It rolled not back when Canute gave command. Sarmatia is awake and armed to hurl oppression to the dust. The soul of the patriot is hers-she dares attempt to be free! Hope is still alive-her warriors are firm and undismayed-the departed spirits of the mighty dead are with her; not only those of Marathon and Leuctra, but the shade of Kosciusko "walks unavenged amongst them." May the sword be omnipotent to save! Tell, Bruce, Washington, will be there also. May the starless night of desolation be followed by the dawn of freedom-and the poet's song and the prophet's voice be all truth-sound, historic truth-in this struggle for liberty! HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! CHAPTER VI. CRABBE is now an old man; his life has been one of professional duties and of great virtue. He has had no eccentricities or aberrations. His life exhibits nothing for the world to censure or deplore. He is now almost an octagenarian, and the muse has inspired him, perhaps, as long as she will. His works are both admirable and novel. He trúly took a new pathway to fame. His portraits are mostly from humble life-he has shown their vices and their virtues. The world' had heard enough of their vices, but few in the reading circles had been taught their virtues. His profession had made him acquainted with both. He could read their hearts and he has delineated their character most faithfully. It is one of the facts in the history of man, that his affections may be purified while his mind is only partially enlightened. This fact was known to the careful reader of human nature, but had in a great measure been overlooked by the poet. Agreeable images suited the poet best, or if not those at all times, striking incidents, he thought seldom occurred in the lives of the humble, or if they did occur, they were not likely to be noticed. Crabbe probed deep, and gave an honest account of the misery and anguish, and the sources of joy of the poor. His works are yet to be more known and admired than they have yet been, for in time the poor will read them, which is not the case now. He who softens the anguish of the wretched, or suggests to them any method of ameliorating their condition, is a benefactor of mankind. Crabbe will go down to posterity as a moralist and a poet together, and one too, that the church may be proud of. It may be said that the poor had no poet until Crabbe arose. He has given their sorrows and their joys without one particle of coarseness. Those his Saviour cherished he has portrayed, and like him he has taught them to hope for another and a better world. Such a man does more good than a thousand proud men, who can only look on what is classical and refined. In the grave there are no distinctions, and to that condition we must all come at last. There is no difference now between the dust of Lazarus and that of the mighty Cæsar and the great Napoleon. The great enemy of man is a leveller, and to him we must yield sooner or later. He who encourages the faint and weary in the journey of life is a servant of God and a friend to man, and verily will receive his reward, both in the life that is, and in that which is to come. Crabbe has asked no honors and received no distinctions for his services, except such as the public awards to merit. He has, in imit tion of his divine master, washed the feet of his dise ples and prepared himself for the burial. When the monuments of sublime genius have crumbled to dust, and are remembered no more, the labors of the pious survive; they fertilize, as it were, the soil of hope, and reap and secure the harvest of faith. The poor of unborn ages will acknowledge that he led them, by his writings, to patience, resignation, and unwavering belief, which softened their hard fates and lighted up in them bright and glorious visions of immortality and happiness, when the miseries of existence should be over.. 1 Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phœbe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, In haste to see and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw, admir'd; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd : A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd: The lads around admir'd so fair a sight, And Phœbe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. Correct in thought, she judg'd a servant's place Preserv'd a rustic beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; With looks less timid made his passion known, And pleas'd by manners, most unlike her own; Loud though in love, and confident though young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, He serv'd the squire, and brush'd the coat he made: |
