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over the spiritual interests of his flock. In 1845 he became .a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral, and resided there till the day of his death, April 6,1850.

His character was one of great benevolence and purity, and, at the same time, of great eccentricity. He rarely quitted Bremhill. Now and then he visited London, where he seemed as much out of place as "a dais; in a conservatory."* An idea of his loneliness amid the peopled solitude of the i • • f • polis is given by an anecdote related by the wife of the poet Moore:—"Bowles was in the habit of daily riding through a country turnpike, and one day he presented, as usual, his twopence to the gatekeeper. 'What is that for, sir?' he asked. 'For my horse, of course.' 'But, sir, you have no horse.' 'Dear me" exclaimed the astonished poet, 'am I walking?'" Mrs. Moore also said that Bowles gave her a Bible as a birthday-present. She asked him to write her name in it: he did so, inscribing it to her as a gift^-from the author. He said himself, "I never had but one watch, and I lost it the first day I wore it" The poet Moore says of him," What with his genius, his blunders, his absences, he is the most delightful of all existing persons or poets;" and Southey writes of him, "His oddity, his untidiness, his simplicity, his benevolence, his fears, and his good nature, make him one of the most entertaining and extraordinary characters I ever met with."

It would be difficult to enumerate all of Mr. Bowles's publications; but the following are his principal poems. The Battle of the Nile, published in 1799; The Sorrows of Switzerland, in 1801; The Spirit of Discovery, or Conquest of Ocean, in 1805; The Missionary of the Andes, in 1815; The Grave, of the Ltul Sotcon, in 1822; St. John in Patmoa, in 1832. His last poetical compositions were contained in a volume published in 1837, entitled Scenes and Shadows of Days Departed, a Narrative; accompanied with Poems of Youth, and tome other Poems of Melancholy and Fancy, in the Journey of Life from fouth to Age. He also printed several editions of a pleasing little volume of simple poetry, entitled The Tillage Verse-Book, written to excite in the youthful mind the first feelings of religion and humanity, from familiar rural objects.1

Mr. Bowles is probably more indebted for his fame to his Sonnets than to any of his other writings. Of these, Mr. Hallam, in an address delivered at the anniversary of the Boyal Society of Literature, thus speaks:—"The Sonnets of Bowles may be reckoned among the first-fruits of a new era in poetry. They came in an age when a commonplace facility in rhyming on the one hand, and an almost nonsensical affectation in a new school on the other, had lowered the standard so much that critical judges spoke of English poetry as of something nearly extinct, and disdained to read what they were sure to disapprove. In these sonnets there was observed a grace of expression,

1 "That was his own simile during one of my conversations with this eccentric but benevolent clergyman."—8. C. Hall.

'In 1S07 Mr. Bowles edited The Wm-ltl nf Altrandtr Plypt, in Verse and Pro*/, in ten Yolumes; and in this labor (it would seem not of tor?) he displayed, aa editor, what is rather a singular phenomenon in the literary world, prepossessions adverse to the claims and merits of his author. He laid down this proposition aa a universal truth, " that, all images drawn ftom what is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature are more beautiful and sublime than

any images drawn from art; and that they are therefore, per «, more poetical." The- truth of tills dogma was of course warmly disputed, nnd Cnmpbell, Byron, and others entered into the contest in behalf of Pope. The latter, 1 think, had tbe better of the argument: a pyramid may raise aa strong emotions Id the breast aa the mountain; and, at) Byron said, a ship In the. wind, with all eail let, is a «uore poetical object than "a hog in the wrnd." though the hog is all nature, and tlu chip all art.

musical Tereification, and especially an air of melancholy tenderness, so con Denial to the poetical temperament, which still, after sixty years of a more propitious period than that which immediately preceded their publication, preserves for their author a highly respectable position among our poets." It loay be added that his Sonnets so powerfully impressed the poetic sensibility of Coleridge before he left school, that he made forty transcripts of them with his own pen, by way of presents to his youthful friends;-and in mature life he expressed his approbation of them in a sonnet of his own.


How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!

As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze

Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,

And now, along the white and level tide,

They fling their melancholy music wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall

Of summer-days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
• The mournful magic of their mingling chime

First waked my wondering childhood into tears,
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.


'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)
Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhin

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow

In murmurs parted: varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire,

'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow.

Here dark, with furrow" d aspect, like despair,

Frowns the bleak cliff,—there on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;

Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.


0 Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lav-
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)

The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away;

On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

1 may look back on every sorrow past,

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile,—
As Borne lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,

Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while;
Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!


How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to iill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side

Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?

Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope

The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;

The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend,
Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,

With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight!

But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes,

And weep for her who in the cold grave lies f


As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch, now first at mom

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;

Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head,

In varying forms, fantastic wander white;
Or turns his ear to every random song
Heard the green river's winding marge along,

The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight:

With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal.


When last we parted, thou wert young and fair;

How beautiful, let fond remembrance say!

Alas! since then old Time has stolen awayNigh forty years, leaving my temples bare: So liath it perish'd, like a thing of air.

