Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear

wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

John Mayne.

John Mayne (1759-1836) was a native of Dumfries, Scotland. After such an education as he could get at the grammar-school of his native town, he entered the printing-office of the Dumfries Journal as a type-setter. In 1781 he published his song of "Logan Braes," of which Burns afterward composed a new, but inferior, version. Mayne wrote "The Siller Gun," a descriptive poem, the latest edition of which contains five cantos. In 1787 he settled in London. Allan Cunningham said of him: "A better or warmer-hearted man never existed."

LOGAN BRAES.

By Logan streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
Herded sheep, and gathered slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But, wae's my heart! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me;
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane;
Frae kirk and fair I come alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I daunder' out, and sit alane;
Sit alane beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me.
O could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

1 To walk thoughtlessly.

Helen Maria Williams.

Miss Williams (1762-1827) was a native of the North of England, and was ushered into public notice when she was eighteen by Dr. Kippis. She published “Edwin and Elfrida," a poem; "Peru," a poem; and other pieces, afterward collected in two volumes. In 1790 she settled in Paris. There she became intimate with Madame Roland and the most eminent of the Girondists; and in 1794 was imprisoned, and nearly shared their fate. She escaped to Switzerland, but returned to Paris in 1796, and resided there till her death. She shared the religious opinions of the "Theophilanthropists," who were pure Theists. The one exquisite hymn by which she is known has been freely adopted, however, by all Christian sects. In 1823 she collected and republished her poems. one of her sonnets she says: "I commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favor for which I have a proud reason: it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honored me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory after a lapse of many years."

SONNET TO HOPE.

Of

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love,
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,-
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye;
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die!
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. While thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the powers of thought bestowed;
To thee my thoughts would soar:
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed;
That mercy I adore!

In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see!

Each blessing to my soul more dear

Because conferred by thee!

In every joy that crowns my days,

In every pain I bear,

My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear,

The gathering storm shall see;

My steadfast heart shall know no fear; That heart shall rest on thee!

Andrew Cherry.

Born in Limerick, Ireland, Andrew Cherry (1762-1812) was an actor and dramatic author of second-rate abilities; but he made one conspicuous hit in his well-known song of the "Bay of Biscay," which, defective as it is in literary merit, is wedded to music that keeps it alive. Braham used to sing it with thrilling effect.

THE BAY OF BISCAY.
Lond roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers;
The clouds were rent asunder

By lightning's vivid powers:
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day there she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!

Now dashed upon the billow, Her opening timbers creak: Each fears a watery pillow;

None stops the dreadful leak. To cling to slippery shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay till the day In the Bay of Biscay, O!

At length the wished-for morrow Broke through the hazy sky; Absorbed in silent sorrow,

Each heaved a bitter sigh: The dismal wreck to view

Struck horror to the crew,

As she lay, on that day,

In the Bay of Biscay, O!

Her yielding timbers sever,

Her pitchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent:A sail in sight appears! We hail it with three cheers! Now we sail with the gale From the Bay of Biscay, O!

George Colman, the Younger.

The son of George Colman, the Elder, author of "The Jealous Wife," and other successful plays, George the Younger (1762-1836) early gave his attention to the writing of plays. He produced several which still keep their place on the stage: "The Iron Chest" (1796); "The Heir at Law" (1797); "The Poor Gentleman" (1802); "John Bull" (1805); with numerous minor pieces. Colman wrote poetical travesties and light farcical pieces in verse, which were collected and published (1802) under the title of "Broad Grins."

SIR MARMADUKE.

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight-
Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolled over his knee; His periwig's as white as chalk, And on his fist he holds a hawk; And he looks like the head Of an ancient family.

His dining-room was long and wideGood man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside;

And in other parts,--d'ye see? Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; And he looked like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turned the poor from the gate-
Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate
Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing

Than serve the poor and fight for his king?

And so may every head

Of an ancient family!

Egerton Brydges.

Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges (1762-1837) first saw the light at the manor-house of Wootton, between Canterbury and Dover. By his mother, an Egerton, he claimed to have inherited the most illustrious blood of Europe. Having entered Queen's College, Cambridge, he left it without a degree. He tried the law, was admitted to the Bar, but made no mark as a lawyer. In 1785 he published a volume of poems; and in 1814 his volume of "Occasional Poems" appeared. His "Bertram," a poem, was given to the world in 1815. Byron writes of him as "a strange but able old man." He was immensely proud of his noble ancestry, sensitive, and morbidly anxious for literary fame, as some of his sonnets show. The latter part of his life, having involved himself in pecuniary embarrassments, he resided chiefly at Geneva. His sonnet upon "Echo and Silence" was pronounced by Wordsworth the best sonnet in the language; and Southey said he knew of none more beautifully imaginativecommendation that now must seem extravagant and inappropriate. Brydges was too self-conscious, introspective, and jealous of what he thought his dues, to warble any "native wood-notes wild." His long poems have little poctic value; but he shows imaginative power, and some of the high gifts of the poet. He edited with much ability an edition of Milton, which was republished in New York, and is still in demand.

