Parcæ have cut off by untimely death the | But enough of Waller's concetti-a line of Duchess of Hamilton (1638), but the poet will ensure her life in his verse:

But since the Sisters did so soon untwine
So fair a thread, I'll strive to piece the line.

Saccharissa is addressed in some lines on "The Lady who can sleep when she pleases" (by the way, Saccharissa's portrait at Penshurst, according to Mr. Bell, is curiously suggestive of this power of sleeping at pleasure), which begin:

No wonder sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Saccharissa's eyes,
As fair Astræa once from earth to heaven
By strife and loud impiety was driven;
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs.

Anon Waller's " Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies, to light her torch at Gloriana's eyes;" Henrietta Maria is Gloriana, and it

seems

She saves the lover, as we gangrenes stay,
By cutting hope, like a lopped limb away.

"My Lady Isabella" enchants a select coterie by her performances on the lute, plus the bye-play of her beaux yeux, and we are told how

The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, And tell their joy for every kiss aloud— and then that

things in which, after all, he enjoys the repute of being a sweeping reformer.

Were we to cite instances of rough and unmusical verses in Waller, it might but serve to make exceptions prove the rule: the rule being, in his metrical composition, a peculiar smoothness and evenness of structure. It is rarely, then, that one meets with lines so "all unsweet" and shambling as ex. gr.,

So seemed her youthful soul not easily forced,
Or from so fair, so sweet a seat divorced.
Her fate at once did hasty seem and slow;
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.*

Or this couplet:

So like immortals round about thee they
Sit, that they fright approaching death away.t

Or this line:

Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds, shields.+

Or this stanza:

Great goddess! give this thy sacred island rest;
Make heaven smile,

That no storm disturb us while

Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.}

Smoothness is too established a claim of Waller's to be disproved by a few roughshod jog-trot specimens of this kind. Mr. Hallam ascribes to him a more uniform elegance, a more sure facility and happiness of expression, as well as a greater exemption from glaring faults, such as pedantry, extravHis flaming Rome, and as it burned he played. agance, conceit, quaintness, obscurity, un

So Nero once, with harp in hand, surveyed

The "iron and lead, from earth's dark entrails torn," for purposes of war, force from our bard the lament

How high the rage of wretched mortals goes,
Hurling their mother's bowels at their foes!

The Princess (afterwards Queen Mary) is
complimented after this Samsonian sort:

As once the lion honey gave,

Out of the strong such sweetness came; A royal hero, no less brave,

Produced this sweet, this lovely dame.

"The languishing softness of her large dreamy eyes, notwithstanding the latent fire they conceal, betrays the luxurious sense of deep repose indicated in the poem."-Bell's "Waller," p. 78.

grammatical and unmeaning constructions, than any of the Caroline era with whom he would naturally be compared. His principal merit, says Mr. Bell, is that of having been the first who uniformly observed the obligations of a strict metrical system. Elijah Fenton dubs him the very

Maker and model of melodious verse.

From Eliza Cook's Journal.

LOVE AND MONEY.

A STORY OF EMS.

The youth had been placed in the army, chiefly through the interest of a friend. His father was now dead; the inheritance for ever gone; and he had absolutely nothing beyond his pay as a captain of dragoons, and the distant prospect of one day retiring with the title and half-pay of major. A sorry future for one who was disinterestedly and deeply in love with one of the richest heiresses in Germany!

"Who marries my daughter will receive with her a dowry of 200,000 florins, and I shall expect her husband to possess, at the least, an equal fortune."

EMS is a charming place. It lies about, gambler, had spent to the uttermost farthing. twelve miles to the south-east of Coblentz, in the valley of the Lahu,-that miniature Rhine, all bordered with orchards and vineyards, and steep wooded hills. Nothing can be more romantic than the situation of the town, which consists of one long irregular line of hotels and lodging-houses, with the mountains at the back, the river in front, and long double rows of accacias and lindens planted at each side of the carriage-way. Swarms of donkeys with gay saddles, attended by drivers in blue blouses and scarlettrimmed caps, loiter beneath the trees, soliciting hire. The Duke of Nassau's band plays alternate selections of German, Italian, and French music in the pavilion in the public garden. Fashionable invalids are promenading. Gaming is going forward busily in the Conversation-Haus alike daily and nightly. Ladies are reading novels and eating ices within hearing of the band; or go by, with colored-glass tumblers in their hands, towards the Kurhaus, where the hot springs come bubbling up from their nauseous sources down in the low vaulted galleries filled with bazaar-like shops, loungers, touters, and health-seekers. All is pleasure, indolence, and flirtation.