That dream of love and youth ;—we now are gray;

Yet still remembering youth's enchanted way,


1 Before tlio publication of liis Sunin-ts, Bowles wooed a Mifis Komilly. a niece of Sir Samuel Romilly, but was rejected: wherefore be took to rhyming and to rninbling, and, in order to deaden hie feelings, traversed the north of England and Scotland, and in parts of the Continent. Late in life lie unexpectedly

met the Indy of his earliest love, nnd has left us this charming sonnet in commemoration of thu incident; thus shotting that, in a true poet'e heart at least, Invo never die*: it Ib a tihrine that everlastingly retains tho image it has ouco idolized.

Though time has changed my look and hlanch'd my hair,
Tkoiujli I remember one sad hour with pain,

And never thought, long as I yet might live,
And parted long, to hear that voice again;

I can a sad, but cordial, greeting give,
And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer,
Lady, as when I loved tliee, young and fair.


There is a poor blind man, who, every day,

Through frost and snow, in sunshine and in rain,

Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane Kxplores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,

To kneel l>efore his Maker, and to hear

The wlemn service chanted full and clear.

Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels

Through the long year? Oh, the wide, world is cold

And dark to him, but here no more he feels
His sad bereavement: Faith and IIo|>e uphold

His heart; amid the tumult of Mankind

He droops no longer: lone, and poor, and blind,

His soul is in the choirs above the skies,

And songs, far oft", of angel harmonies.

Oh, happy if the vain, the rich, the proud—

The pageant actors of life's motley crowd-
Would drop the mask, the moral prospect scan,

And learn one lesson from a poor blind man.


No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of (Mend!
The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,
And rung as it pass'd through each murmuring shroud.
My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,
My heart sigh'd in secret for those far away;
When slowly the morning advanced from the cast,
The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased:
The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seem'd to say,
"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain,—
I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;
I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,
And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;
I thought of the schemes fond affection had plann'd,
Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.
But still the sweet sounds, as they swell'd to the air,
Seem'd tidings of pleasure, though mournful, to bear,
And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

JOANNA BA1LL1E, 1762-1851.

This distinguished poetess, whose literary life stretches back into the last century, and whoso early recollections were of the days of Burke, Johnson. Goldsmith, and Reynolds, was the daughter of a Scottish clergyman, and was born at Bothwcll, on the banks of the Clyde, in the year 1762. During the greater part of her life she lived with a mniden sister, Agnes.—also a poetess.— to whom she addressed her bountiful "Birthday" poem. She early remove! with her sister to London, where their brother, the late Sir Matthew Baillif. was settled as a physician; and there her earliest poetical works ap|>onr^l anonymously. Her first dramatic efforts were published in 1798, under the title of A Sends of Pfayx: in which it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger .Rwyions of t/u; Mind, each Position bciny the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy. To the volume was prefixed a long and interesting " Introductory Discourse," in which the authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, ami asserts the supremacy o£ simple, nature over all decoration nnd refinementShe was then in her thirty-fourth year. A second volume was published in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval she gave the world a Tolumc of miscellaneous dramas in ISOt, and the Family Legend in 1810,—a tragedy founded on Highland tradition, and which, principally through »nc efforts of Sir Walter Scott, was brought out at the Edinburgh Theatre. Tin only "Play of the Passions" ever represented on the stage was De M&nifor i, which was brought out by tha celebrated actor John Kemble, and playd for eleven nights. Though the best of her dramatic productions, it is del cicnt in those lifelike, stirring scenes, and in that variety and fulness of pass on, the "form and pressure" of everyday life, which are so essential to success jn the stage.

In 1S23 our authoress published along-promised collection t 'Poetic Miscellanies, and in 1836 three more volumes of plays. Besides thos» poetic produc. tions, she is the author of A View of the General Tenor of thv AVw Tcxtamcr.t regarding the Mature and Dignity of Jems Christ. She also pi Wished Metrical Legends of Eminent Characters, Fugitive Verses, and some less in publications. She died on the 22d of February, 1851, retaining her faculties till the last. Gentle and unassuming to all, with an unchangeable simplicity of manner and character, she counted among her friends many of the most celebrated for talent nnd genius; nor were the visitors to her modest home confined to the natives of her own country; but many from various parU of Europe, and especially from our own land, sought introduction to one whose fame is commensurate with the knowledge of English Literature.1

A short time before her death, Miss Baillie completed an entire edition of her dramatic works. Upon these she laid out her chief strength. In their general character, they are marked by great originality and invention. Her knowledge of the human heart, of its wide range for good or evil, of its multifitriuiis, changeful, and wayward uature, was great, and her power of portraying character has rarely been excelled. Her female portraits are especially beautiful, and possess an unusual degree of elevation and purity. Though distinguished chiefly for her dramatic writings, her lyric and miscellaneous poetry

1 Head article* on Mis* BalUie'i Plays, in the second and sixty-*i>renth Toliimw of tto Edinburgh Review.

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