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:

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.,

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


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

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.f

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

So Nero once, with harp in hand, surveyed
His flaming Rome, and as it burned he played.

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

Smoothness is too established a claim of

The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, Waller's to be disproved by a few roughAnd tell their joy for every kiss aloud

and then that

shod 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, extravagance, conceit, quaintness, obscurity, ungrammatical 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.

"Waller's sweetness" has come down to us
in conjunction with "Denham's strength,"
bracketed together like downright Shippen
and old Montaigne. But the sweetness is
faintly perceptible to some organs of taste; it
is in Saccharissa's poet saccharine, sugary-

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.

Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.

Thyrsis, Galatea. + Of the Queen.

To my Lord Admiral. § Puerperium.

English courtier, Waller's real merit consisted in certain elegances of thought and light turns of phrase, for which the pencil offers no equivalent." Apart from these, what becomes of his pretensions to an entry in the Book of the Poets-unless his Panegyric on Cromwell, and the poem to "The War with Spain" retain their hold on the public? It is by such graceful morceaux as the lines "On a girdle," and the song, "Go, lovely rose," that Waller is still known to us, and almost by them alone.

not the sweetness of poets who sing an
"angel's song that bids the heavens be
mute," or a lullaby soothing as the susurrus
of hidden brook in the leafy month of June.
Finished, elaborete, and correct he is, above
his fellows, exemplifying at some expense of
time and toil his own monition to polish like
marble the lines you would have last like
marble, to "reform" them, and not "com-
pose in haste."
He seems always, as John-
son said, to do his best, however unworthy
of his care be the subject of his strains.
There are ten lines of his "writ in the Tasso
of Her Royal Highness," which are said to
have cost him the best part of a summer to
finish off. His very earliest poem he seems
to have lingered over with all the fastidious-
ness and caution of mature taste. In refer-
ence to certain stanzas of Roscoe's, which,
drawing a parallel between the poets and the
painters (e. g. Michael Angelo with Milton,
Romano with Dryden, Correggio with Pope,
&c.), suggest that,

Opposed to WALLER's amorous song
His art let wanton TITIAN try,—

it was justly objected by Hartley Coleridge that there can be no fair comparison between Titian as a painter, and Waller as a poet, if established fame be a criterion of merit. "Titian did not paint epigrams. If a pictorial correlative must be found for Waller, let him pair off with Monsieur Petitot, the famous miniaturist in enamel, who'compressed the charms of many a court beauty into the dimension of a bracelet, which the fair original might wear unobtrusively upon her slender wrist. But besides the egregious inquality of the mighty Venetian and the

ANECDOTE OF MR. MACAULAY.—An amusing and absurd-anecdote of Mr. Macaulay is making a tour of the country papers. According to an unknown storyteller, Mr. Macaulay, being desirous of obtaining information respecting eighteenthcentury poetry, as material for his new volumes, took his way from the Albany to Whitechapel, and bought a roll of London ballads of a singing boy. Happening to turn round, as he reached his home, he perceived the boy with a circle of young friends, keeping close at his heels. "Have I not given you your price, sir?" asks the historian.

Writing when he did, and what he did,— love poems, and poems to tickle the fancy, to amuse idle dignities, to flatter courtly rakes,--it is most note-worthy that Edmund Waller shunned what his fellow-choristers for the most part affected, a vile prurience of thought and imagery, foul from the core of the sentiment to the rind of the phrase. All honor to his abstinence from the common pandering to vice and all uncleanness. And happy is it that the last impression he leaves us is the best. He dictated "Divine Poems" when he was old, very old, and his eyes were dim, so that he could not see. He tells us there, in solemn and revering verse, his thoughts and aspirations, his regrets for the past, his hopes for the future. It is in an awful attitude that we leave him-moriturus nos salutat. His latest lines, if not quite sublime or pathetic, are all but both. Miratur limen Olympi :

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From Eliza Cook's Journal.



"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."

So said the Baron of Hohendorf, in cold

EMs is a charming place. It lies about, gambler, had spent to the uttermost farthing. twelve miles to the south-east of Coblentz, The youth had been placed in the army, in the valley of the Lahu,-that miniature chiefly through the interest of a friend. His Rhine, all bordered with orchards and vine- father was now dead; the inheritance for yards, and steep wooded hills. Nothing can ever gone; and he had absolutely nothing be more romantic than the situation of the beyond his pay as a captain of dragoons, and town, which consists of one long irregular the distant prospect of one day retiring with line of hotels and lodging-houses, with the the title and half-pay of major. A sorry mountains at the back, the river in front, and future for one who was disinterestedly and long double rows of accacias and lindens deeply in love with one of the richest heirplanted at each side of the carriage-way. esses in Germany! 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 pub-reply, to the lover's timid declaration; and lic garden. Fashionable invalids are prome- with these words still sounding in his ears, nading. Gaming is going forward busily in weighing on his spirits, and lying, by day the Conversation-Haus alike daily and night- and night, heavily upon his heart, came the ly. Ladies are reading novels and eating ices Count von Steinberg, to seek forgetfulness, within hearing of the band; or go by, with or, at least, temporary amusement, at the colored-glass tumblers in their hands, to- Brunnen of Ems. But in vain. Pale and wards the Kurhaus, where the hot springs silent, he roamed restlessly to and fro upon come bubbling up from their nauseous sources the public promenades, or wandered away to down in the low vaulted galleries filled with hide his wretchedness in the forests and bazaar-like shops, loungers, touters, and lonely valleys around the neighborhood of health-seekers. All is pleasure, indolence, the town. Sometimes he would mingle with and flirtation. 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

