My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price: A dozen times I groaned; the dead And now from forth the frowning sky, I took the dreary body up, Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, And peace went with them one and all, That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red! All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, One stern, tyrannic thought, that made Heavily I rose up-as soon Merrily rose the lark, and shook I never heard it sing: il POETS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man! And all that day I read in school, But my thought was other where! As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, Then down I cast me on my face, For I knew my secret then was one So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream And my red right hand grows raging hot, And still no peace for the restless clay The horrid thing pursues my soul It stands before me now!' The fearful boy looked up, and saw That very night, while gentle sleep Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, ALFRED TENNYSON. ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published two volumes of poetry in 1830 and 1832. They contain various pieces, domestic and romantic -some imaginative and richly-coloured-the diction being choice and fine, but occasionally injured by affected expressions. Among our secondary living poets, there is no one of whom higher expectations may be formed than Mr Tennyson; for, with his luxuriant fancy and musical versification, he is often highly original in his thoughts and conceptions. He reminds us at times of Leigh Hunt, but his spirit is more searching, as well as expansive. Mr Tennyson has perhaps more to unlearn than to learn in the art of poetry, and it may be hoped that he will shake off his conceits, and take a bolder flight than he has yet attempted. Love and Death. What time the mighty moon was gathering light, And talking to himself, first met his sight: 'You must be gone,' said Death, 'these walks are mine.' Love wept, and spread his sheeny vans for flight; Yet ere he parted, said, 'This hour is thine: Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fallBut I shall reign for ever over all.' The Sleeping Palace. The varying year with blade and sheaf Soft lustre bathes the range of urns Roof-haunting martens warm their eggs: More like a picture seemeth all Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, All round a hedge upshoots, and shows When will the hundred summers die, 467 The Sleeping Beauty. Year after year unto her feet, The maiden's jet black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward rolled, Glows forth each softly shadowed arm With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmëd heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. [From the 'Palace of Art.'] Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters, That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, . And never can be sundered without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. [From the 'Miller's Daughter.'] Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Look through my very soul with thine! Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part With farther lookings on. The kiss, The comfort I have found in thee: THOMAS B. MACAULAY. MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration of Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers in 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 narratives 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 Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, This year old men shall reap; This year the must shall foam [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] Then out spake brave Horatius, And for the tender mother 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, Wherefore men fight not as they fought [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 Sicken in Ilva's mines; 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 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, Herminius smote down Aruns: 'Lie there,' he cried, 'fell pirate! [Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself.] And the great Lord of Luna [The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.J Alone stood brave Horatius, Round turned he, as not deigning The white porch of his home; Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber! [How Horatius was Rewarded.] They gave him of the corn-land, And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them And wives still pray to Juno And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armour, How well Horatius kept the bridge The War of the League. 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; guiding star, And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. ין ار |