Still I hear it "Twixt my spirit

And the earth-noise intervene— "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!" But the priest waits for the praying, And the choir are on their knees; And the soul should pass away in Strains more solemn-pure than these. "Miserere"

For the weary!

Now no longer for Catrine,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"
Keep this riband,* take and keep it,
I have loosed it from my hair,
Feeling, while you over weep it,
Not alone in your despair-
Since with saintly
Watch, unfaintly

Out of heaven, shall o'er you lean
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"
But-but, now-yet unremovéd

Up to heaven-they glisten fast-
You may cast away, beloved,
In the future all the past!
That old phrase
May be praise

For some fairer bosom-queen,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"
Eyes of mine! what are ye doing?
Faithless, faithless-praised amiss,
If one tear be of your showing,
Shed for any hope of His !

Death hath boldness
In its coldness,
If one false tear should demean
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

I will look out to his future-
I will bless it till it shine!
Should he ever be a suitor

Unto other eyes than mine,
Sunshine gild them,
Angels shield them,

Whatsoever eyes terrene
Then be sweetest ever seen!


I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare
Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare

Of the free charter'd heavens. Be still! express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death!
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless wo,
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?
If it could weep, it could arise and go!

* She left him the riband from her hair.

WHEN Some belovéd voice, which was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry
Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new-
What hope, what help? What music will undo
That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh,
Not reason's labour'd proof, not melody
Of viols, nor the dancers footing through;
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees
To Venus' star! nor yet the spheric laws
Self-chanted-nor the angels' sweet "all hails,"
Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!
Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.

WHAT are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
For all the heat o' the sun, till it declines,
And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil
To wrestle, not to reign-and he assigns
All thy tears over like pure crystallines
Unto thy fellows, working the same soil,
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand,
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all!
The least flower with a brimming cup may stand
And share its dew-drop with another near.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. THE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle, She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian church-that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, So swift and steadfast, so intent and strongWhile so, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune-proving our work The better for the sweetness of our song.


WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
Both dream, and thought, and feeling interwound,
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height,
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground!
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air-
But if I did it-as the thunder-roll

Breaks its own cloud-my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.


WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, We believe, | playful lyrics, thrown off with infinite ease

was a native of London, where members of his family now reside, occupied with the business of banking. The author of "Lillian" was placed, when very young, at Eton, where JOHN MOULTRIE, HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE, and other clever men of kindred tastes, were his associates. He was principal editor of "The Etonian," one of the most spirited and piquant under-graduate magazines ever sent from a college. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where he carried away an unprecedented number of prizes, obtained by Greek and Latin odes and epigrams and English poems. On leaving Trinity College, he settled in London, and soon after became associated with THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, and other young men who have since been distinguished at the bar or in the senate, in the conduct of "Knight's Quarterly Magazine." After the discontinuance of this miscellany, he occasionally wrote for the "New Monthly," and for the annuals; and a friend of his informs us that a large number of his

and readiness, are yet unprinted in the possession of his numerous friends.

For a few years before his death, Mr. PRAED was in parliament, where he was considered a rising member, though his love of ease, and social propensities, prevented the proper culti vation and devotion of his powers. He died on the 15th of July, 1839.

"Lillian," with the exception of DRAKE'S "Culprit Fay," is the most purely imaginative poem with which we are acquainted. PRAED delighted in themes of this sort, and "The Red Fisherman," the "Bridal of Belmont," and some of his other pieces, show the exceeding cleverness with which he reared upon them his fanciful creations. "The Vicar," "Josephine," and a few more of the lively and graceful compositions in this volume have been widely known in this country through the periodicals, and in the present season Mr. Langley of New York has issued a very neat edition of his poetical writings, with a memoir.

