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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.

TO H. W. L.,

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867.
I NEED not praise the sweetness of his song,

Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he

wrong The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along,

Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

With loving breath of all the winds his name

Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur a God bless you! and there ends.

As I muse backward up the checkered years

Wherein so much was given, so much was lost, Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears, But hush! this is not for profaner ears;

Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the

cost.

Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,

As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground;

Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door, Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound.

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with

sun,

So through his trial faith translucent rayed
Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed

A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Surely if skill in song the shears may stay

And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, He shall not go, although his presence may,

And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet

As gracious natures find his song to be; May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet Falling in music, as for him were meet

Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

VERSES BY HENRY MARTEN,

THE REGICIDE.

[Confined in prison by Charles II., where he died in 1681, after thirty years' imprisonment. The initial letters of the lines form an acrostic.]

HERE or elsewhere (all's one to you to me !) Earth, air, or water gripes my ghostless dust, None knowing when brave fire shall set it free. Reader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust, You'll gladly do and suffer what you must.

My life was worn with serving you and you,
And death is my reward, and welcome, too;
Revenge destroying but itself; while I
To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly.
Examples preach to the eye,—care, then, mine
Not how you end but how you spend your days.

says

HENRY MARTEN.

INSCRIPTION FOR MARTEN'S PRISON

ROOM.

[The immolation of this republican judge was celebrated in the following lines by the youthful Southey during his short experience as a democratic regenerator. In their original publication they were called: "Inscription for the Apartment in Cheapstone Castle where Henry Marten the Regicide was imprisoned thirty Years." After Southey became Poet Laureate he endeavored to suppress the poem, but unsuccessfully.]

FOR thirty years secluded from mankind,
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls
He paced around his prison: not to him

Did nature's fair varieties exist :
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars it poured a sad
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebelled against the king, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams, but such
As Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal,
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes ! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

INSCRIPTION FOR BROWNRIGG'S CELL.

A PARODY.

(Canning, who was retained by the other side, parodied Southey's honest lines in the "Anti-Jacobin," November 20, 1797, by the fol. lowing verses, entitled : Inscription for the Door of the Cell in Nougate where Mrs. Brownrigg the 'Prentice-cide was confined previous to her Execution.")

For one long term, or ere her trial came,
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ?
She whipped two female 'prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage

schemes !
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans ; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! but time

shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed.

And streams their diamond mirrors hold

To summer's face returning,
To say we're thankful that his sleep

Shall nevermore be lighter,
In whose sweet-tongued companionship

Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! But all the more intensely true

His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love, — each hue

And grace of golden nature, The deeper still beneath it all

Lurked the keen jags of anguish; The more the laurels clasped his brow

Their poison made it languish.
Seemed it that, like the nightingale

Of his own mournful singing,
The tenderer would his song prevail

While most the thorn was stinging.
So never to the desert-worn

Did fount bring freshness deeper Than that his placid rest this morn

Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
That rest may lap his weary head

Where charnels choke the city,
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed

The wren shall wake its ditty ;
But near or far, while evening's star

Is dear to hearts regretting, Around that spot admiring thought

Shall hover, unforgetting.

GEORGE CANNING.

SMOLLETT.

BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS.

BURNS.

ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.

WHENCE could arise the mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend ?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at this name,
And hailed the honors of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound ;
From Livy's temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thy own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read the Regicide but sware
The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before ?
Others for plots and underplots may call,
Here's the right method, — have no plot at all!

JOHN CHURCHILL.

No more these simple flowers belong

To Scottish maid and lover; Sown in the common soil of song,

They bloom the wide world over.
In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,

The minstrel and the heather,
The deathless singer and the flowers

He sang of live together.
Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns !

The moorlan flower and peasant ! How, at their mention, memory turns

Her pages old and pleasant ! The gray sky wears again its gold

And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold

The dews of boyhood's morning. The dews that washed the dust and soil

From off the wings of pleasure,

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.

Take back into thy bosom, earth,

This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever mirth

Gave to be reared by sorrow ! 'T is hard while rays half green, half gold,

Through vernal bowers are burning,

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It died upon the eye and ear,

No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear

The discord and the staining.

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Let those who never erred forget

His worth, in vain be wailings ; Sweet Soul of Song !- I own my debt

Uncancelled by his failings !

Lament who will the ribald line

Which tells his lapse from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine,

Or wanton ones of beauty ; But think, while falls that shade between

The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen,

Like her may be forgiven.

