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I stood upon an English hill,
And saw the far meandering rill,
A vein of liquid silver, run
Sparkling in the summer sun;
While adown that green hill's side,
And along the valley wide,
Sheep, like small clouds touched with light,
Or like little breakers bright
Sprinkled o'er a smiling sea,
Seemed to float at liberty.

Scattered all around were seen
White cots on the meadows green,
Open to the sky and breeze,
Or peeping through the sheltering trees.
On rustic gateways, loosely swung,
Laughing children idly hung :
Oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear,
Came upon the startled ear,
Blended with the tremulous bleat
Of truant lambs, or voices sweet
Of birds that take us by surprise,
And mock the quickly-searching eyes.

Nearer sat a bright-haired boy,
Whistling with a thoughtless joy ;
A shepherd's crook was in his hand,
Emblem of a mild command ;
And upon his rounded cheek
Were hues that ripened apples streak.

Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing
Touched that small Arcadian king.
His sinless subjects wandered free-
Confusion without anarchy.
Happier he upon his throne,
The breezy hill—though all alone-
Than the grandest monarchs proud
Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.
For he ne'er trembles for his fate,
Nor groans beneath the cares of state.

On a gently rising ground
The lovely valley's farthest bound,
Bordered by an ancient wood,
The cots in thicker clusters stood;
And a Church uprose between,
Hallowing the peaceful scene.
Distance o'er its old walls threw
A soft and dim cerulean hue,
While the sun-lit gilded spire
Gleamed as with celestial fire !

I have crossed the ocean-wave
Haply for a foreign grave-
Haply never more to look
On a British hill or brook-
Haply never more to hear
Sounds unto my childhood dear ;-
Yet if sometimes on my soul
Bitter thoughts beyond control
Throw a shade more dark than night,

the mental sight Flashes forth a pleasant ray Brighter, holier, than the day ;

And unto that happy mood
All seems beautiful and good.

Though from home and friends we part,
Nature and the human heart
Still may sooth the wanderer's care,
And his God is every where !

Seated on a bank of green,
Gazing on an Indian scene,
I have dreams the mind to cheer,
And a feast for eye and ear.
At my feet a river flows,
And its broad face richly glows
With the glory of the sun,
Whose proud race is nearly run.
Ne'er before did sea or stream
Kindle thus beneath his beam,
Ne'er did miser's eye behold
Such a glittering mass of gold !
'Gainst the gorgeous radiance float
Darkly, many a sloop and boat,
While in each the figures seem
Like the shadows of a dream ;
Swift, yet passively, they glide
As sliders on a frozen tide.

Sinks the sun—the sudden night
Falls, yet still the scene is bright.
Now the fire-fly's living spark
Glances through the foliage dark,
And along the dusky stream
Myriad lamps with ruddy gleam

On the small waves float and quiver,
As if upon the favored river,
And to mark the sacred hour,
Stars had fallen in a shower.
For many a mile is either shore
Illumined with a countless store
Of lustres ranged in glittering rows;
Each a golden column throws
To light the dim depths of the tide ;
And the moon in all her pride,
Though beauteously her regions glow,
Views a scene as fair below*.

Never yet hath waking vision
Wrought a picture more Elysian;
Never gifted poet seen
Aught more radiant and serene !
Though upon my native shore
Mid the hallowed haunts of yore
There are scenes that could impart
Dearer pleasure to my heart,
Scenes that in the soft light gleam
Of each unforgotten dream,
Yet the soul were dull and cold
That its tribute could withhold
When Enchantment's magic wand

Waves o'er this romantic land !
Cossipore, Nov. 1839.

This description has reference to the night of some religious festival. THE ATOSSA BRIBE.


Pope left by his will, the care of his manuscripts, first to Lord Bolingbroke, and, in the event of his death, to Lord Marchmont, undoubtedly expecting, says Dr. Johnson, that they would be “proud of the trust and eager to extend his fame.” It

appears, however, that some time after Pope's death, Dodsley solicited preference as the publisher, and was told that the packet of papers had not been even looked at, and “whatever was the reason,” adds Johnson, “ the world has been disappointed of what was reserved for the next age.” It is reasonable to suppose that amongst the manuscripts of Pope there must have been many interesting and valuable papers, but nothing of any value has yet appeared. Pope gave Bolingbroke the option of preserving or destroying the manuscripts, and it is probable, from the circumstances I am about to mention, that he chose the latter alternative. They never got into the possession of the Earl of Marchmont. A work entitled “ A Selection from the Papers of the Earls of Marchmont,” and published in 1831, by Sir George Rose, contains two letters from Lord Bolingbroke that are calculated to injure materially the memory of Pope, if they are not very closely and candidly considered. They are on the subject of Pope's Satire on the Duchess of Marlborough, included in his Epistle“ On the Characters of Women,” under the name of Atossa. To refresh the memory of the reader I shall here subjoin it.

But what are these, to great Atossa's mind ?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind !
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth :

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