"TEARS DRIVEN BACK UPON THE FOUNTAIN-HEAD, AND SORROW'S VOICE SUPPREST."-W. S. LANDOR.

NEITHER THE SUNS NOR FROSTS OF ROLLING YEARS-(W. S. LANDOR)

"WEAVE, WHILE IN QUIET SLEEP REPOSE THE DEAD; OH, WHEN WILL THEY TOO REST!"-LANDOR.

CORINTH.

Have ransomed first their country with their blood!
O thou immortal Spartan! at whose name
The marble table sounds beneath my palms,-
Leonidas! even thou wilt not disdain

To mingle names, august as these, with thine;
Nor thou, twin star of glory,* thou whose rays
Streamed over Corinth on the double sea,
Achaian and Saronic; whom the sons
Of Syracuse, when Death removed thy light,

* Timoleon, the patriot ruler of Corinth.

DRY UP THE SPRINGS OR CHANGE THE COURSE OF TEARS."-LANDOR.

"MORE MUTABLE THAN WIND-TORN LEAVES ARE WE; YEA, LOWER THAN THE DUST'S ESTATE."-W. S. LANDOR.

BOASTFULLY WE CALL THE WORLD OUR OWN :-(LANDOR)

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Wept more than slavery ever made them weep,
But shed (if gratitude is sweet) sweet tears......
The hand that then poured ashes o'er their heads
Was loosened from its desperate chain by thee.

[From "The Hellenics," xv.]

SIXTEEN.

IN Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see?

And, are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,

Have I not culled as sweet before?

Oh yes, Lucilla! and their fall

I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own

light;

More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
And Modesty, who, when she goes,
Is gone for ever.

[From Landor's "Collected Works."]

WHAT ARE WE WHO SHOULD CALL IT SO?"-W. S. LANDOR.

"DISSEVERED FROM OURSELVES, ALIENS AND OUTCASTS, WE ONLY LIVE TO FEEL OUR FALL AND DIE."-LANDOR.

66

EXTREME IN ALL THINGS! HADST THOU BEEN BETWIXT,-(BYRON)

NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.

261

John Gibson Lockhart.

39 66

[JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, the son-in-law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott,-born in 1794, died in 1854,-was for many years the editor of the Quarterly Review. As a critic he was distinguished by his acuteness of analysis, and by the trenchant vigour of his satire. As a novelist, and the author of "Valerius," "Adam Blair," Reginald Dalton," and "Matthew Wald," he showed a remarkable power in depicting the deeper passions of human nature, and in tracing the declension of a lofty mind from sin to sin. His style was clear and forcible; his command of pathos and humour extraordinary. He painted with all the power, and, let us add, all the gloom of a Rembrandt. His poetical translations from the Spanish are indisputably the finest of their kind; and many of his original poems show that he could have handled "the lyre," had he so willed, with a surprising mastery of touch. He was clear and original in conception; masculine and skilful in execution. "His pictures," says a critic, "have all the distinctness of an autumn landscape, outlined on the horizon by an unclouded morning sun."]

"THERE SUNK THE GREATEST, NOR THE WORST OF MEN, WHOSE SPIRIT, ANTITHETICALLY MIXT,-(BYRON)

ONE MOMENT OF THE MIGHTIEST, AND AGAIN ON LITTLE OBJECTS WITH LIKE FIRMNESS FIXT."-BYRON.

NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.*

HE mighty sun had just gone down

Into the chambers of the deep;
The ocean birds had upward flown,

Each in his cave to sleep;

And silent was the island shore,
And breathless all the broad red sea,
And motionless beside the door
One solitary tree.

One only tree, one ancient palm,
Whose shadow sleeps the door beside,
Partook the universal calm,

When Buonaparte died.

An ancient man, a stately man,

Came forth beneath the spreading tree,

* This poem originally appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for July, 1821.

THY THRONE HAD STILL BEEN THINE, OR NEVER BEEN."-BYRON.

"OH, MORE OR LESS THAN MAN, IN HIGH OR LOW, BATTLING WITH NATIONS, FLYING FROM THE FIELD,-(LORD BYRON)

AN EMPIRE THOU COULDST CRUSH, COMMAND, REBUILD,

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

His silent thoughts I could not scan,
His tears I needs must see.

A trembling hand had partly covered

The old man's weeping countenance,
Yet something o'er his sorrow hovered

That spake of War and France;
Something that spake of other days,
When trumpets pierced the kindling air,
And the keen eye could firmly gaze
Through battle's crimson glare.

Said I, "Perchance this faded hand,
When Life beat high and Hope was young,
By Lodi's wave * -on Syria's sand,—

The bolt of death hath flung.
Young Buonaparte's battle-cry

Perchance hath kindled this old cheek;
It is no shame that he should sigh,—
His heart is like to break!

He hath been with him young and old;
He climbed with him the Alpine snow;
He heard the cannon when they rolled
Along the river Po.

His soul was as a sword, to leap
At his accustomed leader's word;
I love to see the old man weep,-

He knew no other lord.

As if it were but yesternight,

This man remembers dark Eylau ;+

* Referring to the great battle of the Bridge of Lodi, where Napoleon defeated a superior force of Austrians, May 10, 1796.

+ The battle of Eylau, in Prussia, where, on February 7 and 8, 1807, the French, under Napoleon, defeated the Russians, after a most sanguinary struggle. The victors lost 15,000 men; the Russians, in killed alone,

20,000.

BUT GOVERN NOT THY PETTIEST PASSION."-LORD BYRON.

NOW MAKING MONARCHS' NECKS THY FOOTSTOOLS, NOW MORE THAN THY MEANEST SOLDIER TAUGHT TO YIELD."-BYRON.

"THINE EVIL DEEDS ARE WRIT IN GORE, NOR WRITTEN THUS IN VAIN, LORD BYRON)

"THE TRIUMPH AND THE VANITY, THE RAPTURE OF THE STRIFE,

THE VOICE OF VICTORY TO THEE THE BREATH OF LIFE."-BYRON.

THY TRUMPETS TELL OF FAME NO MORE, OR DEEPEN EVERY STAIN."-LORD BYRON.