Grenadiers, lightbobs, inch-people all,
They come! they come! with martial blore
Clearing a terrible path before;
Ruffle the high-peak'd flags i' the wind,
Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind,
Telling how deep the close files are-
Make way for the stalwarth sons of war!
Hurrah! the bluff-cheek'd bugle band,
Each with a loud reed in his hand!
Hurrah! the pattering company,
Each with a drum-bell at his knee!
Hurrah! the sash-capt cymbal swingers!
Hurrah! the klingle-klangle ringers!
Hurrah! hurrah! the elf-knights enter,
Each with his grasshopper at a canter!
His tough spear of a wild oat made,
His good sword of a grassy blade,
His buckram suit of shining laurel,
His shield of bark, emboss'd with coral;
See how the plumy champion keeps
His proud steed clambering on his hips,
With foaming jaw pinn'd to his breast,
Blood-rolling eyes, and arched crest;
Over his and his rider's head

A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread,
Swoops round the staff in varying form,
Flouts the soft breeze, but courts the storm.
Hard on the prancing heel of these
Come on the pigmy Thyades;
Mimics and mummers, masqueraders,
Soft flutists and sweet serenaders
Guitarring o'er the level green,
Or tapping the parch'd tambourine,
As swaying to, and swaying fro,
Over the stooping flowers they go,
That laugh within their greeny breasts
To feel such light feet on their crests,
And ev'n themselves a-dancing seem
Under the weight that presses them.

But hark! the trumpet's royal clangour
Strikes silence with a voice of anger:
Raising its broad mouth to the sun
As he would bring Apollo down,
The in-back'd, swoln, elf-winder fills
With its great roar the fairy hills;
Each woodland tuft for terror shakes,
The field-mouse in her mansion quakes,
The heart-struck wren falls through the branches,
Wild stares the earwig on his haunches;
From trees which mortals take for flowers,
Leaves of all hues fall off in showers;
So strong the blast, the voice so dread,
'Twould wake the very fairy dead!

Disparted now, half to each side,
Athwart the curled moss they glide,
Then wheel and front, to edge the scene,
Leaving a spacious glade between ;
With small round eyes that twinkle bright
As moon-tears on the grass of night,
They stand spectorial, anxious, all,
Like guests ranged down a dancing hall,

Some graceful pair, or more to see
Winding along in melody.

Nor pine their little orbs in vain,
For borne in with an oaten strain
Three pretty Graces, arm-èntwined,
Reel in the light curls of the wind;
Their flimsy pinions sprouted high
Lift them half-dancing as they fly;
Like a bright wheel spun on its side
The rapt three round their centre slide,
And as their circling has no end
Voice into sister voice they blend,
Weaving a labyrinthian song
Wild as the rings they trace along.

A RURAL RETREAT.

ENTER JOHN OF SALISBURY WITH A BOOK.

John of S. Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.

LET me pause here, both tongue and foot; such melody

Of words doth strike the wild-birds mute to hear it!
Honey-lipp'd Virgil, 't is an ignorant truth
To name thee-Sorcerer; for thou dost indeed
Enchant by happiest art!-Here is a place
To meditate thy sylvan music in,
Which seems the very echo of these woods,
As if some dryad taught thee to resound it.
Oh gentle breeze, what lyrist of the air
Tunes her soft chord with visionary hand
To make thy voice so dulcet? Oh ye boughs
Whispering with numerous lips your kisses close
How sweet ye mingle secret words and sighs!
Doth not this work grow warmer with the hum
Of fervent bees, blithe murmurers at their toil,
Minstrels most bland? Here the dim cushat, perch'd
Within his pendulous arbour, plaintive woos,
With restless love-call, his ne'er distant mate;
While changeful choirs do flit from tree to tree,
All various in their notes, yet chiming all
Involuntary, like the songs of cherubim.
Oh, how by accident, apt as art, drops in
Each tone to make the whole harmonial. [sounds
And when need were, thousands of wandering
Though aimless, would, with exquisite error sad,
Fill up the diapason! Pleasant din!

So fine that even the cricket can be heard [mark'd
Soft fluttering through the grass. Long have I
The silver toll of a clear-dipping well
Peal in its bright parishioners, ouphes and elves:
"Tis nigh me, certes!-I will peer between
These honeysuckles for it-Lo! in verity
A Sylph, with veil-fallen hair down to her feet,
Bending her o'er the waters, and I think
Giving them purer crystal from her eyes-
Oh learned John, but thou art grown fantastic
As a romancer!

MR. WADE is the author of Mundi et Cordis Carmina, Helena, the Jew of Arragon, the Death of Ginderode and Prothanasia, the last of which is founded on a passage in the correspondence of BETTINE BRENTIANO with GOETHE.

A PROPHECY.