To Ems, therefore, came the Herr Graff von Steinberg-or, as we should say, the Count Von Steinberg-to drink the waters, and to while away a few weeks of the summer season. He was a tall, fair, handsome young man; an excellent specimen of the German dragoon. You would never suppose, to look at him, that anything of illness could be his inducement for visiting Ems; and yet he suffered from two very serious maladies, both of which, it was to be feared, were incurable by any springs, medicinal or otherwise. In a word, he was hopelessly in in love, and desperately poor. The case was this:-His grandfather had left a large property, which his father, an irreclaimable

So said the Baron of Hohendorf, in cold reply, to the lover's timid declaration; and with these words still sounding in his ears, weighing on his spirits, and lying, by day and night, heavily upon his heart, came the Count von Steinberg, to seek forgetfulness, or, at least, temporary amusement, at the Brunnen of Ems. But in vain. Pale and silent, he roamed restlessly to and fro upon the public promenades, or wandered away to hide his wretchedness in the forests and lonely valleys around the neighborhood of the town. Sometimes he would mingle with the gay crowd in the Kurhaus, and taste the bitter waters; sometimes linger mournfully round the tables of the gaming company, gazing enviously, yet with a kind of virtuous horror, at the glittering heaps of gold and at the packets of crisp yellow notes which there changed hands so swiftly and in such profusion.

But Albert von Steinberg was no gambler. He had seen and experienced the evil of that terrible vice too keenly already in his own father, to fall a prey to it himself. Years ago he had vowed never to play; and he had kept his oath, for no card had ever been touched by his hand. Even now, when he found himself, as it might happen now and then, looking on with some little interest at the gains and losses of others, he would

shudder, turn suddenly away, and not return again for days. Nothing could be more regular than his mode of life. In the morning he took the waters; at noon he walked, or read, or wrote; in the evening he strolled out again and heard the band, and by the time that all the society of the place was assembled in the ball-room or at the tables, he had returned to his quiet lodgings, and, perhaps, already gone to bed, in order that he might rise early the next morning to study some scientific work, or to take a pedestrian excursion to the ruins of some old castle within the limits of a long walk.

It was a dull life for a young man-especially with that sweet, sad recollection of Emma von Hohendorf pervading every thought, and every moment of the day. And all because he was poor! Was poverty a crime, he asked himself, that he should be punished for it thus? He had a great mind to throw himself off the rock where he was standing or to throw himself into the river, 'if it were deep enough-or to go to the baron's own castle-gate, and shoot himself or-or, in short, to do any thing desperate, if it were only sufficiently romantic; for his hot young German head, full of sentiment and Schiller, could be content with nothing less than an imposing tragedy.

He thought all this, sitting in a little fantastic summer-house perched high up on a ledge of steep rock just in front of the gardens and public buildings. He looked down at the gay company far beneath, and he heard the faint music of the royal band. The sun was just setting-the landscape was lovely-life was still sweet, and he thought that he would not commit suicide that evening, at all events. So he went moodily down the winding pathway, across the bridge, and, quite by chance, wandered once more into the Conversation Haus. The gaming was going on, the glit tering gold pieces changing hands, the earnest players sitting round as usual. The sight only made him more unhappy.

|

and looked after him, saying, "He has lost money—we saw him come out of the gaming

rooms.

"Lost money!" muttered he to himself, as he went into his garret and locked the door; "lost money, indeed! I wish I had any to lose."

And poor Albert Von Steinberg fell asleep, lamenting that the age of fairies and gnomes had passed away.

His sleep was long, sound, and dreamless -for young men, in spite of love and poverty, can sleep pleasantly. He woke somewhat later than he had intended, rubbed his eyes, yawned, looked lazily at his watch, laid down again, once more opened his eyes, and at last sprang valiantly out of bed.

Was he still dreaming? Is it an hallucination? Can he be mad? No, it is real, true, wonderful! There upon the table lies a brilliant heap of golden pieces-hard, ringing, real golden pieces, and he turns them over, weighs them in his hands, lets them drop through his fingers to test the evidence of his senses.

How did it come there? That is the important question. He rings the bell violently once-twice-thrice. The servant runs up, thinking some dreadful accident has occurred. "Some one has been here to call upon me this morning?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Indeed! Somebody, then, has been upstairs since I have been asleep." "No, Monsieur." "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, Monsieur."

"Now speak the truth, Bertha; some one has been here; you are paid to deny it. Only tell me who it was, and I will give you double for your information."

The servant looks both alarmed and astonished.

'Indeed, there has not been a soul. Does Monsieur miss anything from his apartment? Shall I send for the gens-d'armes ?"

"Two hundred thousand florins!" he thought to himself. "Two hundred thousand florins would make me the happiest man on earth, and I cannot get them. These men win and lose two hundred thousand florins ten times over in a week, and think nothing of the good, the happiness, the wealth they would be to numbers of their fellow--absolutely no one had been there. creatures. What a miserable dog I am!"

The count looked searchingly in the girl's face. She looked wholly sincere and truthful. He tried every means yet left-adroit questions, insinuations, bribes, sudden accusations, but in vain. She had seen no one— heard no one; the door of the house was closed, and had not been left open. No one

And he pulled his hat on fiercely, folded his arms, and strode out of the rooms, taking the road to his own lodging with so dismal an air that the people in the streets turned

Puzzled, troubled, bewildered, our young friend dismissed her, believing, in spite of his surprise, the truth of what she stated. He locked the door and counted the money. Ten thousand florins! not a groschen more or less!