STANZAS,

TO THE MEMORY OF J. ATKINSON, ESQ.

BY CHARLES PHILLIPS, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THE EMERALD ISLE," &c.

[In our former volume we had the good fortune of publishing, for the first time, an epitaph, by the English Anacreon, for the tombstone in Cheadle church-yard, over the remains of J. Atkinson, Esq.; a gentleman to whom Mr. Moore dedicated his "Little's Poems," and whom he had characterised as one in whom the elements were so mixed, that neither in his head nor heart had nature left any deficiency." We have been also fortunate in obtaining the following poem, to the memory of this Mæcenas of Irish literature, from the pen of Mr. Phillips, the distinguished barrister. The lines are alike worthy of the subject and the writer.-Ed.]

One shadow has pass'd, midst the thousands that glide From the pale of the earth, to the bourne of the grave; A spirit so gentle, that memory's tide

May seldom again bear such worth on its wave!

It hath pass'd-and the bard of the Bulbul can say
How first it shone over its earliest hours;

Threw light on his hopes, and gave life to his lay,
And awoke into being his slumbering powers.

Oh! that heart was so kind, and that friendship so true, That, to know and to love, seem'd as link'd to each other: 'Twas as binding a chain as one heart ever threw,

To wind round the love and the joys of another.

That heart is now cold, and that friendship is hush'd-
It hath pass'd, like the dream of the sleeper, away;
And the hopes that rose with it for ever are crush'd;
They never again round their patron shall play.

Oh! let gratitude rise from the humblest of those

Who have known and respected what still is so dear

And the genius, that now has arrived at its close,

With regret be remember'd, and named with a tear.

;

It hath pass'd-like the light of expiring day,
As it melts into darkness-and scarce leaves a gloss
Of its glory-but ah; the cold weeds of the clay
Remain in their dews but to weep for its loss.

TO AN INFANT.

Smile, lovely infant, smile!
But thou canst not beguile,

Nor sooth my woe-fraught heart:
O! say what power on earth can hide,
Or lull to peace, or turn aside,
Misfortune's barbed dart?

Smile-smile, my cherub child!
Thy face so fair and mild

Enchants the very soul;

Thou little reck'st of gath'ring woes,
The ills this world will soon disclose,
O'er thee have no control.

Smile yet, a parent's pet!
For thou know'st not as yet
That villainy can smile;
Beneath its guise can treason lurk,
And envy ply her dirty work,
In mazy paths of guile.

Smile, smile, my charming boy!
Thy early dawn enjoy,

While innocence is thine!
Alas! too soon will fell despair,
Mistrust, and heart-corroding care,
Against thy peace combine.

Then smile, lov'd infant, smile!
But thou canst not beguile,

REFLECTIONS ON INFANT INNOCENCE.

"Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,
That, in the valley of decline are lost;
And virtue with peculiar charms appears

Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years."

How calm and peaceful are the slumbers of infant years! How insensible of the cares, unconscious of the troubles which those of elder age are doomed to endure! That babe, on whom my eye now rests, thinks not of future times, when care and trouble will as surely haunt his path as life is prolonged; and when they will often cause him to indulge the wish, that heaven had never permitted him to live beyond the days of infancy. He imagines not how many bitter pangs will assail him, how many crosses he will meet with, how much fatigue he will be called on to suffer, before he quits this state of being for one more pure and happy.

It fills me often with regret to see the days of infant innocence emerge in those of riper years ;-to view the loveliness, affection, and beauty of youth, lose themselves in the darkness, coldness, and formality of manhood. It grieves me to think of such a wreck of charms-of such a transformation of manners and feeling-of such a change of quietude and peace-for the bustle, and care, and anxiety of the world. It seems cruel that we should lose a happy state of insensibility, to obtain one of knowledge that can add nothing to our temporal happiness, and only make us feel of how little value is life, separate from the consideration that it is given us to prepare for the enjoyment of eternity.

C. M. A.

THE MEMORY OF JOYS THAT ARE PAST.

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

WRITTEN AT THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

There is a tear of sweet relief-
A tear of rapture and of grief;
The feeling heart alone can know
What soft emotions bid it flow.

THE MEMORY OF JOYS THAT ARE PAST.

It is when memory charms the mind
With tender images refined;
'Tis when her magic spells restore
Departed friends and joys no more.
There is an hour-a pensive hour,
And oh, how dear its soothing power!
It is when twilight spreads her veil,
And steals along the silent dale;
'Tis when the fading blossoms close,
When all is silence and repose,
When memory wakes, and loves to mourn,
The days that never can return.

There is a strain-a plaintive strain,
The source of joy, and yet of pain;
It is the song, whose dying measure,
Some friend beloved has heard with pleasure;
Some friend, who ne'er again may hear,
The melting lay to memory dear;
Ah! then her magic spells restore
Visions of blissful days no more.

HOME SCENERY.

The harvest scythe is on a sunny slope,
A grassy nook form'd by the sinuous Ouse,
And merry sounds, and pleasant scents diffuse
Joy through that brief vale's limitary scope:
A spot it seems where age and grief might lie
To realise their dreams of early hope;
Conning each feature over with fond eye,

To the dark verdure bank'd against the sky.
In sooth, 'tis a benignant landscape, fraught
With a domestic mild serenity;-

A vision, meet to bless recurring thought,
When home and happy hearts have glided by,
And the glad rivulet of youth is dry
With fresh and balmy feelings in life's drought.

B. Y.

93

GENIUS AND TALENT.

A man may possess talent without possessing a spark of genius. Talent is the power of exertion and acquisition, and of applying acquisition in a judicious and effective manner. Talent is cool-headed-genius is hot-headed; talent may be cold hearted-genius can never be other than warm hearted; talent is generally prudent-genius is often imprudent; talent moves steadily and regularly forward-genius springs on impetuously and lags indolently, by turns; talent forms just and rational speculations-the speculations of genius are often wild and fantastic chimeras. The feeling of talent is judg ment; the judgment of genius is feeling. Genius is proud and confident; talent is humble and unpretending. Talent constructed the lyre, while genius stood by and gave directions how the work should be done. Genius struck celestial melody from its chords; talent imitated the sounds, but soul and fire, and enthusiasm, were not in the strain. Talent chiseled the form of the Belvidere Apollo. Genius designed, and talent executed, the mighty plans of Napoleon. Talent is strong, but genius is both beautiful and strong. Talent influences our reason; genius influences both our reason and our feelings. The mind, in which both are united, makes the nearest approach to perfection; since the coolness of talent corrects the impetuosity of genius, and the conceptions of genius dignify the operations of talent. Genius, without talent, is a wild, and beautiful, and erratic meteor; talent, without genius, is a steady light, which lasts long, but never throws a flood of radiance upon earth or sky. Genius is generally in the extreme; talent is always in the mean. Talent is more earthly-genius more heavenly.

THE WEARY PEASANT BOY.

A SONG. BY PERCY NORTH.

Have pity, heaven, have pity, pray,
Upon my mournful lot;

A wandering outcast, doom'd to stray,
By all the world forgot :