Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on thec
The thunders of the church, the mortal feud
Of either emperor. Here, at home, the barons
Hate thee, and the people shun thee. Seest thou not,
Even in this noon of pride, thy waning power
Fade, flicker, and wax dim? Thou art as one
Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height.
Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts
Of thinner air; too giddy to look down
Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare
The long descent, to the low depths from whence
The desperate climber rose.

Rie. Ay, there's the sting,

That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar

The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me
With my poor parentage ?-Sir, I'm the son

Of him who kept a sordid hostelry

In the Jew's quarter; my good mother cleansed
Linen for honest hire.-Canst thou say worse?
Ang. Can worse be said?

Rie. Add, that my boasted school-craft

Was gained from such base toil;-gained with such pain,

That the nice nurture of the mind was oft

Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless
And supperless, (the scoff of our poor street,
For tattered vestments and lean hungry looks,)
To pay the pedagogue.-Add what thou wilt.
Of injury. Say that, grown into man,
I've known the pittance of the hospital,
And, more degrading still, the patronage
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees

The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls,
Scorned and derided 'midst their ribald crew-
A licensed jester, save the cap and bells :

I have borne this-and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death, of a poor brother.

I seemed I was a base ignoble slave.

What am I?-peace, I say!—what am I now?

Head of this great republic, chief of Rome-
In all but name, her sovereign; last of all,
Thy father.

Ang. In an evil hour

Rie. Darest thou

Say that?

An evil hour for thee, my Claudia! Thou shouldst have been an emperor's bride, my fairest.

In an evil hour thy woman's heart was caught,
By the form moulded as an antique god:

The gallant bearing, the feigned tale of love-
All false, all outward, simulated all.

Ang. But that I loved her, but that I do love her, With a deep tenderness, softer and fonder

Than thy ambition-hardened heart e'er dreamed of,
My sword should answer thee.

Rie. Go to, Lord Angelo;

Thou lov'st her not.-Men taunt not, nor defy
The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere
Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around

The bosom's idol !—I have loved!—she loves thee;
And therefore thy proud father, even the shrew,
Thy railing mother-in her eyes, are sacred.
Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair son—

Keep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee.
Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride,
That her plebeian father mews not up,
Safe in the citadel, her noble husband.
Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her,
Beware!

Ang. Come back, Rienzi! Thus I throw

[Going.

A brave defiance in thy teeth. (Throws down his glove.)

Rie. Once more,

Beware!

Ang. Take up the glove!

Rie. This time, for her- (Takes up the glove.)

For her dear sake-Come to thy bride! home! home! Ang. Dost fear me, tribune of the people?

Rie. Fear!

[Exit,

Do I fear thee?-Tempt me no more. This once

Home to thy bride!

Ang. Now, Ursini, I come

Fit partner of thy vengeance!

HER EYES ARE WILD.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

[William Wordsworth, some time poet-laureate, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, April 7, 1770. He received the rudiments of his education at Hawkshead School, and entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 1787. After taking his degree he made the tour of France and Switzerland, at a time when the French revolution had attained its crisis. His first work, "Descriptive Sketches," was published in 1793. For a quarter of a century Wordsworth wrote and waited to be acknowledged. He was one of those whose light was thoroughly paled by the glare of Byron; but his time came-a sentimental age that had more compassion for a housebreaker than it had pity for the honest poor, recognised in Wordsworth a congenial, because a harmless, poet. He has many admirers still, but very few readers; he enjoys a sort of halfway-house fame, between the respectably moral and the strictly religious; he is respected for his philosophy and his virtuous tenets, but his works are not used as Cowper's are, as aids to religion. He was not like Robert Montgomery, a mere ranter in rhyme and the pet of a fanatical sect, but a thoughtful writer; consequently his writings will be more enduring, but with the million he will never be popular; he never mixed with them, he passed his time in Westmoreland, among the lakes, in the enjoyment of a moderate competence. He walked about, boated, went to church, and wrote. It has been said of him that he never read Shakspeare. We can well imagine it; he was wrapped up in self, and if ever he quoted a poem it was one of his own; indeed, we are told that he was very fond of quoting his own poems to any one who would listen to them—any of those stray visitors who occasionally obtained an introduction to him. One of these has said, "it would be nothing strange in him to leave the knife inserted in the wing of a chicken while he recited a stanza from 'Yarrow Revisited;' " and Walter Savage Landor asserted that, in examining as a grammarian the grammar of Wordsworth, he found in it but one personal pronoun, "I." It is undoubtedly a good thing to believe in oneself, and with Wordsworth poetry had its own reward, sweetened no doubt by the distributorship of stamps in addition to the 3001. a-year that he enjoyed as laureate. Wordsworth attempted to set up a new theory in regard to

poetical composition, viz., that it should be expressed in the ordinary language of familiar conversation; but it was laughed down; indeed, except in a few instances, he was too much of a poet himself not to fall unconsciously into the elegancies of poetical diction.

A large amount of criticism has been written to prove and disprove Wordsworth's claim to be considered a great poet-to have been called by one recognised critic "the greatest poet since Milton," and by another "no poet at all," goes to prove how difficult it is to say what true poetry is; and yet, after all, it cannot be a mere matter of taste. For our own part, we cannot help thinking that the admirers of Wordsworth, in forming the great and just estimate they do of him as a philosopher, overlook his want of facility as a constructor of poetry,-with them this is a minor consideration; if this be so, would it not have been better that he had worked out his theories in prose, to which much of his poetry bears so close a resemblance? But we hazard these opinions very reservedly when we find such names as Wilson, Coleridge, Henry Taylor, and Archbishop Trench among his most ardent admirers.

Anyhow, Wordsworth does not deserve the neglect into which his works appear again to be falling. He died 1850.]

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,

And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone:

And underneath the hay-stack warm,

And on the greenwood stone,

She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:

To thee I know, too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy ;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh, joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.

Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be;