THE proper name of this writer is Bryan Waller Proctor; but this he converted into the anagram of Barry Cornwall, by which he is best known as a poet. He was born in London, and was educated at Harrow, where, among other school-fellows who gained a high name in society, he numbered Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. Having finished his classical education, he was placed with a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire, to be educated for the bar; but after studying the elements of the law at this place for four years, he changed his purpose, and became the pupil of a conveyancer at Lincoln's Inn, in which profession he finally settled. The poetical tastes and studies of Proctor lay among the great dramatic authors of the Elizabethan period, and accordingly his first publication, which appeared in 1815, consisted of a series of dramatic sketches in which he caught in a great measure the tenderness and gentleness, although not the sublimity and strength, of those great master-spirits. Towards the end of the same year, he published his Sicilian Story. In 1820 appeared his Marcian Colonna, and in the following year his tragedy of Mirandola. He now became a favourite poet with the public, not only on account of the intrinsic merits of his writings, but also in consequence of that charm of deep melancholy with which they are imbued a melancholy too deep and sustained to be fictitious. In him, also, this natural bias seems to determine the selection of his subjects, which are exclusively themes of tenderness and sadness. In private life, as in his poetry, he blends with pensiveness of spirit and gentleness of manners those virtuous and amiable qualities, which have secured for him through life the affection and esteem of every class of society. THE LAST SONG. Must it be? Then farewell, Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long: The last, wherein I say, "I loved thee well." Many a weary strain (Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath Utter'd, of Love and Death, And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain. Oh! if in after years The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart, Bid not the pain depart; But shed, over my grave, a few sad tears. Think of me-still so young, Silent, though fond, who cast my life away, Daring to disobey The passionate Spirit that around me clung. Farewell again; and yet, Must it indeed be so-and on this shore Shall you and I no more Together see the sun of the Summer set? For me, my days are gone: No more shall Ì, in vintage times, prepare As I was wont: oh, 'twas for you alone! And on my bier I'll lay Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan, And, like a broken flower, gently decay. THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB. That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East. Soldier and chief and slave: and he the while In figure as some Indian god, or like Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum Rolling at intervals; the bugle note, Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on) The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel How fierce the dark king bore him on that day! And made his foes respect him.-Towards night Then turn'd his eye; he rose-one angry blush The deserts with his thunder, was-a name. SONG. Whither, ah! whither is my lost love straying? Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea? O ye winds! now playing Like airy spirits round my temples free, Fly, and tell him this from me : Tell him, sweet winds! that in my woman's bosom My young love still retains its perfect power; Or, like the summer blossom That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower, Say (and say gently) that, since we two parted, Only not broken-hearted, Because I muse upon bright moments gone, 317 DESCRIPTION OF PLUTO. CHORUS. Behold, behold, Proserpina! Dark clouds from out the earth arise, As they would veil the burning blush of day. Some fearful being from afar Comes onward. As he moves along the ground, Companions him; and from his face doth shine, A light that darkens all the vale around. "Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us PROSERPINE. He comes, indeed. How like a god he looks— From The Rape of Proserpine. TRANSFORMATION OF CYANE INTO A FOUNTAIN. They are gone afar—afar, (Cyane is gradually transformed.) But, ah! what frightful change is here? O'er her shoulders, like a river With heavy heart and weeping eye, From The Rape of Proserpine. |