Malvern Hills. A Poem. By Joseph Cottle. 2s. 6d. Longman.
MR. Cottle is already known to the world by a small volume of poems, an improved edition of which was lately published. The entertainment which we experienced in the perusal of that production, led us to open thefe pages with a pleafing expectation, nor have we fuffered any disappointment.
After a manly and humane preface relative to the diftreffes of the poor, the Author introduces to the Reader a few lines of his friend, Robert Southey, addreffed to him on the subject of his poem. As almost every thing coming from the pen of that ingenious poet is valuable, we fubjoin it :
"Is Malvern then thy theme? it is a name That wakes in me the thoughts of other years And other friends. Would I had been with thee
When thou didst wind the heights. I could have lov'd
To lead thee in the paths I once had trod,
And pointing out the dark and far-off firs
On Clifton's fummit, or the fpire that mark'd
That pleasant town, that I must never more
Without fome heavy thoughts bethink me of.
I could have lov'd' to live the past again.
Yet, were I ever more to tread those heights,
Sure it would be in folitude; for fince
I travell'd there, and bath'd my throbbing brow
With the drifted fnows of the unfunn'd mountain clift,
Time hath much chang'd me, and that dearest friend
Who fhar'd my wanderings, to a better world
Hath paft. A moft unbending man was he,
Simple of heart, and to himself fevere,
In whom there was no guile, no evil thought,
No natural weak nefs. I could not have borne
His eye's reproof; it was to me as though
The inward monitor that God has given
Spake in that glance; and yet a gentler man
Liv'd not. I well remember on that day
When first I paft the threshold of his door,
The joy that kindled every countenance
Bidding him welcome home. For he was one
Who in the ftillness of domestic life
Was lov'd and honour'd, rightly deeming that
Beft fcene of virtue, and partaking there
The happiness he made.
Midway, his dwelling flood. The ceaseless streami
That rolls its waters o'er the channell'd rock,
Sent from the glen below such mellow'd founds
As in the calm and contemplative hour
Invite the willing fenfe. The afcent beyond
Bounded the fight, that afk'd no fairer view
Than that green copfe whence many a blackbird's fong
Was heard at morning, and the nightingale
Such fweet and folitary mufic pour'd,
As, fuiting with the twilight's fober thoughts,
Blends with the foul's beft feelings. In her dreams
Of pureft happiness, my fancy fhapes
No lovlier place of refting.
Shall I behold that place of pleasantness :--
Death has been busy there.
That thoughts like these fhould wean us from the world,
Strengthening the heart with wholesome discipline
For life's fad changes. Oftentimes they rife
Uncall'd, but not unwelcome, nor unmix'd
With a deep joy that fatisfies the foul.
Even now, a man contented with the past,
Pleas'd with my prefent fate, and looking on
In hope, I fometimes think on that dear Friend,
Who furely I believe will welcome me
When I have paft the grave, and bless my God
For this belief, which makes it sweet to die.
This poem confifts of a delineation of the objects feen from off the Malvern Hills, accompanied with moral reflections. Genius in poverty is thus defcribed :—
There ftands an aged thorn, at this lone hour
Cheering, the fight of ought familiar.
How bent its matted head, by the bleak wind,
That in one current comes-howling and fierce!
Thou poor unfhelter'd thorn, I pity thee!
Tho' this the month of gladness, and the time
When verdure thrives-tho' now thy fellow trees,
Down in the vale beneath, their fummer dress
Put forth, and every fpray, with blossoms hung,
Dances with happiness; yet, heedlefs, thou,
With here and there a folitary leaf,
Look'it ever to the earth, difconfolate :
'Till fome rude tempeft shake the mountain's brow,
Uptear thy feeble limbs, for ever end
Their conflict with the ftorm, and down the steep
Hurl thee, unpitied-tenant of the clouds.
Emblem art thou of him in this low world
Whom Genius burdens, whofe diviner mind
Spurns at the world's low aims, and feels itself
Unbleft: whilft poverty's bleak winds afsail.
Low, like the MOUNTAIN THORN, he bends his head,
And whilst unnumber'd objects fpeak of joy,
And ignorance looks gay, and folly smiles;
Nurfing his many wrongs, he stands aloof,
And thinks, with calm confolement, when his head
Down to the grave shall go, his spirit rest."
Among these hills there is, it feems, a well of medicinal water, which the poet hath thus pleasingly noticed:
And now I mark,
Beneath two lofty hills, and in the vale
Form'd by their fleep defcent, the Holy Well.*
A plain ftone dwelling, weather-worn and rude
Stands fingly by. There never found is heard
But the bleak wind, that, howling from above,
Sweeps the bald mountains's fide, and urging on
Its boisterous way, at length forgets its rage,
*The Holy Well is situated about a quarter of a mile from the inn.
In dallying with the valley's fcattered trees :
Save when the sky is hufh'd, and to the ear
The never-ended bubblings of the spring
Send the fame note-the fame unvarying note.
Moft melancholy fpot! the hand of time
Seems bufy with thy fhatter'd tenement,
And all around thee prompts to penfiveness:
For who can view this place, or think of thofe
Who to the fount are led to ease their frames
Of rankling malady.-The drooping fire
Of rifing children, tottering o'er the grave,
And cafting, with an anxious look, his eye
Through diftant times, with many hopes and fears
For those he leaves behind. Or of the wife
Who bears a mother's name, by flow disease
Treading the downward road, yet, fill'd with dreams
Of lengthen'd days and coming happinefs;
Watching her infant's fmile, and planning well
Its future destiny; tho' never fhe
Shall mark its course. Yet not alone the throng
Who vainly hope the renovated frame,
Here pass their days; beneath yon stately roof*
Health and her fifter Chearfulness are found,
Whilft every joy, from nature's fairest works,
When in her pride the fits immaculate,
Spontaneous heaves the heart.
There is one large Inn at Malvern, which accommodates all the company who vifit the fpot. They have a common table, and the place is fubject to regulations as others of a fimilar kind.
(To be concluded in our next.)
Several Poetical favours have been received, and will meet with due attention.
We thank our Glasgow Correfpondent for his Efay on Innocence, which fhall be inferted in our next Number. His proffered communications will be acceptable.
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