It is in high, remoter scenes, that we
Become sublimed, yet humble: there we learn
That still beyond us spreads-infinity,
And we, still clay: or, all admiring, turn
To where those characters of beauty burn,
Which God hath printed on the starry skies:
And haply guess why we alone may learn
The world's vast wonders: why alone our eyes
See far: why we alone have such proud sympathies.
For with creation and its marvels none
Save we, can hold communion. On the earth
Are many stately footsteps, and the sun
Shines on eyes bright as ours: yet hath our birth
(Holy) shed round us an immortal worth,
Beyond the rest: though with the rest we fade,
And are encircled by as frail a girth
To life, as they: and in the deadly shade
Wither as quick, and are as loathsome when decay'd.
But while we live, the air, the fruit, the flower,
Doth own to us a high, superior charm:
And the soul's radiance in our wintry hour
Flings a sweet summer halo round us, warm;
And then, the multitudinous things that swarm
From the brain's secret cells, and never die
(Though mortal born),-Oh! for that boasted balm
Of life, to raise the mighty when they lie
Wrecks, both in frame and mind-common mortality.
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
And this is man's fidelity!
"Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
Over Babylon's sandy plains
Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns.
A thousand lords at his kingly call
Have met to feast in a spacious hall,
And all the imperial boards are spread,
With dainties whereon the monarch fed.-
Rich cates and floods of the purple grape :
And many a dancer's serpent shape
Steals slowly upon their amorous sights,
Or glances beneath the flaunting lights:
And fountains throw up their silver spray,-
And cymbals clash,-and the trumpets bray
Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung;
And words from the winding horn are flung:
And still the carved cups go round,
And revel and mirth and wine abound.
But night has o'ertaken the fading day;
And music has raged her soul away:
The light in the bacchanal's eye is dim;
And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn.
"Bring forth"-(on a sudden spoke the king,
And hush'd were the lords, loud rioting,)—
"Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold,
Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old,
Ravish'd from proud Jerusalem;
And we and our queens will drink from them."
And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold,
Of stone, and of brass and of iron old,
And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine,
And their mouths are all fill'd with the sparkling wine.
Hark! the king has proclaim'd with a stately nod,
"Let a health be drunk out unto Baal, the god.”-
They shout and they drink:-but the music moans,
And hush'd are the reveller's loudest tones:
For a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all
To write strange words on the plaster'd wall!
-The mirth is over;-the soft Greek flute
And the voices of women are low-are mute;
The bacchanal's eyes are all staring wide;
And, where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride?-
-That night the monarch was stung to pain:
That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain!—
THE history of this eccentric and distinguished person would form a more amusing work than a novel, for in it the talents of a great original genius, and the acquirements of an accomplished scholar, would be singularly blended with hair-breadth escapes and feats of reckless enterprise. These, however, will form a rich legacy to his literary executors, to whom they may be safely consigned. He was born at the town of Paisley, North Britain, in May, 1789; and after going through a preliminary training at the College of Glasgow, he entered the University of Oxford, where his poetical talents obtained him Newdigate's prize for English poetry, which he won against a numerous and powerful competition. After he had finished his education, he established his residence in the neighbourhood of Winandermere, where he resided until he was called to the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, in 1820. The first poem which Wilson published was, The Isle of Palms, in 1812. It is a wild and incredible tale, but abounding in rich poetical description, and is said to have been written in his eighteenth year. His City of the Plague, a dramatic poem of still higher merit, appeared in 1816. If his celebrity, however, had depended upon his verses alone, he would probably have been forgotten by this time, as the above-mentioned works are now seldom read; but his chief distinction for these many years has been derived from Blackwood's Magazine, of which he is supposed to be the Editor, as well as principal contributor. As a Professor, Wilson can scarcely lay claim to the character of a profound metaphysician, or systematic philosopher; but there is a kindling power in his elo. quence which excites his pupils to reflection and inquiry for themselves, while his wit, cheerfulness, and social excellencies, render him an especial favourite among a wide circle of friends and acquaintances.
LONDON DURING THE PLAGUE.
Know ye what you will meet with in the city?
Together will ye walk, through long, long streets,
All standing silent as a midnight church.
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you: the small voice
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lour with grim delight,
As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shadows of death.
Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark, far off
A tumult like an echo! on it comes,
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer;
And louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets.
But are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your heads, from a window, suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls,
As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones,
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the Pest's triumphal chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb.
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! A miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along
By shrunk steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.
Would you look in? Grey hairs and golden tresses;
Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smiled for years;
And many a rosy visage smiling still;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs,-there lie they all,
Embraced in ghastliness!
From The City of the Plague.
But list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song,
And now it reigns above, around,
As if it call'd the Ship along.
The Moon is sunk; and a clouded grey
Declares that her course is run,
And like a God who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious Sun.
Soon as his light has warm'd the seas,
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze;
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.
No fears hath she:-Her giant-form
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm would go
'Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array
The Main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
-Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread
Are hurried o'er the deck;
And fast the miserable Ship
Becomes a lifeless wreck.
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,
Her planks are torn asunder,
And down come her masts with a reeling shock,
And a hideous crash like thunder.
Her sails are draggled in the brine
That gladden'd late the skies,
And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshine
Down many a fathom lies.
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleam'd softly from below,
And flung a warm and sunny flush
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the Ship
An hour before her death:
And sights of home with sighs disturb'd
The sleepers' long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had pass'd;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she look'd on the father of her child
Return'd to her heart at last.
-He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
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