« PrécédentContinuer »
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
And chides, and buffets, clinging by the mane!
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
[The name of SAMUEL ROGERS, the banker-poet, recalls several successive generations of literary celebrities. Born in 1762, he entered the field of letters while the great "Doctor" still towered on his throne as the Grand Cham of literature, and he survived till 1855, almost seventy years after the production of his first collection of poems, which were published in 1786, the year in which Robert Burns first appeared as an author. Rogers is not a very prolific writer; and his poems are rather remarkable for grace and polish of diction, than for innate power. His best work, the “Italy,” was published in 1822. Rogers will long be remembered as a kind patron of his less fortunate compeers in literature and art; his great wealth giving him opportunities of doing good, of which he availed himself in no stinted measure. Many have cause to remember him with gratitude.]
HE finished garden
to the view
Its vistas opens, and its valleys green
Snatched through the ver
dant maze, the hurried
Distracted wanders: now the bowery walk
Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthened gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bended sky;
the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,
The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, Th'ethereal mountain, and
the distant main.
But why so far excursive?
when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose; violet, darkly blue ;
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays
To family, as flies the father dust,
The varied colours run, and while they break
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ;
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
Beauties of the Evening.
I WALK, unseen, On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon; And oft as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
[JOHN MILTON was born in London, in 1608, and died in 1674. His magnificent poetry has been well described as a compound of the majesty of Homer and the sweetness of Virgil, for it was to him that the apt and oft-quoted lines were written :
"Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Sold for a pittance of fifteen pounds, neglected by the vitiated taste of a licentious age, and only recommended to notice long after the mighty hand that penned it had
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
crumbled into dust, Milton's "Paradise Lost" has at length been enshrined as the greatest epic poem in the English language, and its writer as our great national poet. His second great epic, "Paradise Regained," was written at the suggestion of Elwood, the Quaker, who remarked to Milton, "Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise lost; what hast thou to say upon Paradise found?" The minor poems of Milton"Comus," "Lycidias," "L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso," and the magnificent "Samson Agonistes," are now being generally read and appreciated, after two centuries of neglect and oblivion.