Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home- [Baring his bosom. Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon

Strike home. I will not fight thee.

Now s'Death and Hell!

POLITIAN.
Am I not-am I not sorely-grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, Sir,
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before

The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee

Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee

Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,-I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear with cowardice-thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest thou shalt !

CASTIGLIONE.

Now this indeed is just !

Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

[Exit.

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.

Private reasons-some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems-have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbatim — without alteration from the original edition-the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged.

E. A. P.

As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill-
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That, like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty-all the flowers

That list our Love, and deck our bowers-
Adorn yon world afar, afar—

The wandering star.

'Twas a sweet time for Nesace-for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest-
An oasis in desert of the blest.

Away-away-'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendour o'er th' unchained soul—
The soul that scares (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destined eminence-
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favoured one of God-
But, now, the ruler of an anchored realm,
She throws aside the sceptre-leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,