The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1844-08-06 00:00:00

itttcraturr.

POETRY.

THE VALE OF LLA'CGOLLEN.

(Thoughts on first seeing the beau> fful 'Vale of Llangollen
July 30, 1844.)

BY T. J. OUSELEY.
" A little lower than the angels," Man,
With fine perception, half divine, marked out
This glorious spot of his Creator's power
To fashion for a home, where hearts might dwell,
Ever remembering grandeur, power. love,
And all the attributes of Him who formed
From chaos this bright sphere f r mortal life.
The distant traveller on this vale looks down,
And as his eyes drink in the magic view,
His heart swells up to heaven in praise of GOD.

Had no created Paradise been formed.
When Man first trod upon his native dust,
Such bliss terrestrial had he fashioned forth
To gild the morning Eden of his joy.
Some wand'ring angel, half out-shut from heaven,
His truant steps ne'er backward to recall,
Might, as his glory Massed, have stained thy breast
With rainbow beauty—wafting with his wings
Colours chalcedony, wlfch, bursting forth,
Made thee the flower garden of the world.

THE SWALLOW.
AN ALLEGORICAL FABLE.

(From Capt. Pidding's Chinese Olio.)

The poetry of the Chinese, unlike the generality of Oriental
composition, is remarkable for the absence of hyperbole either
in expression or feeling, and is characterised chiefly by a tone
of moral reverence, and a devotion to the tenderer affections.
There are delicaci. s of language and turns of thought of which
no translation can give any idea ; but the following paraphrase
of a little Poem, written by See-ma-kwang, a prime minister
of China in the even th century, will perhaps afford some no-
tion of the modlel
of thought and sentiment which her rulers
delight to honour and to cultivate. Of See-ma.kwang, the
author, we shall perhaps take occasion hereafter to render
some account ; it is sufficient to say for the present, that he
was equally distinguished by his disinterested virtue, and his
abilities as a statesman and scholar. Like almost all the Chi-
nese, he was passionately fond of his garden and rural retire-
ment, and no doubt himself had watched the proceedings of
the swallows which he describes in the Poem with remarkable
grace and graphic power. The simplicity of sentiment in the
Chinese philosopher will remind the reader of Wordsworth,
however its expression as translated here may, as it doubtless
does, fall much short of him in the original.

When Spring returned, two Swallows came
About my house their home to frame,
A gate's high top their choice;
And then what flittings far and near
For straws and down, their nest to rear;
What twists, and web, and vc ice!

What cares to give the outside strength—
The inside softness ; till at length

Four eggs the female WI.
Soon bursting from their shelly shrine,
Four tiny ones with chirping whine
Claimed all the parents' aid.

Their piteous cries rang qu'ck and shrill,—
For ants and flies, their crops to fill,

Were difficult to find;
Still seem'd their hunger unappeas'd,
Although th' exhausted mother, pleas'd—
Her share to them resign'd.

She, wasting, scarce conb-I ope her beak,
Her wings became tor flight too weak ;

But love upheld her force.
Still far and wide she sought for food
To stave off hunger from her brood,
In daily—hourly course.

When twenty days had circled by,
Worn out, as if about to die ;
Her young—how different they
Without a sorrow to molest,
They ate—they cbirp'd—nor sank to rest
Till pall'd with food and play.

Their down had to full plumage grown,
Their timid cries wax'd bold in tone,
Their pinions strong to soar;
Their beaks grew barden'd ;—moths and flies
That buzz'd about became their prize,
Snapp'd up in endless store.

Time went—one spread his wings for flight ;
Another follow'd—in the sight,

At first, of native nest,
On roof, r r neighbouring tree;—anon
Eaeh rambler where it lists is gone,
north, south, or east, or we.t.

The hapless mother makes the air
Resound with accents of despair,
And flutters to and fro;
Oft leaves—returns—still seeks the 'spct
'Lorn of those lov'd, still unforgot,
And finds no rest from woe.

O hapless Swallow! now 'tis thine,
As once thy mother, to repi-e
Over thy cherish'd brrod ;
Thou didst forget her tenderness,—
Remember now, in like distress,
Thine own ingratitude.