They hung a medal round his neck,
And closed his dauntless eye;

On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third
Taught him the way to die !"

'Tis forty years from then till now—
The grave gapes at my feet-
Yet when I think of such a boy
I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry,

And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

(By permission of the Author.)

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[William Blake, painter, author, and engraver, was born in 1759, and died in 1827. He was a most original genius, though eccentric both as an artist and an author. "Living in the humblest manner, with little money, plain food, and shabby clothes," says his biographer, “his fame has been restricted to a few enthusiastic admirers; yet poor as he was, he was not unvisited by men of rank and genius. He ennobled poverty, and, by his conversation and by the influence of his genius, made two small rooms in Fountain Court more attractive than the threshold of princes." To the congenial such was Blake, and to a few whose genius or position made them independent. But to the middle class of artists who painted portraits of a gentleman, he was less than nobody. There is an anecdote of one of these, who had been near him in society a few evenings before, meeting him near his own door with a little jug of porter in his hand. Frugal and abstemious, he did not, in youth, indulge in this or any other similar luxury; but in his later years he thought that a pint of this stuff did him good, and, as he had nobody to send for it, he had to pay the penalty of carrying it himself. The popular painter was about to shake hands, but seeing the porter, drew up, and did not know him. Blake would tell the story very quietly and without sarcasm. Blake's principal works are "Europe, a Prophecy," “ America, a Prophecy," and "Songs of Experience." His engravings are very numerous and are well known; his poems, for the most part very beautiful, are scarcely known at all, but we cannot help

thinking that a "people's edition" would introduce them to a wide and appreciative audience. There is, published a few years ago by Messrs. Macmillan, a "Life of Blake," by the late Alexander Gilchrist; it is a most charming piece of biography; all artists would find their advantage in perusing it, while for lovers of art, we know not a more delightful or attractive book.]

An analysis of the following poem will meaning clearer to the reader or student. the pen of Mr. D. G. Rosett, who wrote duction to Blake's Life and Works."

render its

It is from the intro

Never," he says, "perhaps, have the agony and perversity of sundered affections been more powerfully (however singularly) expressed than in the piece called Broken Love. The speaker is one whose whole soul has been intensified by pain to be his only world, among the scenes, figures, and events of which he moves as in a new state of being. The emotions have been quickened and isolated by conflicting torments, till each is a separate companion. There is a 'spectre,' the jealous pride which scents in the snow the footsteps of the beloved rejected woman, but is a wild beast to guard his way from reaching her; his emanation' which silently weeps within him, for has he not sinned? So they wander together in a 'fathomless and boundless deep,' the morn full of tempests and the night of fears. Let her weep, he says, not for his sins only, but for her own; nay, he will cast his sins upon her shoulders, too; they shall be more and more till she comes to him again. Also this woe of his can array itself in stately imagery. He can count separately how many of his soul's affections the knife she stabbed it with had slain; how many yet mourn over the tombs which he had built for these; he can tell, too, of some that will watch around his bed, bright sometimes with ecstatic passion of melancholy, and crowning his mournful head with vine. All these living forgive her transgressions: when will she look upon them that the dead may live again? Has she not pity to give for pardon? Nay, does he not need her pardon, too? He cannot seek her; but, oh! if she would return! Surely her place is ready for her, and bread and wine of forgiveness of sin."

My spectre round me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My emanation far within

Weeps incessantly for my sin.

A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;

On the hungry craving wind
My spectre follows thee behind.

He scents thy footsteps in the snow,
Wheresoever thou dost go;

Through the wintry hail and rain,
When wilt thou return again?

Poor, pale, pitiable form,
That I follow in a storm;
From sin I never shall be free,
Till thou forgive and come to me.

A deep winter, dark and cold,
Within my heart thou dost unfold;
Iron tears, and groans of lead,
Thou bind'st around my aching head.

Dost thou not, in pride and scorn,
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears?

And fill my pleasant nights with tears?

O'er sins thou dost sit and moan; my

Hast thou no sins of thine own?

O'er my sins thou dost sit and weep,
And lull thine own sins fast asleep.

Thy weeping, then, shall ne'er give o'er;
I sin against thee more and more,
And never will from sin be free
Till thou forgive and come to me.

What transgressions I commit,
Are for thy transgressions fit;
They thy harlots, thou their slave,
And my bed becomes their grave.

Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Hath bereaved of their life;

Their marble tombs I built with tears,

And with cold and shadowy fears.

Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay;
And seven more loves attend at night
Around my couch with torches bright.

And seven more loves are in my bed;
Crown with vine my mournful head;
Pitying and forgiving all,
Thy transgressions, great and small.

When wilt thou return and view
My loves, and them in life renew?
When wilt thou return and live?
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?
Throughout all Eternity

I forgive you, you forgive me,
As our dear Redeemer said,
"This the wine, and this the bread."



["Near this hamlet (Acol) is a long-disused chalk-pit of formidable depth, known by the name of 'The Smuggler's Leap.' The tradition of the parish runs, that a riding-officer from Sandwich, called Anthony Gill, lost his life here in the early part of the present (last) century, while in pursuit of a smuggler. A fog coming on, both parties went over the precipice. The smuggler's horse only, it is said, was found crushed beneath its rider. The spot has, of course, been haunted ever since."-Sce "Supplement to Lewis's History of Thanet by the Rev. Samuel Pegge, A.M., Vicar of Gomersham." W. Bristow, Canterbury, 1795, p. 127.]

THE fire-flash shines from Reculver cliff,
And the answering light burns blue in the skiff,
And there they stand
That smuggling band,

Some in the water and some on the sand,
Ready those contraband goods to land;
The night is dark, they are silent and still,
-At the head of the party is Smuggler Bill!

"Now lower away! come, lower away!

We must be far ere the dawn of the day.

If Exciseman Gill should get scent of the prey, And should come, and should catch us here, what would he say?

Come, lower away, lads-once on the hill,

We'll laugh, ho! ho! at Exciseman Gill!"

The cargo's lower'd from the dark skiff's side,
And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide,
No trick nor flam,

But your real Schiedam.

"Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!"
Three on the crupper and one before,
And the led-horse laden with five tubs more;
But the rich point-lace,

In the oil-skin case

Of proof to guard its contents from ill,

The "prime of the swag," is with Smuggler Bill!

Merrily now in a goodly row,

Away and away those smugglers go,

And they laugh at Exciseman Gill, ho! ho!
When out from the turn

Of the road to Herne,

Comes Gill, wide awake to the whole concern!
Exciseman Gill, in all his pride,

With his Custom-house officers all at his side!
-They were called Custom-house officers then;
There were no such things as "Preventive men!"
Sauve qui peut!

That lawless crew,

Away, and away, and away they flew !

Some dropping one tub, some dropping two;-
Some gallop this way, and some gallop that,
Through Fordwich Level-o'er Sandwich Flat,
Some fly that way, and some fly this,

Like a covey of birds when the sportsmen miss,
These in their hurry

Make for Sturry,

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