ing away into the distance, and the far-off hills mingling with the clouds, until we knew not which was earth or which was sky. Very pleasant was that sojourn by the Thames side. And among the pleasures that I most value, one of those which I brought home with me and trust never to lose, must be reckoned the becoming acquainted with Mr. Noel's "Rymes and Roundelayes," and forming, not an acquaintance, for we have never met, but a friendship with the author. Mr. Noel resides in a beautiful place in that beautiful neighborhood, leading the life of an accomplished but somewhat secluded country gentleman;—a most enviable life, and one well adapted to the observation of nature and to the production of poetry, but by no means so well calculated to make a volume of poems extensively known. Hence it is that the elegant and . graphic description of Thames scenery which I subjoin, although it has been published nearly ten years, will probably have the charm of novelty to many of my readers. A THAMES VOYAGE. Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark The kingfisher not straighter darts Down the stream to his sweet mate's nest, We have passed the chalk-cliff on whose crown And the bank, whose hanging woods look down We are come where Hedsor's crested fount And where the charmed eye loves to mount On, like a hawk upon the wing, And the wavelets round her rise. In view is Cookham's ivied tower; O'er Marlow's loveliest vale they look, Still on, still on, as we smoothly glide, Swift dragon-flies, with their gauzy wings, And murmuring hosts of moving things There are spots where nestle wild flowers small With many a mingling gleam; Where the broad flag waves, and the bulrush tall Nods still to the thrusting stream. The Forget-me-not on the water's edge Where the broken bank, between the sedge, And in bays where matted foliage weaves A shadowy arch on high, Serene on broad and bronze-like leaves, Fair fall those bonny flowers! O how Smoother than Ariel's moonlit brow! Those milk-white cups with a golden core, So soft a light on the bordering shore, Steadily, steadily, speeds our bark, O'er the silvery whirls she springs; Lo! a sailing swan, with a little fleet And see-was ever a lovelier sight? One little bird afloat On its mother's back, 'neath her wing so white, A beauteous living boat! The threatful male, as he sails ahead, He tramples the stream, as we pass him by, And after our boat begins to fly, With loudly-flapping wings. Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark, And the curling current stems, Where the willows cast their shadows dark, Oh! there's many a charming scene to mark The following powerful lines are better known, and serve to show the variety of Mr. Noel's talent. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din! How the dirt right and left o'er the hedges is hurled! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. The author tells me that this incident was taken from the life. He witnessed such a funeral :-a coffin in a cart driven at full speed. But a truce to this strain! for my soul it is sad Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns. IV. OLD AUTHORS. ABRAHAM COWLEY. As in the case of Ben Jonson, posterity values his writings for very different qualities from those which obtained his high reputation among his cotemporaries, so it has happened to Cowley. Praised in his day as a great poet, the head of the school of poets called metaphysical, he is now chiefly known by those prose essays, all too short and all too few, which, whether for thought or for expression, have rarely been excelled by any writer in any language. They are eminently distinguished for the grace, the finish, and the clearness which his verse too often wants. That there is one cry which pervades them-vanity of vanities! all is vanity!—that there is an almost ostentatious longing for obscurity and retirement, may be accounted for by the fact that at an early age Cowley was thrown among the cavaliers of the civil wars, sharing the exile and the return of the Stuarts, and doubtless disgusted, as so pure a writer was pretty sure to be, by a dissolute Court, with whom he would find it easier to sympathize in its misery than in its triumph. Buckingham, with the fellowfeeling of talent for talent, appears to have been kind to him ; and when he fled from the world (not very far, he found his beloved solitude at Chertsey), it is satisfactory to know that he so far escaped the proverbial ingratitude of the Restoration as to carry with him an income sufficient for his moderate wants. He did not long survive a retirement which, Sprat says, in a curious life prefixed to the edition of his works in 1719, "agreed better with his mind than his body." It is difficult to select from a volume so abundant in riches ; but I will begin by his opinion of theatrical audiences contained in "The Preface to the Cutter of Coleman Street :" |