O miserable chieftain

where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou

Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow :
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind

So he pleads excuses eager, clutching, with his fingers meagre, at the bedclothes as he speaks;

But King Death sits grimly grinning at the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning, as each cob

web-cable breaks.

A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE.

"I WONDER if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,"

Said a punster, perusing a trial:

Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry

Vaux,

He's been Vaux et præterea nihil!”

ANONYMOUS.

We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and

higher,

Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore,
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

MACAULAY.

THE dreamy rhymer's measured snore

Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work

When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns;
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

SONNETS TO GEORGE SAND.

A DESIRE.

THOU large-brained woman and large-hearted

man,

Self-called George Sand! whose soul amid the lions

Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance,
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can,
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance

Of thine own nobler nature's strength and sci

ence,

Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! that thou to woman's claim,
And man's, might join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame;
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace,
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

A RECOGNITION.

TRUE genius, but true woman! dost deny Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn, And break away the gauds and armlets worn By weaker women in captivity?

HEINE'S GRAVE.

"HENRI HEINE" 't is here!

The black tombstone, the name

Carved there no more! and the smooth
Swarded alleys, the limes
Touched with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still
In September's bright afternoon
Shadow and verdure and cool!
Trim Montmartre ! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside;
Crisp everlasting-flowers,
Yellow and black on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets'
Uproar, surely not loath
Wast thou, Heine, to lie
Quiet! to ask for closed
Shutters, and darkened room,
And cool drinks, and an eased
Posture, and opium, no more!
Hither to come, and to sleep
Under the wings of Renown.

Ah not little, when pain
Is most quelling, and man
Easily quelled, and the fine
Temper of genius alive
Quickest to ill, is the praise
Not to have yielded to pain!
No small boast for a weak
Son of mankind, to the earth
Pinned by the thunder, to rear
His bolt-scathed front to the stars,
And, undaunted, retort

'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,
Tyrannous tempests of bale,
Arrowy lightnings of soul!

Hark! through the alley resounds
Mocking laughter! A film
Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze
Ruffles the warm afternoon,

How without charm wilt thou draw,
Poet, the world to thy way?
Not by the lightnings of wit,
Not by the thunder of scorn!

These to the world, too, are given;
Wit it possesses, and scorn,
Charm is the poet's alone.
Hollow and dull are the great,

And artists envious, and the mob profane.
We know all this, we know !
Cam'st thou from heaven, O child
Of light! but this to declare?
Alas! to help us forget
Such barren knowledge awhile,
God gave the poet his song.
Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold !
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor's heart
Broke on the field of his fame.

Ah! as of old from the pomp

Of Italian Milan, the fair
Flower of marble of white
Southern palaces, — steps

Bordered by statues, and walks
Terraced, and orange bowers
Heavy with fragrance, the blond
German Kaiser full oft

Longed himself back to the fields,
Rivers, and high-roofed towns
Of his native Germany; so,
So, how often! from hot

Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps
Blazing, and brilliant crowds,
Starred and jewelled, of men
Famous, of women the queens

Of dazzling converse, and fumes

Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brair
That mount, that madden ! - how oft
Heine's spirit, outworn,

Longed itself out of the din

Back to the tranquil, the cool,
Far German home of his youth!
See in the May afternoon,
O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz,
A youth, with the foot of youth,
Heine thou climbest again.
Up, through the tall dark firs
Warming their heads in the sun,
Checkering the grass with their shade,
Up, by the stream with its huge
Moss-hung bowlders and thin
Musical water half-hid,

Up o'er the rock-strewn slope,
With the sinking sun, and the air
Chill, and the shadows now
Long on the gray hillside,
To the stone-roofed hut at the top.

Or, yet later, in watch

On the roof of the Brocken tower
Thou standest, gazing to see
The broad red sun, over field,
Forest and city and spire

And mist-tracked stream of the wide,
Wide German land, going down
In a bank of vapors, - again
Standest at nightfall, alone;
Or, next morning, with limbs
Rested by slumber, and heart
Freshened and light with the May,
O'er the gracious spurs coming down
Of the lower Hartz, among oaks,
And beechen coverts, and copse
Of hazels green in whose depth
Ilse, the fairy transformed,

¦ In a thousand water-breaks light

Hail, as it passes from earth,

Scattering lightnings, that soul !

The spirit of the world,

Beholding the absurdity of men,

Their vaunts, their feats, let a sardonic smile
For one short moment wander o'er his lips.
That smile was Heine! for its earthly hour
The strange guest sparkled; now 't is passed away.

That was Heine! and we,

Myriads who live, who have lived,
What are we all, but a mood,

A single mood, of the life

Of the Being in whom we exist,
Who alone is all things in one.
Spirit, who fillest us all!
Spirit, who utterest in each
New-coming son of mankind
Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!
O thou, one of whose moods,
Bitter and strange, was the life
Of Heine, his strange, alas !
His bitter life, - may a life
Other and milder be mine!
Mayst thou a mood more serene,
Happier, have uttered in mine!
Mayst thou the rapture of peace
Deep have embreathed at its core !
Made it a ray of thy thought,
Made it a beat of thy joy!

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

A WELCOME TO "BOZ."

ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO THE WEST

COME as artist, come as guest, Welcome to the expectant West, Hero of the charmed pen, Loved of children, loved of men. We have felt thy spell for years; Oft with laughter, oft with tears, Thou hast touched the tenderest part Of our inmost, hidden heart. We have fixed our eager gaze On thy pages nights and days,

Wishing, as we turned them o'er,
Like poor Oliver, for "more,"
And the creatures of thy brain
In our memory remain,

Till through them we seem to be
Old acquaintances of thee.
Much we hold it thee to greet,
Gladly sit we at thy feet;
On thy features we would look,
As upon a living book,

And thy voice would grateful hear,
Glad to feel that Boz were near,

That his veritable soul

Held us by direct control :

Therefore, author loved the best.
Welcome, welcome to the West.

In immortal Weller's name,
By the rare Micawber's fame,
By the flogging wreaked on Squeers.
By Job Trotter's fluent tears,
By the beadle Bumble's fate
At the hands of shrewish mate,
By the famous Pickwick Club,
By the dream of Gabriel Grubb,
In the name of Snodgrass' muse,
Tupman's amorous interviews,
Winkle's ludicrous mishaps,
And the fat boy's countless naps;
By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer,
In the name of Newman Noggs,
River Thames, and London fogs,
Richard Swiveller's excess,
Feasting with the Marchioness,
By Jack Bunsby's oracles,
By the chime of Christmas bells,
By the cricket on the hearth,
By the sound of childish mirth,
By spread tables and good cheer.
Wayside inns and pots of beer,
Hostess plump and jolly host,
Coaches for the turnpike post,
Chambermaid in love with Boots,
Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots,
Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick,
Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick,
Shevellicci, Lily vick,
Mantalini's predilections
To transfer his warm affections,
By poor Barnaby and Grip,
Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip,
Peerybingle, Pinch, and Pip,
Welcome, long-expected guest,
Welcome to the grateful West.

In the name of gentle Nell,
Child of light, belovèd well, -

By the sounding waves that bore
Little Paul to Heaven's shore,
By thy yearning for the human
Good in every man and woman,
By each noble deed and word
That thy story-books record,
And each noble sentiment
Dickens to the world hath lent,
By the effort thou hast made
Truth and true reform to aid,
By thy hope of man's relief
Finally from want and grief,
By thy never-failing trust
That the God of love is just,
We would meet and welcome thee,
Preacher of humanity:
Welcome fills the throbbing breast
Of the sympathetic West.