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He either fears his fate too much,
That puts it not unto the touch
But I must rule and govern still,
Thou shunn'st the prize to bore,
Or in the empire of thy heart,
But if thou wilt be constant then,
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
A marble wall, then, build about,
But, if thou let thy heart fly out,
I'll never love thee more.
Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,
Nor smoothness of their langnage plot
I think thy virtues be too strong
Which victuall'd by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
But if by fraud or by consent
Nor march by beat of drum;
Thy falsehood to deplore,
I'll do with thee as Nero did
But to a hill retire;
And scorn to shed a tear to see
Yet for the love I bare thee once,
May pity and deplore
My case, and read the reason why
The golden laws of love shall be
A simple heart, a single eye
A true and constant tongue.
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,
That ever I found thy love so light,
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;
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."
POETRY THAT POETS LOVE.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR-LEIGH HUNT-PERCY BYSSHE
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.
THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE.
Who will away to Athens with me? Who
I promise ye, as many as are here,
Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
What white sail
The sea smiles bright before us.
Art thou the man? 'Twas Hippias. He had found
"Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love,