THERE is a mighty dawning on the earth,
Of human glory: dreams unknown before
Fill the mind's boundless world, and wondrous birth
Is given to great thought: or the deep-drawn lore,
But late a hidden fount, at which a few
Quaff'd and were glad, is now a flowing river,
Which the parch'd nations may approach and view,
Kneel down and drink, or float in it for ever:
The bonds of spirit are asunder broken,
And matter makes a very sport of distance;
On every side appears a silent token

Of what will be hereafter, when existence
Shall even become a pure and equal thing,
And earth sweep high as heaven, on solemn wing.

VOLITION.

GOD will'd creation: but creation was not
The cause of that Almighty Will of God,
But that great God's desire of emanation:
Beauty of human love the object is;

But love's sweet cause lives in the soul's desire
For intellectual, sensual sympathies:
Seeing a plain-plumed bird, in whose deep throat
We know the richest power of music dwells,
We long to hear its linked melodies:
Scenting a far-off flower's most sweet perfume,
That gives its balm of life to every wind,
We crave to mark the beauty of its bloom:
But bird nor flower is that volition's cause: [laws.
But music and fine grace, graven on the soul, like

THE BRIDE.

LET the trim tapers burn exceeding brightly! And the white bed be deck'd as for a goddess, Who must be pillow'd, like high vesper, nightly On couch ethereal! Be the curtains fleecy, Like vesper's fairest when calm nights are breezyTransparent, parting-showing what they hide, Or strive to veil-by mystery deified! The floor, gold-carpet, that her zone and boddice May lie in honour where they gently fall, Slow loosened from her form symmetricalLike mist from sunlight. Burn, sweet odours, burn! For incense at the altar of her pleasure! Let music breathe with a voluptuous measure, And witchcrafts trance her wheresoe'er she turn.

LEIGH HUNT Says of him, "He is a poet; he is overflowing with fancy and susceptibility, and not without the finest subtleties of imagination." Praise from a high source, and not ill deserved.

THE POETRY OF EARTH.
"THE Poetry of Earth is never dead,"
Even in the cluster'd haunts of plodding men.
Before a door in citied underground,
Lies a man-loving, faith-expression'd hound-
To pastoral hills forth tending us; to den
Of daring bandit; and to regions dread
Of mountain-snows, where others of its kind
Tend upon man's, as with a human mind.
A golden beetle on the dusty steps
Crawls, of a wayside-plying vehicle,

Where wending men swarm thick and gloomily:
We gaze; and see beneath the ripening sky
The harvest glisten; and that creature creeps
Upon the sunny corn, radiantly visible !

THE SERE OAK-LEAVES. WHY do ye rustle in this vernal wind, Sere leaves! shaking a dread prophetic shroud Over the very cradle of the spring? Like pertinacious Age, with warnings loud, Dinning the grave into an infant's mind, And shadowing death on life's first imaging! Why to these teeming branches do ye cling, And with your argument renascence cloud; Whilst every creature of new birth is proud, And in unstain'd existence revelling? Fall, and a grave within the centre find! And do not thus, whilst all the sweet birds sing, The insects glitter, and the flower'd grass waves, Blight us with thoughts of winter and our graves!

THE SWAN-AVIARY.

A THOUSAND Swans are o'er the waters sailing, And others in the reeds and rushes brood, And more are flying o'er the sunny flood; And all move with a grandeur so prevailing, That long we stand, without a breath inhaling, In admiration of their multitude, And the majestic grace with which endued They float upon the waves, their pride regaling. The sky is blue and golden; clear as glass, The sea sweeps richly on the glowing shingle; All vernal hues in the near woods commingle; And exquisite beauty waves along the grass; But these things seem but humbly tributary To the white pomp of that vast aviary!

MR. BROWNING's first appearance as an au thor was in 1835, when he published Paracelsus, a dramatic poem founded on the history of the celebrated professor of that name at Basil, in the days of LUTHER and ERASMUS. He has since written three tragedies, entitled Strafford, King Victor and King Charles, and A Blot in the 'Scutcheon; and many shorter pieces, most of which are included in his Bells and Pomegranates, issued by Moxon in 1843. There are in Mr. BROWNING's writings vigour, force of character, and passionate strength; but unhappily few of them are adapted to the popular apprehension. They are not easily read in the boudoir, where the

perusal of MOORE and ROGERS is the highest exertion of intellect. Indeed, with some striking merits which will give them an influence in the formation of the taste of another generation, they are deformed by so many novelties of construction, and affectations of various kinds, that few will have patience to wade through his marshes to cull the flowers with which they are scattered. Mr. BROWNING'S Blot in the 'Scutcheon was acted in 1843, under the management of Mr. MACREADY. Though its dramatic qualities were in direct opposition to the prevailing style of the stage, it met with a hearty reception from the best critics.

