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Now follow to that charging shout,

'Midst Honour's eager train;
There will be conquest, or be rout,

When next it sounds again.
For bridal crown, or burial wreath,
· Her faith is pledg’d to me ;-
On, then, to glory or to death,

A grave or victory!
Then, as my heart, be firm my brand

For Mary and my native land !

S.

New European Magazine.

THE RECLUSE.

We are not ourselves much disposed for the enjoyment of solitary pleasures, if pleasures we may call those modes of feeling in which others delight, but which we are incapable of feeling ourselves, and which, consequently, with regard to us, have no existence. We should wish, however, to possess a por . tion of the piety which the Recluse breathes in the following lines, and “that first led to the vows which” he “made;' and no doubt some of our contemporaries would be gainers by it also.-Ed.

tience. Weequently, Pable of fear

'Twas not the wild fancy of youth's giddy day,

Nor the pangs of fond hope once betray'd, Nor the frenzy of zealots, which oft leads astray,

That first led to the vows which I've made.

Oh, no! 'twas the choice,—the fond choice of my heart,

In those cloisters to fix my abode, Where my soul may her transports of feeling impart,

Link'd in love (yet in fear) with her God.

At midnight's still hour, when all nature's at rest,

When all motion, all life, make a pause, Save night's silver queen, who, from east to the west,

In her course still proclaims a first cause. Ah! then while the moon's sober beams chace the

gloom, From my cell, be my heart not less pure, Till my soul, wing’d with hopes of choice blessings to

come, Takes her flight, no more ills to endure.

European Magazine.

VERSES

ON THE DEATH OF BLOOMFIELD, THE SUFFOLK POET.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

We were never admirers of Bloomfield's poetry. Simplicity seems to be its only virtue, but what is simplicity, in the absence of that fire and imagination without which there can be no genuine, poetic enthusiasm, no poetry that either Gods or men can tolerate.

Mediocribus esse poetis, Non Dii, non homines, non concessere columnæ. The following, however, is a beautiful tribute to his memory, admitting him to possess all the merit which Mr. Barton attributes to him.-Ev.

Thou shouldst not to the grave descend

Unmourn’d, unhonour'd, or unsung ; Could harp of mine record thy end,

For thee that rude harp should be strung,

And plaintive sounds as ever rung
Should all its simple notes employ,

Lamenting unto old and young,
The Bard who sang The Farmer's Boy.
Could Eastern Anglia boast a lyre

Like that which gave thee modest fame,
How justly might its every wire

Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim :

And many a stream of humble name, And village-green, and common wild

Should witness tears that knew not shame, By Nature won for Nature's child. The merry HORKEY's passing cup

Should pause—when that sad note was heard
The Widow turn HÉR HOUR-GLAss up,
With tenderest feelings newly stirr’d;

And many a pity. waken'd word,
And sighs that speak when language fails,

Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd
To prouder Poet's lofty tales.
Circling the OLD OAK TABLB round,

Whose moral worth thy measure owns,
Heroes and heroines yet are found

Like ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES ;

There GILBERT MELDRUM's sterner tones In Virtue's cause are bold and free;

And e'en the patient suff'rer's moans, In pain and sorrow-plead for thee.

Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot,

Alone-should thoughts of thee pervade Hearts which confess thee unforgot,

On heathy hill, in grassy glade :

In many a spot by thee array'd With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam,

Thy memory lives !-in Euston's shade, By BARNHAM WATER's shadeless stream! And long may guileless hearts preserve

The memory of thy song, and thee : Whilc Nature's healthful feelings nerve

The arm of labour toiling free;

While Childhood's innocence and glec With green Old Age enjoyment share ;

RICHARDS and Kares shall tell of thee, Walters and Janes thy name declare. On themes like these, if yet there breath'd

A Doric Lay so sweet as thine, Might artless flowers of verse be wreath'd

Around thy modest name to twine :

And though nor lute nor lyre be mine
To bid thy minstrel honours live,

The praise my numbers can assign,
It still is soothing thus to give.
There needs, in truth, no lofty lyre

To yield thy Muse her homage due;
The praise her loveliest charms inspire

Should be as artless, simple too; Her eulogist should keep in view Thy meek and unassuming worth,

And inspiration should renew At springs which gave thine own its birth.

Those springs may boast no classic name

To win the smile of letter'd pride, Yet is their noblest charm the same

As that by CASTALY supplied ;

From AGANIPPE's crystal tide
No brighter, fairer waves can start,

Than Nature's quiet teachings guide From feeling's fountain o'er the heart. 'Tis to THE HEART Song's noblest power

Taste's purest precepts must refer; And Nature's tact, not Art's proud dower,

Remains its best interpreter :

He who shall trust, without demur,
What his own better feelings teach,

Although unlearn’d, shall seldom err,
But to the hearts of others reach.
It is not quaint and local terms

Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay,
Though well such dialect confirms

Its power unletter'd minds to sway, But 'tis not these that most display Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,

Words, phrases, fashions pass away, But TRUTH and Nature live through all. These, these have given thy rustic lyre

Its trucst, and its tenderest spell ; These amid Britain's tuneful choir

Shall give thy honour'd name to dwell :

And when Death's shadowy curtain fell Upon thy toilsome earthly lot,

With grateful joy thy heart might swell To feel that these reproach'd thee not,

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