The Sun.
London, England, 1823-05-17 00:00:00

POET R r.

The following LINES are taken from a Poem written by Mr.
FITZGERALD, and recited by him at the last ANNIVER-
SARY DINNER of the LITERARY FUND. We regret that
we have not room for the whole of the Poem, which he de-
livered with his usual animation and energy, and which was
received with warm and reiterated applause by theaudience
7Tis said that some to Poesy are foes,
And think that Literature engenders woes:
Such would bring back a barbarous ale again,
For none but Vandals persecute the Pen !
Though sonic profane the Muses gift divine,
And bow at Avarice or Ambition's shrine;
Though some illiberal Satire's pen employ,
And mingle hemlock in the cup of joy;
Pierce the recessa of domestic life,
Expose the flusband or defame the Wife;
The tale of scandal bring 'to public eye,
And in smooth numbers circulate the lie—
. The Muse's nobler office is to prove
The bond of Friendship, 91 the lamp of Love;
To harmonise the passions of the Mind,
To please, instruct, and meliorate Alankind.
By her the selfish feelings are suppresed,
And social virtues kindle in the breast;
She points to Nature's wise and generous plait,
And shews how strongly Man depends on Man ;
"This sacred truth the thatched-roof Peasant owns,
And ermin'd Monarchs feel uirn their Thrones !

SONNET ON THE SABBATH MORNING.
With silent awe I hail the sacred morn
That slowly wakes, while all the fields are still ;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A. graver murmur gurgles from the rill,
And echo answers softer from the hill,
And softer sings the Linnet from the thorn,
The Skylark warbles in a tone less shrill
Bail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath-morn !
The Rooks float silently, in airy drove,
The Sun a placid yellow lustre tlfrows;
The (biles, that lately sighed along the grove,
have hush'd their downy wings in dread repose ;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move
So smil'd the day, when the first morn arose !

A'OETS'AND POETRY.—It is only through early
peculiarties of thought that men become Poets. Of that which
they have all their lives been ruminating upon, they have ideas
more vivid than other people; and by giving those ideas,
with all the force of language they can, they write
poetry. This is true of more than poets professed...
Old Isaac Walton, the sole employment of whose life
was angling, has without knowing it written a poetical pastoral
more natural than Sitenstone or Cunninghainu,nidneorrettilliembpeleattihaonf Gesner, and moresineere than Thompson. Nay, some of the
‘l)3oCkotirdiclarl Idil;eatePrsha,rm' fareorai3lt'besititTee especially under
or imagining,
and minutely describing, the effects of these " distilments '
upon the nervous system, are as poetical, here and there,
as any thing in Dr. Armstrong. If we look over the ex-
tensive catalogue of English poetry, we shall find it to be a set
of oddities versified. The poets area sort of harmonious
quizzes, and their poems are tinctured throughout with their
particularities of disposition, the ideas arising from the pursuits
of life, nay, from the very diseases of the writers. The.re is no se-
lection of subject ; what they felt keenly and Saw strongly, they
made poetry of. A sharp physiologist might trace out the
constitution, profession, and usual residence of a raw, from his
works only. Lord 13yron, who has travelled, tells about gon-
dolas, mantillas, combolios, gazelle eyes, mosques, and latticed
windows. The head of Mr. Wordsworth, who lives amongst
lakes and mountains,lls filled with rocks, &title, leech-gatherers,
pedlers, daffixlils, and water-lilies. Air. Crabbe,.whose clerical
fimetions have made him familiar with vestries, workhoun
and the whole economy of a country palish, in lieu of the
'rocks and rills of Alr. Wordsworth, has extracted poetry
out of the stony hearts Of-churchwardens, and the scanty stream
of parish charity. We have poems about ships and about re-
Upon—about steam-engines and hydraulic presses—about
hunting, shooting, and fishing—about war and waltzing—
about astronomy and gastronnnire—about bees and silk-worms
--and tiphilis and spleen, and diseases in general—ahout playa
ing at whist and at chess, and smoking tobacco,
„andsnaking
sugar-wine and cider, and liquid blacking. In tact, there is
scarcely any human purault that has not been, directly or in-
directly, introducedinto poetry ; and the obliquities and ex-
cellences of the human mind have each had about an equal
share of imparting interest to its pages.