove how much of possible good may exist in things evil and perverted-how much hope there is for those who despair-how much comfort for those whom a heartless world has taught to contemn both others and themselves, and to put barriers to the hard, cold, selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day." This high and noble aim she has successfully carried out in many of her works, but in none more than in that by which she is best known, "Characteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and Historical." These are designed to illustrate the Female Characters of Shakspeare, and never did commentator catch more perfectly the spirit of an author, or convey to the reader a more exact or a more vivid impression of his genius and scope. It is more than interesting; it is bewitching; for, take it up where you will, you will not find it easy to lay it down. "The secret of this excellence of Mrs. Jameson's book we take to be the fact that it is a woman, a very woman, who undertakes the task-none so well able as those to approve or condemn, as one who, being of a like nature, has in herself had the same feelings excited in her own heart during her life-who, as lover, wife, mother, and friend, has in turn acted all these parts in real history, and has not gone to other commentators for her criticism." 2 In her "Essays," Mrs. Jameson has an admirable chapter on our own countryman, Washington Allston, whose peculiar genius and power she well appreciates; for, an artist herself, she can enter into an artist's hopes and fears, his disappointments and his triumphs. In her chapter, in the same book, entitled, "Woman's Mission and Woman's Position," she takes a plain, practical common-sense view of that hackneyed theme on which so much nonsense has been spoken and written. In short, in most of her works, she aims to be practical-"to bring the flowers of art and genius to glorify our common household lives, and render them more sweet by the beatification." PORTIA. Portia is endued with her own share of those delightful qualities which Shakspeare has lavished on many of his female characters; 'I may add prolific, too, for her mine of intellectual wealth seems to be inexhaustible. The following are the chief works she has hitherto published: "Diary of an Ennuyée;" "Characteristics of Women;" "Memoirs and Essays illustrative of Art, Literature, and Social Morals" "Memoirs of Female Sovereigns:"Loves of the Poets;" "Hand-book to Public Picture Galleries in and near London" "History of the early Italian Painters;" "Social Life in Germany;" "Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art;" "Companion to Private Picture Galleries." 2 Powell's "Living Authors of England." |