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unfortunate. She was totally ignorant of housewifery, and could as easily have managed the spear of Minerva as her needle. It was from observing these deficiencies, that, one day while she was under my roof, I purposely directed her attention to household economy, and told her I had purchased Scales which I intended to present to a young lady as a wedding present; pointed out their utility (for her especial benefit) and said that no ménage ought to be without them. Mrs Hemans, not in the least suspecting my drift, reported this saying, in a letter to a friend at the time, as a proof of my simplicity. Being disposed to make large allowances for the faults of her education and the circumstances in which she was placed, I felt most kindly disposed towards her, and took her part upon all occasions, and I was not a little affected by learning that after she withdrew to Ireland, a long and severe sickness raised her spirit as it depressed her body. This I heard from her most intimate friends, and there is striking evidence of it in a poem written and published not long before her death. These notices of Mrs Hemans would be very unsatisfactory to her intimate friends, as indeed they are to myself, not so much for what is said, but what for brevity's sake is left unsaid. Let it suffice to add, there was much sympathy between us, and, if opportunity had been allowed me to see more of her, I should have loved and valued her accordingly; as it is, I remember her with true affection for her amiable qualities, and, above all, for her delicate and irreproachable conduct during her long separation from an unfeeling husband, whom she had been led to marry from the romantic notions of inexperienced youth. Upon this husband I never heard her cast the least reproach, nor did I ever hear her even name him, though she did not wholly forbear to touch upon her domestic position; but never so that any fault could be found with her manner of adverting to it.]

WHEN first, descending from the moorlands,

I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide

Along a bare and open valley,

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.*

When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.

* Compare Yarrow visited (September 1814), (Vol. VI. p. 41).—Ed.

*

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,*
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; †
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes:‡

Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source; §

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, ||
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.T

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,

Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
"Who next will drop and disappear?"

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking,
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.

Compare Yarrow revisited (1831), (Vol. VII. p. 268.)—ED.

+ Scott died at Abbotsford, on the 21st September 1832, and was buried

in Dryburgh Abbey.-ED.

Hogg died at Altrive, on the 21st November 1835.-ED.

? Coleridge died at Highgate, on the 25th July 1834.—ED.

|| Compare the Stanzas written in my pocket copy of Thomson's Castle of

Indolence (Vol. II., p. 305.)—

"Profound his forehead was, though not severe

¶ Lamb died in London, on the 27th December 1834.--ED.

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-ED.

As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before ;* but why,
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh?
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For Her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.

No more of old romantic sorrows,

For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid!

With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,

And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.

UPON SEEING A COLOURED DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE IN AN ALBUM.

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[I cannot forbear to record that the last seven lines of this Poem were composed in bed during the night of the day on which my sister Sara Hutchinson died about 6 p.m., and it was the thought of her innocent and beautiful life that, through faith, prompted the words"On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight,

No tempest from his breath."

The reader will find two poems on pictures of this bird among my Poems. I will here observe that in a far greater number of instances than have been mentioned in these notes one poem has, as in this case, grown out of another, either because I felt the subject had been inadequately treated, or that the thoughts and images suggested in course of composition have been such as I found interfered with the unity indispensable to every work of art, however humble in character.]

WHO rashly strove thy Image to portray?

Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air;

How could he think of the live creature-gay

With a divinity of colours, drest

George Crabbe died at Trowbridge, Wiltshire, on the 3d of February 1832.-ED.

In all her brightness, from the dancing crest
Far as the last gleam of the filmy train
Extended and extending to sustain

The motions that it graces-and forbear
To drop his pencil ! Flowers of every clime
Depicted on these pages smile at time;
And gorgeous insects copied with nice care.
Are here, and likenesses of many a shell
Tossed ashore by restless waves,

Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from caves
Where sea-nymphs might be proud to dwell:
But whose rash hand (again I ask) could dare,
'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows,
To circumscribe this Shape in fixed repose;
Could imitate for indolent survey,
Perhaps for touch profane,

Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, a stain;
And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, share
The sun's first greeting, his last farewell ray ?

Resplendent Wanderer! followed with glad eyes
Where'er her course; mysterious Bird!
To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred,

Eastern Islanders have given

A holy name-the Bird of Heaven!

And even a title higher still,

The Bird of God!* whose blessed will

She seems performing as she flies

Over the earth and through the skies.

In never-wearied search of Paradise

Region that crowns her beauty with the name

She bears for us-for us how blest,

Compare Robert Browning's poem on Guercino's picture of The Guar

dian-Angel at Fano

"Thou bird of God."

-ED.

How happy at all seasons, could like aim

Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight

On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight,
No tempest from his breath, their promised rest
Seeking with indefatigable quest

Above a world that deems itself most wise

When most enslaved by gross realities!

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DESPONDING Father! mark this altered bough,*
So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed,
Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now,
Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed,
Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow

Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay
As false to expectation.

Nor fret thou

At like unlovely process in the May

Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow,

Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall
(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow
Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call :
In all men, sinful is it to be slow

To hope-in Parents, sinful above all.

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[Suggested on the road between Preston and Lancaster where it first gives a view of the Lake country, and composed on the same day, on the roof of the coach.]

FOUR fiery steeds, impatient of the rein

Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky

Compare the Excursion (Vol. V. p. 130), and the Sonnet beginning — "Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind,"

(Vol. VI. p. 71.)—Ed.

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