Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

To Macaulay.

THE dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead :
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns;
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

But divine, melodious truth-
Philosophic numbers smooth-
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us here the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumbering, never cloying. Here your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of passion and of mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!

JOHN KEATS.

Ode.

BARDS of passion and of mirth,

Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,

The king, enraptured by the strain, Commanded that a golden chain

Be given the bard in guerdon.

"Not so! Reserve thy chain, thy gold,
For those brave knights whose glances,
Fierce flashing through the battle bold,
Might shiver sharpest lances!
Bestow it on thy treasurer there—
The golden burden let him bear
With other glittering burdens.

"I sing as in the greenwood bush

The cageless wild-bird carols;

The tones that from the full heart gush
Themselves are gold and laurels !
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask,
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask
Of glowing gold, be brought me!"

They set it down; he quaffs it all

"Oh! draught of richest flavor! Oh! thrice divinely happy hall

Where that is scarce a favor!

If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me;
And thank your God as I thank ye

For this delicious wine-cup!"

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. (German.) Translation of JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

Sonnet.

WHO best can paint th' enamelled robe of spring, With flow'rets and fair blossoms well bedight; Who best can her melodious accents sing,

With which she greets the soft return of light; Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage,

And make th' imperial arch of heav'n to groan Breed warfare with the winds, and finely wage Great strife with Neptune on his rocky throne Or lose us in those sad and mournful days

With which pale autumn crowns the misty year, Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays A poet in our awful eyes appear; For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile, Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing smile. LORD THURLOW.

A Poet's Thought.

TELL me, what is a poet's thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught?
Or by whispering morn?

Was it cradled in the brain?

Chained awhile, or nursed in night? Was it wrought with toil and pain? Did it bloom and fade again, Ere it burst to light?

No more question of its birth : Rather love its better part! "Tis a thing of sky and earth, Gathering all its golden worth From the poet's heart.

695

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low-

To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came—
Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor
could name.

I heard the skylark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy child of earth am I;

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care,
But there may come another day to me-
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood -
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;
Of him who walked in glory and in joy,
Following his plough, along the mountain-side.
By our own spirits we are deified;

We poets in our youth begin in gladness,

But thereof come in the end despondency and mad

ness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven

I saw a man before me unawares

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie

Couched on the bald top of an eminence, Wonder to all who do the same espy

By what means it could hither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with senseLike a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself