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He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert's too small,

That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shunn'st the prize to bore,
Or that thou sett'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

Or in the empire of thy heart,
Where I would solely be,
Another do pretend a part,
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,
And goest on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before,

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee evermore.

Could it be in woman to resist such promises from

such a man?


My dear and only love, take heed

Lest thou thyself expose,

And let all longing lovers feed
Upon such looks as those ;

A marble wall, then, build about,
Beset, without a door,

But, if thou let thy heart fly out,

I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,
Make any breach at all,

Nor smoothness of their langnage plot
Which way to scale the wall;
Nor balls of wildfire love consume
The shrine which I adore,
For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise,

Which victuall'd by my love so long,

The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee ruled in that health
And state thou wast before;
But if thou turn a Commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

But if by fraud or by consent
Thy heart to ruin come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,

Nor march by beat of drum;
But hold my arms like ensigns up,

Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire;

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor,
And smiling sing, until I die,-
I'll never love thee more.

Yet for the love I bare thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,
A monument of marble stone
The truth shall testify,
That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why
I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung,

A simple heart, a single eye

A true and constant tongue.
Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end,
Love one, and love no more.


My heart shall with the sun be fix'd

In constancy most strange;

And thine shall with the moon be mix'd,

Delighting still in change.

Thy beauty shined at first most bright,
And woe is me therefore!

That ever I found thy love so light,
I could love thee no more.

Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with the point of a diamond upon the glass window of his prison, after receiving his sentence.

Let them bestow on every airth a limb;
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboil'd head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes; strew them in the air :-

Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,

I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust,

And confident Thou'lt raise me with the Just.

They who would follow the great Marquis to the last should read the fine ballad called "The Execution of Montrose," in Professor Aytoun's charming volume "The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers."





To no one can the words that I have placed at the head of this paper apply more perfectly than to Mr. Landor. No poetry was ever dearer to poets than his. Nearly fifty years ago, we find Southey writing of and to the author of "Gebir," with a respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man for another; and, from that hour to the present, all whom he would himself most wish to please have showered upon him praises that cannot die. The difficulty in selecting from his works is the abundance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming volume, because few, very few, have given such present life to classical subjects. I begin with the Preface, so full of grace and modesty.

"It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gentlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily promenade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated on an old wall, high up and sadly weak in colouring. As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there

should be one) will remember that Sculpture and Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the scenes and figures which we venture once more to introduce in poetry, it being our belief that what is becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbecoming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth to them."

And now comes the very first story; with its conclusion that goes straight to the heart.


Who will away to Athens with me? Who
Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers
Unenvious? Mount the pinnace; hoist the sail.

I promise ye, as many as are here,

Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard, or a plant ill-pruned.
But such as anciently the Ægean isles
Poured in libation at their solemn feasts;
And the same goblets shall ye grasp, embost
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have lived with and have led.

What white sail
Like two hawks

The sea smiles bright before us.
Plays yonder? What pursues it?
Away they fly. Let us away in time
To overtake them. Are they menaces
We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak,
Enraged at her defender? Hippias!

Art thou the man? 'Twas Hippias. He had found
His sister borne from the Cecropion port
By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly?
Ask, ask the maiden; I have no reply.

"Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love,
If pity ever touched thy breast, forbear!
Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved,

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