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Poetry, its nature and effect, 49.
bridge, for the Abolition of Church Rates, 118, 180.
81.-Keats, 213.—Sir P. Sidney, 321.
being a fac simule of CHATTERTONS Hand writing
What the Wages of the tuneful Mine
when compares to mimu. Teat and loll
Whilohead usher in the year, With Toy to Britain's King and
dear : And in compliance to an
anciont mode , Mearmes his Syllables into an oder ; Yer such the
Menit of his Muse , He bow to Deans and liches his rdsheja's Shows Then leave the wicked barren Fly far from Poverty , be wise in time : Regard the Office Parnassus less Put
Interest in the Sown advance above the reach of Muses or
in a decent
your religion .
Mopsa.- Is it true, think you ?
The “human face divine,” says the commentator on Rabelais, is the only essential requisite for an author : Puis donc en ce temps la, ď avoir la figure humaine, pour se meler d ecrire. In other words,
every one that runs" may write, and read too~if he be able—that which he hath written. Firmly believing in the fidelity of this apothegm, we have assumed to ourselves the sagacity of the erudite, and herewith introduce ourselves to public notice and patronage.
It was the wish of a sacred writer, that his enemy would indite a book ;—for what other earthly motive, than that he might witness the writhings and contortions which the lash of the critic would effect upon his unfortunate foe?-a circumstance which tends to intimate that the occupation of the “ gentle craft” was not unknown, even in those days; and that in the ages of holy writ, pens were sometimes dipped in gall. For aught that we can prove to the contrary, the worthy penman might have been himself a casual contributor to some Review of eminence, in whose pages unfortunate authors were periodically doomed to smart.
For our own part, we can only plead guilty to the accusation of authorship in the trifling publication which now occupies the reader's attention, but that only is a critical all, both to us and the public, inasmuch as the disappointment occasioned by an unfavourable reception now, would do much towards depriving the world of several goodly, volumes hereafter. We therefore extend the hand of courtesy, instead of throwing down the gauntlet of defiance. Few are the remarks which we have to offer. We
before the Public in all the well-meaning inexperience of youth, and we claim therefore its indulgence as our special prerogative. We have prolonged the “ideal flights of Madam Brain," that she might infuse additional inspiration into the alluring pages of her first-born. We have twined many a sylvan wreath of “dewy song,” to entice the thoughtless and the light of heart; while many an unheard-of dainty has been prepared for the more abstemious. We even presume to flatter ourselves, that the initiated gourmand of Magazines may revel in our pages, as in a wilderness of sweets and blossoms. With such materiel, who shall dare to cavil ?
"'Tis not in mortals to command success,
March 1839.- VOL. 1.-NO. 1.
THE POETS OF ENGLAND WHO HAVE DIED YOUNG.
NO. I.-THOMAS CHATTERTON.
Heu miserande puer! Si qua fata aspera rumpas
The feelings instilled into the heart in early youth are among the most beautiful in the whole stage of our existence. Youth is the spring-time of the affections, when the soul is susceptible of every transient emotion; when the generosity of its impulses is equalled only by the warmth of its imagination; when the love which it cherishes, and the passions which it nurtures, are sown with a full hand, to reap a most unbounded harvest.
Childhood and youth! With what delight does the spirit dwell upon their remembrance! The soul which is in later life pregnant with anxiety, is then a creature of anticipation—care has not yet been the successor of hope: the sun of the morning is not yet eclipsed ; the sky of the present is not yet darkened with the clouds and shadows of the future. We live, chameleon-like, upon air; and like the chameleon we change with the breath of every atmosphere. Bright and balmy are the days of childhood, and exquisite is the recollection of them : ere the sunny spring of our hope has been blighted by the cold and selfish reality of life, and the young and bounding bosom has been sobered by its communion with a stern, unsympathizing world!
Sweet is it to walk upon a summer's evening, and commune with the beauties of nature,—to worship God in the sanctuary of his temple, and in the pride of his holiness! His temple is the universe of existing things. His shrine is the heart of the sensitive and imaginative man.
We have all our favourite authors ;-in youth especially we love to idolize some cherished novelist or poet, some one who can call
up from the “realms of Faëry" the wild and wonderful of which the less ideal inhabitant of earth knows nothing,
“ in lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness.” For our own part, we confess ourselves enamoured with the inspirations of the muse; and those flowers culled at the altar of a young poet, have we ever considered the most chastened of earthly beauties.
Poor Chatterton! We remember in our schoolboy days, stealing away from the haunts and pastimes of our playmates, and burying ourselves deep in the recesses of some secluded glen, to drink his melodies. They were as snatches of immortality from heaven-as walkings in the summer land of beauty. And Keats—poor sensitive Keats, the enthusiastic, the blighted-we have loved him as a brother,