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



"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."

shudder, turn suddenly away, and not re-
turn again for days. Nothing could be more
regular than his mode of life. In the morn-
ing 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-for young men, in spite of love and poverty,
excursion to the ruins of some old castle
can sleep pleasantly. He woke somewhat
within the limits of a long walk.
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.

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

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 glittering gold pieces changing hands, the earnest players sitting round as usual. The sight only made him more unhappy.

"Two hundred thousand florins!" he

thought to himself. Two hundred thou-
sand 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!"

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


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

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 up-
stairs 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 ?"

The count looked searchingly in the girl's
face. She looked wholly sincere and truth-
ful. He tried every means yet left-adroit
questions, insinuations, bribes, sudden accusa-
tions, 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

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!

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Well, it was there, but whence it came remained a mystery. "All mysteries clear themselves up in time," said he, as he locked the money up in his bureau. "I dare say I shall find it all out by-and-by. In the meantime I will not touch a single florin of it."

He tried not to think of it, but it was so strange a thing that he could not prevent it from running in his head. It even kept him awake at night, and took away his appetite by day. At last he began to forget it; at all events, he became used to it, and at the end of a week it had ceased to trouble him.

About eight days from the date of its occurrence, he woke, as before, thinking of Emma, and not at all of the money, when on looking round, lo! there it was again. The table was once more covered with glittering gold!

His first impulse was to run to the bureau in which the first ten thousand florins were stored away. Surely he must have taken them out the night before, and forgot to replace them. No, there they lay in the drawer where he had hidden them, and there upon the table was a second supply, larger, if any thing, than the first!

Pale and trembling he turned them over. This time there were some notes-Prussian and French-mingled with the gold-in all, twelve thousand florins.

He had locked his door-could it be opened from without by a skeleton key? He had a bolt fixed within that very day. Honest Albert von Steinberg! he took as much pains against fortune as others do against robbery !

and went to bed. In the morning, when be woke, he found that Fortune had again visited him. The first wonder of the thing had now worn off, and he rose, dressed himself, and sat down leisurely to count the money over before lodging his declaration at the bureau de police. While he was engaged in making up little rouleaux of gold, twenty in each rouleau, there came a sudden knocking at his door.

He had no visitors, no friends in Ems; he started like a guilty man, and threw an overcoat hastily upon the table, so as to conceal the gold. Could it be that this summons had any thing to do with the money? Was he suspected of something that- -? The knock was repeated, this time more loudly, more imperatively. He opened the door. It was the Baron von Hohendorf!

Two days later, however, his invisible benefactor came again, notwithstanding all his precautions; and this time he found himself fourteen thousand florins the richer. It was an inexplicable prodigy! No one could have entered by the bolted door, or from the window, for he lived in a garret on the fourth story-or by the chimney, for the room was heated by a stove, the funnel of which was no thicker than his arm! Was it a plot to ruin him? or was he tempted by the powers of evil? He had a great mind to apply to the police, or to a priest (for he was a good Catholic),-still he thought he would wait a little longer. After all, there might be more unpleasant visitations!

He went out, greatly agitated, and walked about the entire day, pondering this strange problem. Then he resolved, if ever it recurred, to state his case to the chef de police, and to set a watch upon the house by night. Full of this determination, he came home


"How! The Baron von Hohendorf in Ems! I am rejoiced-this honor-I-pray, be seated."

The poor young dragoon's heart beat so fast, and he trembled so with pleasure, and hope, and astonishment, that he could scarcely speak.

The baron looked at him steadily, but sternly, thrust back the proffered ehair, and did not deign to take the slightest notice of the extended hand.

"Yes, Herr Count," he said drily. "I arrived yesterday at this place. You did not expect to see me."




Indeed, no. It is a pleasure-a-delight He was so agitated that he forgot his visitor was standing, and sat down; but he rose up again directly.

"And yet I saw you, Herr Count, yesterday evening, as you came out of the Conversation-rooms."

"Me? Indeed, sir, I never visited the Conversation-rooms at all yesterday; but I am very sorry that I was not there, since I should have had the honor of meeting you."

"Pardon me, Herr Count, I saw you. It is useless to argue the point with me, for I stood close behind your chair for the greater part of an hour. Do you know why I am here this morning in your apartment?"

The young man blushed, faltered, turned pale. He knew but one reason that could have brought him a visit from the baron. Had he relented? Could it be his generous design to make two lovers' hearts happy by granting that consent which he formerly refused? There were things more impossible. The baron was capable of such goodness! Something to this effect he stammered in broken sentences, his eyes fixed upon the


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