Yet languid looked, and indolently strayed
Awhile, to watch the harvest borne away.
But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale;
With buskined legs, and quiver 'cross her flung;
With hounds and horn, she seeks the wood and vale;
And Echo listens to her forest song.

At eve she flies to hear the poet's tale,
And "Autumn's" name resounds his shades among.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826.

High name of poet!-sought in every age
By thousands-scarcely won by two or three,—
As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage
My bleeding feet are doomed their war to wage,
With awful worship I have bowed to thee!
And yet, perchance, it is not Fate's decree
This mighty boon should be assigned to me,
My heart's consuming fever to assuage.—
Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep
Within the bosom's innermost recesses,
And rarely burstest forth to human ear,
Break out!—and, while profoundly magic sleep
With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses,
Let me the music of thy murmurs hear.

ECHO AND SILENCE.

In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,
Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!
And lo, she's gone! In robe of dark-green hue
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew,
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.
Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward still,
With far-heard step, she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill.
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

1826.

WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10,
Praise of the wise and good!—it is a meed
For which I would lone years of toil endure ;
Which many a peril, many a grief would cure!
As onward I with weary feet proceed,
My swelling heart continues still to bleed;
The glittering prize holds out its distant lure,
But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure,
And never to my prayer to be decreed!-
With anxious ear I listen to the voice
That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask;
But yet it comes not,- -or it comes in doubt.
Slave to the passion of my earliest choice,
From youth to age I ply my daily task,
And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out.

THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER. One morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play, The eastern gates of heaven were open laid, When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid, From her sweet eyes who shed a softened ray. Blushing and fair she was; and from the braid Of her gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay:

William Lisle Bowles.

But for the praise bestowed by Coleridge and Wordsworth on the sonnets of Bowles-praise which seems a little overstrained a century later-he would hardly be entitled to a place among British poets of note. Born in the county of Wilts in 1762, he died in 1850.

He

was educated at Oxford, studied for the ministry, was made Prebendary of Salisbury, 1804, and incumbent of Bremhill, Wiltshire, 1805. He was a voluminous writer both of prose and poetry. Hallam says: "The sonnets of Bowles may be reckoned among the first-fruits of a new era in poetry." Bowles had a controversy with Byron and Campbell on the writings of Pope, and took the ground that Pope was no poet. Many pamphlets were issued on both sides, and the question was left where the combatants found it. Pope's must always be a great name in English literature.

THE TOUCH OF TIME.

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away!
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile;
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :-
Yet ah, how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

THE BELLS OF OSTEND.

WRITTEN ON A BEAUTIFUL MORNING, AFTER A STORM.
No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!
The day set in darkness; the wind it blew loud,
And rung, as it passed, through each murmuring
shroud.

My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,
My heart sighed in secret for those far away;
When slowly the morning advanced from the east,
The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased:
The peal, from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say,
"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain:
I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;
I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave;
And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave.
I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,
Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.
But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air,
Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful, to

bear;

And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

SONNET, OCTOBER, 1792.

Go, then, and join the roaring city's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,
To busy fantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee. But 'twill not be long,
And the hard season shall be past: till then
Live happy, sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
Nor 'mid the busy scenes and "hum of men"
Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness
To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow,
Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow
Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless
That shall restore thee from the crowd again,
To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain.

SONNET: ON THE RIVER RHINE.

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted. Varying as we go,
Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire,
Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow.
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff; there on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
While Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

Joanna Baillie.

Miss Baillie (1762-1851) was the daughter of a Scottish minister, and was born in Bothwell, county of Lanark. Her latter years were spent at Hampstead. She wrote "Plays of the Passions," of which "De Montfort" is, perhaps, the best, and which made for her quite a literary reputation in her day. The lines on "Fame" form the conclusion of a narrative poem, entitled "Christopher Columbus." According to Ballantyne, she was at one time pronounced "the highest genius" of Great Britain by Sir Walter Scott. Her dramatic and poetic works, with a Life, were published in 1853.

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulders round, and sleek,
And soft, and fair? thou urchin sly!

What boots it who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or squire or hind?Since thou in every wight that passes

Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringéd eyelids rise and fall,-
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,—
"Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging, To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropped daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

Well, let it be! Through weal and woe

Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

Russell (1762-1788) was a native of Beaminster, Dorsetshire. He studied for the Church, but died young. After his death appeared "Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems, by the late Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, 1789." Southey spoke of him in exaggerated terms as "the best English sonnet-writer;" and Bishop Mant says, "there are no better sonnets in the English language than Russell's." Wordsworth also praised him. Of the sonnet, "To Valclusa," H. F. Cary, in his "Notices of Miscellaneous English Poets," says: "The whole of this is exquisite. Nothing can be more like Milton than the close of it."

FAME.

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
While in that sound there is a charm
The nerve to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,
The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them, to act a noble part?

TO VALCLUSA.

What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled
That wooed his fair in thy sequestered bowers,
Long loved her living, long bemoaned her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers?
What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,
He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song?