188 "my native village." 



anxiety on the score of " such stuff as dreams are 

 made of," while his thoughts were devoted to medita- 

 tion on a future world — while he felt conscious that he 

 was hastening to that " bourne from which no traveller 

 may return." 



" My Native ViUage" is the first poem in the vol- 

 ume, and though it is apparently but a small part of 

 some larger design which was not carried into effect, 

 owing to the protracted illness of the author ; it never- 

 theless contains some of the most feeling and most 

 finished passages which he ever penned ; yet the ela- 

 boration is so judiciously managed that it does not 

 "smell of the oil:" it carries with it a character of 

 ease and facility, that will render it free from any 

 such judgments as have been passed on Campbell's 

 " Gertrude of Wyoming," beautiful as it is. 



" My Native village" differs from Carrington's two 

 former works, inasmuch as it involves mucn delinea- 

 tion of human feeling, and is written in heroic rhyme : 

 the plan is so slight as hardly to admit of analysis : 

 suffice it to say that the scene is opened to us in a 

 country church-yard, on a beautiful summer evening, 

 where the poet — ^in alluding to the silent records of 

 the dead — points out the tomb of the child, and takes 

 occasion to narrate his illness and death, after which 

 he draws an affecting picture of the " Village Bard," 

 in contemplating which we cannot but perceive that he 



" In another's fate then wept his own." 

 Recurring again to the church, the association of ideas 

 which throng upon his mind, while considering its in- 

 terior, carries him back to his boyhood, this presents 

 the source of another pleasing scene; the village 

 pastor and his dwelling place are subsequently descri- 

 bed, and the poem is concluded with a beautiful apos- 

 trophe to " Home." 



There is a melancholy satisfaction felt in lingering 

 near the resting place of the beloved dead, particularly 

 if the spot be at a distance from the turmoil of a 

 crowded city ; where no curious eye can disturb the 

 meditations of the mourner, and where no voice breaks 