I watched him while in sportive mood

I read “ The Twa Dogs'" story, And half believed he understood

The poet's allegory.
Sweet day, sweet songs !— The golden hours

Grew brighter for that singing,
From brook and bird and meadow flowers

A dearer welcome bringing.
New light on home-seen Nature beamed,

New glory over Woman ;
And daily life and duty seemed

No longer poor and common.
I woke to find the simple truth

Of fact and feeling better
Than all the dreams that held my youth

A still repining debtor :
That Nature gives her handmaid, Art,

The themes of sweet discoursing;
The tender idyls of the heart

In every tongue rehearsing.
Why dream of lands of gold and pearl,

Of loving knight and lady,
When farmer boy and barefoot girl

Were wandering there already?
I saw through all familiar things

The romance underlying ;
The joys and griefs that plume the wings

Of Fancy skyward flying.
I saw the same blithe day return,

The same sweet fall of even,
That rose on wooded Craigie-burn,

And sank on crystal Devon.

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ROBERT BURNS.

BURNS.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

What bird in beauty, flight, or song

Can with the bard compare, Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong

As ever child of air ?

His plume, his note, his form, could Burns

For whim or pleasure change ; He was not one, but all by turns,

With transmigration strange :

The blackbird, oracle of spring,

When flowed his moral lay ; The swallow, wheeling on the wing,

Capriciously at play;

STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,

The poet of the poor.
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,

The meadow and the moor;
His teachers were the torn heart's wail,

The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace, and the grave ! Sin met thy brother everywhere !

And is thy brother blamed ?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care

He no exemption claimed.
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

He feared to scorn or hate ;
Bnt, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great, He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes

The poor man's little more ; Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes

From plundered labor's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare,
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man

Who drew them as they are.

The humming bird from bloom to bloom

Inhaling heavenly balm ;
The raven, in the tempest's gloom ;

The halcyon, in the calm ;

In “auld Kirk Alloway," the owl,

At witching time of night ; By “Bonny Doon,” the earliest fowl

That carolled to the light.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

He was the wren amidst the grove,

When in his homely vein ; At Bannockburn the bird of Jove,

With thunder in his train ;

BURNS.

The wood-lark, in his mournful hours ;

The goldfinch, in his mirth ; The thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,

Enrapturing heaven and earth;

The swan, in majesty and grace,

Contemplative and still ; But, roused, - no falcon in the chase

Could like his satire kill.

REAR high thy bleak majestic hills,

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah ! what poet now shall tread

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,

That ever breathed the soothing strain ? As green thy towering pines may grow,

As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow,

As gayly charm thy feathery throng; But now unheeded is the song,

And dull and lifeless all around, For his wild harp lies all unstrung,

And cold the hand that waked its sound.

The linnet in simplicity,

In tenderness the dove ; But more than all beside was he

The nightingale in love.

0, had he never stooped to shame,

Nor lent a charm to vice, How had devotion loved to name

That bird of paradise !

What though thy vigorous offspring rise,

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes,

And health in every feature dwell ; Yet who shall now their praises tell

In strains impassioned, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell

To love and liberty and thee !

Peace to the dead !- In Scotia's choir

Of minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The phenix of them all.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

WILLIAM ROSCOE

BURNS.

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That heaven's beloved die early,

Prophetic Pity mourns ;
But old as Truth, although in youth,

Died giant-hearted Burns.
O that I were the daisy

That sank beneath his plough! Or, “neighbor meet," that “skylark sweet !”

Say, are they nothing now? That mouse,

our fellow mortal," Lives deep in Nature's heart ; Like earth and sky, it cannot die

Till earth and sky depart.
Thy Burns, child-honored Scotland !

Is many minds in one ;
With thought on thought the name is fraught

Of glory's peasant son.
Thy Chaucer is thy Milton,

And might have been thy Tell ;
As Hampden fought, thy Sidney wrote,

And would have fought as well.
Be proud, man-childed Scotland !

Of earth's unpolished gem ; And “Bonny Doon,” and “heaven aboon,"

For Burns hath hallowed them. Be proud, though sin-dishonored

And grief-baptized thy child ; As rivers run, in shade and sun,

He ran his courses wild.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,

A hate of tyrant and of knave,
A love of right, a scorn of wrong,

Of coward and of slave;
A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye

And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven,

Like flower-seeds by the far winds sowni, Where'er beneath the sky of heaven

The birds of fame have flown.

Grieve not though savage forests

Looked grimly on the wave, Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers

Seemed living in the grave.
Grieve not, though by the torrent

Its headlong course was riven,
When o'er it came, in clouds and flame,

Niagara from heaven !

Praise to the man! a nation stood

Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good, -

As when a loved one dies.
And still, as on his funeral day,

Men stand his cold earth-couch around,
With the mute homage that we pay

To consecrated ground.
And consecrated ground it is, -

The last, the hallowed home of one
Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.

FITZ-GREENE HALA

For sometimes gently flowing,

And sometimes chafed to foam, O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep,

He sought his heavenly home.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

BYRON. FROM "THE COURSE OF TIML" Take one example to our purpose quite. A man of rank, and of capacious soul, Who riches had, and fame, beyond desire, An heir of flattery, to titles born, And reputation, and luxurious life : Yet, not content with ancestorial name, Or to be known because his fathers were, He on this height hereditary stood, And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart

BURNS.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,

Or the smile light the cheek ;

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