STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling spreads his wing, Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sun-flower of the spring. Burns bright in morning's beam.
I may state, with natural and pardonable pride, that while Editor of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, it was my fortunate privilege to direct to this extraordinary and highly-gifted man the public attention he had long, but vainly, courted. In April, 1831, a letter reviewing his poetry was addressed to Dr. Southey, by one of the most accomplished writers of the age, and published in that Periodical. From the day of its appearance, the world wondered what strange fatality had hitherto obscured his genius; it was at once acknowledged, and his " earnest perseverance" recompensed. His Poems have been recently collected into three volumes *.
It is impossible to avoid some comment on the harsh, ungenerous, and we must add, un-English, political principles, which so continually influence, so thoroughly saturate, and so essentially impair the Poetry of the Rhymer. In his "Corn-Law Rhymes," and the Poems avowedly political, we look for and pardon his strong and ungentle opinions; but he can rarely ramble through a green lane, climb the mountain's brow, or revel amid the luxuries of nature, without giving them expression. He has wooed Liberty with an unchaste passion. His fancy is haunted by images of tyrant-kings, tax-fed aristocrats, and bigotted oppressors.
Still, with the highest and the most enduring of British Poets, we must class Ebenezer Elliott. Among his Poems there are many glorious and true transcripts of nature; full of pathos and beauty, vigorous and original in thought; and clear, eloquent, and impassioned in language. His feelings, though at times kindly and gentle, are more often dark, menacing, and stern; but they are never grovelling or low. He has keen and burning sympathies; but unhappily he forgets that the high-born and wealthy claim them and deserve them, as well as the poor, and those who are more directly "bread-taxed;"-that suffering is the common lot of humanity.
STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling spreads his wing, Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sun-flower of the spring. Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox Complains that Sol is slow, O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks His royal robe to throw. But here the lizard seeks the sun, Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun Its beauteous nest to make. Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee Where verdure fires the plain, Walk thou with me, and stoop to see The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee!
As spirits from eternal day
Look down on earth secure ; Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature;
A world not scorn'd by Him who made Even weakness by his might ; But solemn in his depth of shade, And splendid in his light. Light! not alone on clouds afar O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star Thy glorious thoughts are read; Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book, To sky, and sea, and land- A page on which the angels look, Which insects understand! And here, oh, Light! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood; This driplet feeds Missouri's tide- And that, Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heav'n in madness flings
Do I not hear his thunder roll-- The roar that ne'er is still?
'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul
It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone ! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. Oh, God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things On these grey stones unseen may dwell! What nations, with their kings! I feel no shock, I hear no groan While fate perchance o'erwhelms Empires on this subverted stone- A hundred ruin'd realms! Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, Impell'd by woe or whim, May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see- A tiny world to him! Lo! while he pauses, and admires The works of nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night! Oh, God of terrors! what are we?- Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee, Could smite us into nought! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,
And mix it with the deep, Safe in the hollow of thine hand Thy little ones would sleep.
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