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THE abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donn'd his sandal shoon,
And wander'd forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:

A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds:
He clasp'd his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads;

If he look'd to the heaven, 't was not to invoke
The spirit that dwelleth there;

If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious priest might the abbot seem,
He had sway'd the crosier well;

But what was the theme of the abb t's dream,
The abbot were loth to tell.
Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;

He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless;

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Lightly and brightly they glide and go;
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He look'd to the left and he look'd to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
"Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,

And the life-blood colder run:

The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double-
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,
Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw

Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago,
And the hands that work'd his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn, as you look'd on them,
He had fish'd in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly-
It seem'd not such to the abbot's eye:
Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.

It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth-
Now the battie's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echo'd from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!

Cold by this was the midnight air;

But the abbot's blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair,

And a hump upon his shoulder.

And the loyal Churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;

For he who writhed in mortal pain

Was camp'd that night on Bosworth plainThe cruel Duke of Glou'ster!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent abbot knew full well
The swelling form, and the steaming smell;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guess'd the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.

Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a revelling company-
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork:
But, where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!

Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat;

And the priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat,

And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew," the fisherman said,
"With cinnamon and sherry!"
And the abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The mayor of St. Edmond's Bury!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box :
It was a bundle of beautiful things-
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,

A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours roll'd,
That the abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deem'd his spirit was half-way sainted.

Sounds seem'd dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smother'd sighs,

And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales :
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words:
"Smile, lady, smile!-I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile!-I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, lady, smile!-for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still ?"

One jerk, and there a lady lay,

A lady wondrous fair;

But the rose of her lip had faded away,

And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,

And torn was her raven hair.

"Ah, ha!" said the fisher, in merry guise,

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Her gallant was hook'd before;"

And the abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had bless'd those deep blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside;
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine

That ever was press'd from the Burgundy vine;
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the abbot shook,

As the fisherman armed his golden hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or waken'd thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes

On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are crack'd and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner's phrensied frown
As the swaling wherry settles down,
When peril has numb'd the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:
Wilder far was the abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the abbot's trance:
Fix'd as a monument, still as air,

He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he sign'd-he knew not why or how-
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalk'd away with his iron box.

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Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine!
He hath gnaw'd in twain my choicest line;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the

The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth !"

The abbot had preach'd for many years,
With as clear articulation

As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against emancipation;

His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs;
He kept the court an hour awake,

And the king himself three quarters:
But ever, from that hour, 'tis said,

He stammer'd and he stutter'd, As if an axe went through his head With every word he utter'd.

He stutter'd o'er blessing, he stutter'd o'er ban,
He stutter'd drunk or dry;

And none but he and the fisherman
Could tell the reason why!


SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy.
The man who lost his way between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,

Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagg'd all their tails and seem'd to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reach'd his journey's end,

And warm'd himself in court or college,

He had not gain'd an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;— If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,-
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the vicarage, or the vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses :

It slipp'd from politics to puns:

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses:

Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,

Of loud dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He establish'd truth, or started error, The Baptist found him far too deep:

The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or show'd

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,

Sit in the vicar's seat: you'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose tone is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?-look down, And construe on the slab before you, HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN, VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.

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He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses;
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble lords and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,

And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking:
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus: From him I learn'd the rule of three,

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ Genus; I used to singe his powder'd wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in; And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustin. Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before;
You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more:
And pews are fitted up for gentry.


TWELVE years ago I made a mock
Of filthy trades and traffics :

I wonder'd what they meant by stock;
I wrote delightful sapphics:

I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supp'd with fates and furies;

Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy, at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!-how many a thought
Of faded paints and pleasures

Those whisper'd syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!

The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books,
The glories and disgraces,

The voices of dear friends, the looks
Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends ?—I am alone,

No playmate shares my beaker-
Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,
And some before the speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,

And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for liberty,

And some draw pleas for John Doe.
Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loath'd false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,

A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose unscann'd,
Beneath the wide Atlantic.

While Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
Does Dr. Martext's duty;

And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a beauty;

And Darrel studies, week by week,

His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now

The world's cold chain has bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:
In parliament I fill my seat,

With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Germyn-street,
And sip my hock at Doodle's.

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