Heuse passed a lonely house beside the sea,
Wherefrom a light fell faintly, as a life

That sinks and sobs within the changing strife
Wherein death struggles for the mastery.

He passed the outer gate: no bolt, or bar
Delayed his entrance, and the house was-bare?
Deserted? No, upon the midnight air

A wailing seemed to waken from afar.

In a lone room his enemy was lain

Dead: there he found Clæthora, and anew
The old love flamed and yet more fiercely grew,
And so he raised and bare her home again.

And then he nursed her, lingering by her side,
And all the old affection woke in her,

Yet she was loth to shew it: shame did stir,
And thus she often prayed him mock and chide.
The old fond fashion of her love returned,

Her fair faint loveliness re-lived again, And, in the extreme passion of her pain, The extreme passion of her being burned.

The love, and life, and shame could not abide,

And shame slew life, and shame but died with love,
Love lingered with her life, and as a dove

Wing-worn and wounded, so with shame she died.

She was Clæthora yet: and so it came

She died within his arms, one hand in his,
Her last breath spent upon a single kiss,
Wherein love lost a life and death slew shame.
Then he arose all old and grey, and thence

He wandered down to yonder grove of trees,
And lay within the soughing of the seas,
To die of weariness and pestilence.

We found him there, and there he wished to die,
So lingered for some hours, nor spoke again,
But slowly sank, nor seemed to suffer pain,
And sighed "Clæthora" in his utmost sigh.

And there we buried him: he bade it so:

In life deserted, in death desolate,

He lies where nature is his sole estate,
Within the echo of the ocean's flow.

Good sooth, there is no power in me to speak
All I would say of him, the loss is yet
The doom of yesterday, and the regret
Too powerful to find the words I seek.

So now his God was nature, and the end
Of love was death: and "Heuse”
upon a stone
Marks where he lies, all silent and alone,
Beside the sands where earth and ocean blend.

TO A LADY.

GENTLE lady! pure and sweet,
Wonderfully sweet and fair,
Soft white hands, and tiny feet,
And a wealth of auburn hair-

I can feel this poor heart beat

With a wild and deep despair,
Knowing thee so far above

Any service I can pay,

Any burning words of love

That I dare not hope to say.

Look upon me! smile again!

It is hard to see thee so;

But I must endure my pain,

Pain that thou canst never know.

WALTER HOWARD.

A SOLDIER'S DEATH,

BRAVELY he fought and would not yield,
Till wounded sore at last,

He lies upon the battle-field,
His life blood ebbing fast.

Dim are his eyes, and cold the brow,
By clustering curls o'er hung,
That used to be all gold, but now

Have crimson stains among.

One hand lies useless by his side,
The other closely clasps

A portrait of his promised bride,
Whose name he faintly gasps.

And he can hear the victors cheer
And vanquished comrades fly,
But though he feels that death is near
He does not fear to die.

The sun hath hid his face awhile

From where the hero lies,

The moon looks down with queenly smile,
And stars with wondering eyes;

While with a slow and noiseless tread,
In pity for his fate,

Night curtains round the lonely bed

Softly compassionate.

But hush! he speaks! it is a prayer,
Swift angels waft on high;

"Oh God! this pain is hard to bear,
Wilt thou not let me die?

And comfort her when I am far

Above this vale of tears,

And let us meet where nought can mar
The bliss of endless years?"

The moon hath waned, the stars have fled,
The east is streaked with light,
The sun hath risen from his bed
And vanquished frowning night,
And dew is falling thick and fast
Upon the pale, cold brow—
It matters not, his pain is passed,
And naught can harm him now.

HARRY DALE,

ON THE POETIC

ELEMENT

AND ITS

NATIONAL EXPRESSION IN ART.

PART II.

IT has been well said, that when Poetry languishes High Art dies. This induces the question as to the causes which depress or foster Poetry.

And the law may almost be considered universal, that violent commotions, wars, struggles for liberty, and religious convulsions, are the immediate incentives to poetical inspiration. The Trojan war invoked a Homer. The sweet Psalmist of Israel tuned his harp amid revolution, anarchy, and national enterprise. Thermopylæ and Salamis, the memories of national prowess, kindled into song the Grecian Muse. The conquests of Cæsar were antecedent to Virgil. The era of Dante and Petrarch, Chaucer and Gower, succeeded that of the Crusades. What shall be said to the affluence of poetical inspiration which marked the Elizabethan periodwhen the spirit of chivalry was immortalised in the "Fairie Queene," and Shakespeare wrote for all nations and for all time? Byron and Scott, Wordsworth and Shelley were born at a period of great political excitement, and their youth was passed amid scenes of anarchy and bloodshed. Thus as war inspired the Muse, and as the Muse inspired Art, the epochs enumerated were immediately followed by a revival of the Fine Arts.

But before glancing at the various ways in which the Poetical Element has influenced modern times, it may be well to consider for a moment the position Art held when Paganism was being supplanted by Christianity.

Up to this period Art had been the one purifying influence amid the debasing corruptions of heathen life or barbaric luxury. But when the light of Christianity burst upon the world and exposed the lie of Paganism, Art, associated as it had been, with all that the converts to the new faith abhorred, became an object of aversion. Many centuries elapsed before the natural instincts of human nature, which in proportion to their culture demand an expression, asserted their prerogative and restored the Fine Arts to their true position, to be the exponents of all that was

pure, and noble, and holy, in revealed religion, as before they had been the ministers to a lesser and inferior revolution.

The symbols of the heathen gods were supplanted by types and allegories taken from the Bible, which in its Oriental method of teaching by parables supplied an abundance of subjects, and even many allusions to the old mythology admitted of transposition, and retaining their antique forms survived under the new designations. Till the reign of Constantine all expression of Christian art was confined to the catacombs and similar hiding places of the early converts; but when Christianity became the recognised religion of the State, the Fine Arts were again consecrated to religion, and were employed to beautify and adorn the temples erected in her honour. And thus ancient art adapted itself to the forms of Christianity. Even in its first crude efforts (such as the paintings and sculptures in the catacombs) the higher influence of inspired truth opposed to the legends of Paganism, is shown in the peaceful earnestness of the subjects, and in the simple expression of spiritual meaning; in fact, the early utterances of that poetry of religious art, which in after ages found their fullest expression in Giotto, Fra Angelico, and Perujino.

But to give an example of how Pagan art was grafted into the Christian, and influenced it; St. Mark's at Venice may be cited as the most perfect specimen in this respect of harmonious incongruity.

Founded in the 9th century for the express purpose of receiving the relics of St. Mark, abstracted, rather than translated from Alexandria, it has been the constant pride of the Venetian Republic to add to its embellishment. The influence of Greek art is apparent in its construction, and the architects who designed the building are believed to have studied at Constantinople-hence the rise of the Byzantine school. Like Santa Sophia, the plan is that of a Greek cross, covered by five cupolas, to represent the five sacred wounds, the centre dome being of superior size to the others. Heathen and Christian art here strangely intermingled. The four bronze horses (believed to have been cast in the reign of Nero for the triumphal arch erected in his honour, and subsequently removed to Alexandria by Constantine,) are placed on the central