Part 126 (2/2)

Wives copied her, and husbands him; Till so divinely life ran on, So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, That meeting in a public place, They scarcely knew each other's face.

At last they met, by his desire, A _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; Looked in each other's face awhile, With half a tear, and half a smile.

The ruddy health, which wont to grace With manly glow his rural face, Now scarce retained its faintest streak; So sallow was his leathern cheek.

She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, With rouge had striven in vain to hide What once was beauty, and repair The rapine of the midnight air.

Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.

Both wished to speak, both hung the head.

At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, 'When tired of folly, to be wise.

Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan.

She wept consent, and he went on:

'How delicate the married life!

You love your husband, I my wife!

Not even satiety could tame, Nor dissipation quench the flame.

'True to the bias of our kind, 'Tis happiness we wish to find.

In rural scenes retired we sought In vain the dear, delicious draught, Though blest with love's indulgent store, We found we wanted something more.

'Twas company, 'twas friends to share The bliss we languished to declare.

'Twas social converse, change of scene, To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; Short absences to wake desire, And sweet regrets to fan the fire.

'We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round, A thousand novelties to wake The springs of life and not to break.

As, from the nest not wandering far, In light excursions through the air, The feathered tenants of the grove Around in mazy circles move, Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, Or taste the blossom on the bough.

We sported freely with the rest; And still, returning to the nest, In easy mirth we chatted o'er The trifles of the day before.

'Behold us now, dissolving quite In the full ocean of delight; In pleasures every hour employ, Immersed in all the world calls joy; Our affluence easing the expense Of splendour and magnificence; Our company, the exalted set Of all that's gay, and all that's great: Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- We live, my dear, too much asunder.'

The moral of my tale is this, Variety's the soul of bless; But such variety alone As makes our home the more our own.

As from the heart's impelling power The life-blood pours its genial store; Though taking each a various way, The active streams meandering play Through every artery, every vein, All to the heart return again; From thence resume their new career, But still return and centre there: So real happiness below Must from the heart sincerely flow; Nor, listening to the syren's song, Must stray too far, or rest too long.

All human pleasures thither tend; Must there begin, and there must end; Must there recruit their languid force, And gain fresh vigour from their source.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriess.h.i.+re, in 1734. His father was minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,'

--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins'

daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788.

His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to Homer. 'c.u.mnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of 'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, as Burns says, of 'the first poet.'

c.u.mNOR HALL.

1 The dews of summer night did fall, The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of c.u.mnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby.

2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile.

3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity?

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