REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

(1754-1832).

CRABLE'S agency in the regeneration of our modern poetry has been already mentioned (p. 336.) He is a writer whose most important works belong to our own age, and whose later style is materially affected by the impulse he contributed to give to the poetical literature of his period. He was the son of a collector of salt duties in Aldborough in Suffolk. The poet was educated as carefully as the extremely narrow circumstances of his father would permit. He attempted the profession of a surgeon in his native place, but his failure urged him to direct his energies to London and to literature. He reached the metropolis in all the proverbial poverty of a poet, and vainly offered his verses to the booksellers. Reduced to the utmost distress, he was fortunate enough to obtain the protection and countenance of Edmund Burke, and ultimately the gruff though substantial notice of Chancellor Thurlow. Entering into holy orders, Burke's interest obtained for him the office of chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir Castle. From this period the poet's prospects brightened. The universal success of "The Village" probably induced Thurlow-who, like Johnson's patron Chesterfield, helped his literary protegés when they were becoming independent of his aid-to confer on the poet two small livings in the vicinity of Belvoir. These were afterwards exchanged for two more lucrative, and the poet spent the remainder of his life in affluence and comfort: and few, from genuine Christianity, active benevolence, and conscientious discharge of duty, ever deserved good fortune more. Crabbe was of a childlike simplicity in character; gentle, affectionate; retiring and reserved, but shrewd, active, and minute in observation. The descriptive parts of his poetry exhibit the latter quality in a very remarkable degree, while he manages so to combine minuteness with general effect, that his pictures have no confusion, and impress the mind distinctly as wholes. He is the poet of the poor; their sufferings, crimes, merits, households, are the regions where Crabbe is most at home. He walks among the shadows of human nature, and conducts us amid its deepest darkness; but the great lessons of his poetry are benign and cheerful, and its aim is to teach mankind to be the friend of man. In his style Crabbe produces the poetical effect by means of language of the most naked simplicity, almost utterly divested of the conventional ornaments of poetry. His chief works, which range in date from 1783 to 1818, are "The Village," "The Parish Register," "The Borough," "Tales in Verse," "Tales of the Hall."

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull'd by zephyrs, or when rous'd by storms,

1 For an interesting picture of Crabbe in Edinburgh, see Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. v. ch. 8: see also Crabbe's Life by his Son, chap. ix.

2 Crabbe was passionately fond of the sea, beside which he had been nursed in childhood.

Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,
In limpid blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.1

Be it the summer-noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above,

Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends.)
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow
Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide
On the still sea, urg'd solely by the tide.

View now the winter-storm! above, one cloud,
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud;
Th' unwieldy porpoise, through the day before,
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form,
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.

All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam

Upon the billows rising—all the deep

Is restless change-the waves so swell'd and steep,
Breaking and sinking; and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells :
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chace;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then, reflowing, take their grating course.
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.

Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way,
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;
She rises often, often drops again,

And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.

"Fog-banks are said to have the property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and of bringing them into view."

Yes! there are real mourners.-I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave-that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd," This once, and then the day :"
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look ;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smil'd at flushings on his cheek,
And he too smil'd, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.

He call'd his friend, and prefac'd with a sigh
A lover's message-" Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing, go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;

Yes! I must die-blow on sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer.”

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,—
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, meantime,
Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away:
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so-" perhaps he will not sink:"
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the book of prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He nam'd his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whisper'd "Thou must go to rest;"
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She plac'd a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engrav'd-an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But, if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,

Regard the dead, but, to the living, live.

66

FROM TALES OF THE HALL."-BOOK XII.

DANGER OF A FIRST TRANSGRESSION.

Still there was virtue ;—but a rolling stone
On a hill's brow is not more quickly gone;
The slightest motion,-ceasing from our care,—
A moment's absence,-when we're not aware,—
When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies,
Sunk, lost, degraded, never more to rise!
Far off the glorious height from whence it fell,
With all things base and infamous to dwell.

ROBERT BURNS.

(1759-1796.)

FOR upwards of two centuries, Scotland had exhibited no poet of great eminence in her own dialect. The transference of the Court to London' precipitated the fall of the Scottish language from the sphere of rank and fashion; its voice was uttered only occasionally along a line of songs springing like wild flowers from the heart of the people, their authors in many instances nameless. These have been collected with veneration and diligence in modern times, and, inclusive of the Jacobite poetry, form one of the finest collections of this class of literature that any nation can boast. The middle of the eighteenth century produced Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson. They were followed by Robert Burns, a poet who has given to his country's language a European reputation. All three, it may be remarked, like most of their successors, sprung from the humbler classes of the people.

1 See Lockhart's Life of Burns (Constable's Miscellany), p. 117.

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