Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace.
And bending back her head, looked up
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears; and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride!

From Frost at Midnight.'

Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloister dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach/
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and, by giving, make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thes
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the evedrops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education.

O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;

Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places

Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, 20
Do these upbear the little world

low

Of education-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks I see them grouped in scemly show,
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.

But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her owu life that Hope is yet alive:
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eye,

And the soft murmurs of the mother-dove,

Woos back the fleeting spit and helplies;

Thus Love repays to Hope w. at H pe 1st gave to Love.
Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length,

Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then will a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting, does the work of both.

Youth and Age.

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young!

When I was young? Ah, woful when!
Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and
Then!

This breathing house not built with
hands,

This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,"
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or
weather,

When Youth and I lived in 't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet.
"Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,
And thou wert aye a masker ball!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make-believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking leave;
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismissed,
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

Among the day-dreams of Coleridge, as we have already mentioned, was the hope of producing a great philosophical work, which he conceived would ultimately effect a revolution in what has been called philosophy or metaphysics in England and France. The only complete philosophical attempt of the poet was a slight introduction to the Encyclopædia Metropolitana,' a preliminary treatise on 'Method,' from which we subjoin an extract.

Importance of Method.

The habit of method should always be present and effective; but in order to render it so, a certain training or education of the mind is indispensably necessary. Event and images, the lively and spirit-stirring machinery of the external world, are li liut, and air, and moisture to the seed of the mind, which would else rot and perish. In all processes of mental tion the objects of the senses must stimulate the mind; and the mind must in n assimilate and digest the food which it thus receives from without. Method, therefore, must result from the due mean or balance between our passive impressions and the mind's reaction on them. So in the healthful state of the human body, waking and sleeping, rest and labour, reciprocally succeed each other, and mutually contribute to liveliness, and activity, and strength. There are certain stores proper, and, as it were, inaigenous to the

mind-such as the ideas of number and figure, and the logical forms and combina tions of conception or thought. The mind that is rich and exuberant in this intellectual wealth is apt, like a miser, to dwell upon the vain contemplation of its riches, is disposed to generalize and methodise to excess, ever philosophising, and never descending to action; spreading its wings hi.h in the air above some beloved spot, but never flying far and wide over earth and sea, to seek food, or to enjoy the endless beauties of nature; the fresh morning, and the warm noon, and the dewy eve. On the other hand, still less is to be expected, towards the methodising of science, from the man who flutters about in blindness like the bat; or is carried bither and thither, like the turtle sleeping on the wave, and fancying, because he moves, that he is in progress.

It is not solely in the formation of the human understanding, and in the constructions of science and literature, that the employment of method is indispensably necessary; but its importance is equally felt, and equally acknowledged, in the whole business and economy of active and domestic life. From the cottager's hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace or the arsenal, the first meritthat which admits neither substitute nor equivalent-is, that everything is in its place. Where this charm is wanting, every other me it either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one by whom it is eminently possessed we say, proverbially, that he is like clock-work. The resemblance extends beyond the point of regularity, and yet falls far short of the truth. Both do, indeed, at once divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time; but the man of methodical industry and honourable pursuits does more; he realises its ideal divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the idle are described as killing time, he may be justly said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience. He organizes the hours, and gives them a soul; and to that, the very essence of which is so fleet and to have been, he communicates an imperishable and a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodised, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than that time lives in him. His days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, and remain extant when time itself shall be no more.

REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

The REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850) enjoys the distinction of having delighted and inspired' the genius of Coleridge. His first publication was a small volume of sonnets published in 1789, to which additions were made from time to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a ninth edition. Various other poetical works proceeded from the pen of Mr. Bowles: 'Coombe Ellen and St. Michael's Mount,' 1798; Battle of the Nile,' 1799; Sorrows of Switzerland,' 1801; Spirit of Discovery,' 1805; The Missionary of the Andes,' 1815; Days Departed,' 1828; 'St. John in Patmos,' 1833; &c. None of these works can be said to have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse. Mr. Bowles had the true poetical feeling and imagination, refined by classical taste and acquirements. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most devoted admirers. A volume of Mr. Bowles's sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic young poet, converted him from some 'perilous errors' to the love of a style of poetry at once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. Mr. Bowles, in 2006, edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy,

in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; 'every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope occupied a middle position, inclining to the artificial side of life. Mr. Bowles was born at King'sSutton, Northamptonshire, and was educated first at Winchester School, under Joseph Warton, and subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his death he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral. He is described by his neighbour, Moore the poet, as a simple, amiable, absent-minded scholar, poet, and

musician.

Sonnets.
To 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,

I

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
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!
Winter Evening at Home.

Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline

Of sharp December, through my cottage pane
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal fight,

Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze,
I think around me in this twilight gloom,

I but remark mortality's sad doom;

Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft appear
In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.

Hope.

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views
Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head,
In varying forms, fantastic wander white;
Or turns his ear to every random song

Heard the green river's winding marge along,
The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight:
With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal.

Bamborough Castle.

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind sweep.
For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity has fixed her chosen seat;

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry,

Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave.
South American Scenery.

Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead,

The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires.
A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,

With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers;

The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,

The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.

And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,

The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;

Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews,
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.
Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,

Here, its gay network and fantastic twine

The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,

And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,

Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white
The sunshine darts, its interrupted light,

And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes,
With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.