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L, Lord Lytton, Blackwood's Magazine, . . 67
IL The Parisians. By Lord Lvtton, author of "The Last Days of Pompeii," "My Novel,"
"The Caxtons, etc, etc Part III., . . Blackwood's Magazine, . . 84 lit. The First Arctic Expedition To The
North-west Contemporary Review, . . 100
IV. The Prescotts Of Pamphillon. By the
author of "Dorothy Fox," .... Good Words 114
V. Francis LlEBER. Translated from . . The Revue de Droit International, 125
Fellow-sufferers, . . . 661 Watching By Night, ... 66
Gleanings From Augustine, . .128
Gleanings From Augustine, . . 128 | Horse Nails By Machinery, . . 128
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Alas, poor tree,
Had I thy bravery, Or couldst thou weep in concert to my sighing!
Snow-hid, thy leaves lie dead;
I wail, but thou dost spread Bare arms of benediction o'er the dying.
Thou their first stay, and last — from bud to leaf;
And this thy thanks, poor tree, That they all fell from thee, Like summer friends when summer days are over:
That thou dost stand alone, With all thy greenness gone, For winds to rock, and winter Snows to cover.
Lightly the zephyr came, as lightly hied;
But these, when first he wooed,
Forsook their real good, Knowing thec faithful and the wind untried.
Reproach them, they will hear,
Their graves are very near —
Ah, not reproach, but rather dirge and prayer!
Alas, poor tree!
"Si jeunesse savait!"
I Tlunge my hand among the leaves : —
Nought else supposes; —
When they were roses.
"If youth but knew!" Ah, " if " in truth — I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus,
All life before us;
Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Vogue la galire I What need for cares!
And dahlia closes,
Then plucked these roses.
Louise was one — light, mad Louise,
Of school decorum;
Our censor morum: —
Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
When Dash was smitten;
You teased her kitten.
I loved them all. Bell first and best;
Or madcap masking;
She'd come for asking.
Louise was grave when last we met;
And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Can now distress her.
WATCHING BY NIGHT.
Watching by night, O Sleep, I picture thee, Now as a bridge that links two neighbouring lands,
One worn and barren as the sea's bare sands,
All cares that follow, and all joys that flee.
I see thee leading to each loved one's side
Thus, while the darkness and the night abide, Be thou love's gujde, and guide me to my "Sweet,"
From Blackwood's Magazine. LORD LYTTON.
This has been a mournful winter, full of the sombre excitement of public loss — an excitement which, though very different from the penetrating anguish of personal bereavement, affects us with an abstract sadness almost more heavy. Those symptoms of the ending of a generation — those breakings-up of dynasties, of sovereignties more extended than any royal house possesses — those periodical hearings of the volcano of time, in which so much is carried away from us — do they not impress us almost more strongly, though more vaguely, than individual loss? Another wave has beaten upon the eternal shore, strewing the beach with mournful relics,— and another is coming, and another,— that which carries ourselves, perhaps, the next; and so the long cadence goes on for ever. We who were the children a little while ago, are now the fathers and the mothers, honoured, respected, smiled at, made allowance for, as is the lot of the older generation; and by-and-by a great hush will come, and standing over us, as we now stand over our predecessors, calm voices will record what we have done. How different is that record with the oldest, with the loftiest, to-day while life lasts, tomorrow when it is over! No uncertainty now is in the tone, no fear to offend, no delicacy lest some chance touch should cause a wound, no flattery to win a smile. In one day, in one hour, criticism changes into history — the career rounds off before our eyes, a perfect thing, to be judged now as a whole, never before but in parts. It is past; it is ended; it is perfect. This is the first rule of the mournful yet splendid grammar of life.
And with few lives is this so emphatically the case as with that of the great writer whom, a few days ago, we laid with his peers, in sorrow and in honour, under the noble arches of Westminster; the highest and last acknowledgment which England can give to a completed fame. During the very last years of his life he was making new reputations carelessly, as a child makes garlands, not even taking the trouble to put upon his head the wreaths
I so lightly, so easily woven. None of us could have predicted, even then, what further development his mind might take, or whether it was reserved for the Bulwer of our youth to become not only the accomplished and wise historian of the splendour of mature manhood, but the expositor of a new romance of Age, soft with all the silvery lights of the long-extended evening, the mixture of earthly wisdom and visionary insight which belongs to Genius grown old. This possibility is now, however, ended. - He who won so many laurels will win no more: there is no new chapter to be added to the record which we know so well; unless, indeed, it be written in the last work, which will be given to the public almost as soon as this page—and in which the last thoughts of the man who has taught us and charmed us for nearly half a century, will be read with a certain sentiment of affectionate sadness too warm to admit, for the moment, of anything like criticism.
Nearly half a century!—for the preface of the young Bulwer's first work is dated 1828; and during the whole of that long period his mind has more or less been in constant communication with the mind of his country. He has in this very fact a curious advantage which few writers share with him. His great contemporaries, Dickens and Thackeray, altogether lacked the thread of sympathy, of common growth and development, with his audience, which so long a career naturally produced. Dickens did not develop— his first works are his best — there is no fulness of youth in them, and no ripening of maturity in those that followed. Thackeray, on the other hand, was scarcely known as a writer until his mind was fully matured: no young man could have written " Vanity Fair." But Bulwer, who was the magician of our youth, grew with us as we grew, gained maturity as we gained it, and has had a longer and closer influence upon us, a spiritual intimacy more complete and extended, than almost any other mind of the age. People who have been young will remember with tender delight and gratitude those pages (alas! so much less