'Oh muffle round thy knees with fern, Long may thy topmost branch discern But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows, When last with throbbing heart I came 'Oh yes; she wandered round and round These knotted knees of mine, And found, and kissed the name she found, A tear-drop trembled from its source, My sense of touch is something coarse, Then flushed her cheek with rosy light; Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, Like those blind motions of the spring I, rooted here among the groves, My vapid vegetable loves With anthers and with dust; For ah! the Dryad days were brief When that which breathes within the leaf From spray, and branch, and stem, 'Oh flourish high with leafy towers, The poem of Saint Simeon Stylites is of another character, and portrays the spiritual pride of an ancient fanatic with a simple and savage grandeur of words and imagery which is rarely surpassed. It is too long for entire quotation, but the following extracts will show its beauty : Although I be the basest of mankind, Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn, and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayerHave mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God; In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold; Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. I am a sinner viler than you all. It may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maimed; but what of that! It may be no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine; but what of that? I think you know I have some power with Heaven God reaps a harvest in me. It cannot be but that I shall be saved, Yea, crowned a saint. They shout Behold a saint!' Oh, my sons, my sons! The watcher on the column till the end- * While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain One more extract, from the Lotos Eaters, will give Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, Still from one sorrow to another thrown. The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud Ripens, and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, All things have rest, and ripen towards the grave; Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, To hear each other's whispered speech; To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass. THOMAS B. MACAULAY. MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration & Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers the Edinburgh Review, gratified and surprised the public by a volume of poetry in 1842. He had previously, in his young collegiate days, thrown off a few spirited ballads (one of which, The War of the League, is here subjoined); and in all his prose works there are indications of strong poetical feeling and fancy. No man paints more clearly and vividly to the eye, or is more studious of the effects of contrast and the proper grouping of incidents. He is generally picturesque, eloquent, and impressive. His defects are a want of simplicity and tenderness, and an excessive love of what Izaak Walton called strong writing. The same characteristics pervade his recent work, The Lays of Ancient Rome. Adopting the theory of Niebuhr (now generally acquiesced in as correct), that the heroic and romantic incidents related by Livy of the early history of Rome, are founded merely on ancient ballads and legends, he selects four of these incidents as themes for his verse. Identifying himself with the plebeians and tribunes, he makes them chant the martial stories of Horatius Cocles, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys. The style is homely, abrupt, and energetic, carrying us along like the exciting narra tives of Scott, and presenting brief but striking pictures of local scenery and manners. The truth of these descriptions is strongly impressed upon the mind of the reader, who seems to witness the heroic scenes so clearly and energetically described. The masterly ballads of Mr Macaulay must be read continuously, to be properly appreciated; for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole.. The following are parts of the first Lay:— [The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.] Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves, The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path The harvests of Arretium, This year old men shall reap; This year the must shall foam [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] And for the tender mother Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the tribunes beard the high, As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. The Fate of the first Three who advance against the Heroes of Rome.] Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves And Picus, long to Clusium, Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. 'Lie there,' he cried, fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark [Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself] He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, The good sword stood a handbreath out And the great Lord of Luna On Astur's throat Horatius And thrice and four times tugged amain, 'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome, To taste our Roman cheer?' [The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.] Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river 'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. [How Horatius was Rewarded.] Could plough from morn till night: And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, When the oldest cask is opened, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, When the goodman mends his armour, How well Horatius kept the bridge The War of the League. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our lord the King.' 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody frayPress where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.' Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andrè's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now-upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a " MR BAYLY was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age. His most attractive lyrics turned on the distresses of the victims of the affections in elegant life; but his muse had also her airy and cheerful strain, and he composed a surprising number of light dramas, some of which show a likelihood of maintaining their ground on the stage. He was born in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but could not settle to so sober a profession, and ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife: Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate, Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffered for my sake, My fond affection thou hast seen, To think more happy thou hadst been And has that thought been shared by thee? Than laboured words could speak. How unlike some who have professed But ah! from them to thee I turn, They'd make me loathe mankind, Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, For one another's sake. This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His songs contain the pathos of a section of our social system; but they are more calculated to attract attention by their refined and happy diction, than to melt us by their feeling. Several of them, as 'She wore a wreath of roses,' 'Oh no, we never mention her,' and 'We met-'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extraordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, I'd be a butterfly' was the most felicitous: it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms exceeding even Horace in gaiety. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day: Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away. Dying when fair things are fading away! The same light-heartedness is expressed ir. a less familiarly known lyric. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, son of the great poet, published in 1833 a volume of Poems, not unworthy his high descent. There are few sonnets in the language more exquisite in thought or structure than the following:: What was't awakened first the untried ear |