EXTRACT FROM PARACELSUS.

[blooms,

WITH still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view, thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams baskGod joys therein!.... Earth is a wintry clod; But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure Buds here and there upon rough banks, between The wither'd tree-roots and the cracks of frost; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swollen with Like chrysalids impatient for the air; The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado; Above birds fly in merry flocks-the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all, From life's minute beginnings, up at last To man-the consummation of this scheme Of being the completion of this sphere Of life whose attributes had here and there Been scatter'd o'er the visible world before, Asking to be combined-dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous wholeImperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make

..some point

Whereto those wandering rays should all converge; Might: neither put forth blindly, nor controll'd Calmly by perfect knowledge-to be used

At risk-inspired or check'd by hope and fear;
Knowledge: not intuition, but the slow
Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil,

Strengthen'd by love; love: not serenely pure,
But power from weakness, like a chance-sown plant,
Which, caston stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds,
And softer stains, unknown in happier climes:
A blind, unfailing, and devoted love,
And half-enlighten'd, often-checker'd trust.
Anticipations, hints of these and more
Are strewn confusedly everywhere-all seek
An object to possess and stamp their own;
All shape out dimly the forthcoming race,
The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false,
And man appears at last: so far the seal
Is put on life: one stage of being complete,
One scheme wound up; and from the grand result
A supplementary reflux of light
Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains
Each back step in the circle; not alone
The clear dawn of those qualities shines out,
But the new glory mixes with the heaven
And earth. Man, once descried, imprints for ever
His presence on all lifeless things-the winds
Are henceforth voices, wailing, or a shout
A querulous mutter, or a quick, gay laugh—
Never a senseless gust now man is born:
The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts,
A secret they assemble to discuss,
[glare
When the sun drops behind their trunks which
Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat
Of the lake-lily is an urn; some nymph
Swims bearing high above her head: no bird
Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above

That let light in upon the gloomy woods,
A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,
Arch with small pucker'd mouth and mocking eye:
The morn has enterprise-deep quiet droops
With evening-triumph when the sun takes rest-
Voluptuous transport when the corn-fields ripen
Beneath a warm moon like a happy face:
And this to fill us with regard for man,
Deep apprehension of his passing worth,
Desire to work his proper nature out,
To ascertain his rank and final place,
For all these things tend upward-progress is
The law of life-man is not man as yet:
Nor shall I deem his object served, his end
Attain'd, his genuine strength put fairly out,
While only here and there a star dispels
The darkness-here and there a towering mind
O'erlooks its crawling fellows: when the host
Is out at once to the despair of night;
When all mankind is perfected alike,
Equal in full-blown powers-then, not till then,
Begins the general infancy of man.

EGLAMOR.

HE, no genius rare,

Transfiguring in fire or wave or air

At will, but a poor gnome that, cloister'd up
In some rock-chamber with his agate cup,
His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few
And their arrangement finds enough to do
For his best art. Then, how he loved that art!
The calling marking him a man apart
From men-one not to care, take counsel for
Cold hearts, comfortless faces, (Eglamor
Was neediest of his tribe,) since verse, the gift,
Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift
Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth
And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth.
So Eglamor was not without his pride!
The sorriest bat which cowers through noontide
While other birds are jocund, has one time
When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime
Of earth is its to claim, nor find a peer.

EXTRACTS FROM SORDELLO.
CARYATIDES BY SUNSET.
BUT quick
To the main wonder now. A vault, see; thick
Black shade about the ceiling, through fine slits
Across the buttress suffer light by fits
Upon a marvel in the midst: nay, stoop-
A dullish gray-streak'd cumbrous font, a group
Round it, each side of it, where'er one sees,
Upholds it-shrinking caryatides

Of just-tinged marble like Eve's lilied flesh
Beneath her Maker's finger, when the fresh
First pulse of life shot brightening the snow:
The font's edge burdens every shoulder, so
They muse upon the ground, eyelids half closed,
Some, with meek arms behind their backs disposed,
Some, cross'd above their bosoms, some, to veil
Their eyes, some, propping chin and cheek so pale,
Some, hanging slack an utter helpless length
Dead as a buried vestal whose whole strength
Goes when the grate above shuts heavily;
So dwell these noiseless girls, patient to see,
Like priestesses because of sin impure
Penanced for ever, who resign'd endure,
Having that once drunk sweetness to the dregs;
And every eve Sordello's visit begs
Pardon for them: constant as eve he came
To sit beside each in her turn, the same
As one of them, a certain space and awe
Made a great indistinctness, till he saw
Sunset slant cheerful through the buttress chinks,
Gold seven times globed; surely our maiden shrinks,
And a smile stirs her as if one faint grain
Her load were lighten'd, one shade less the stain
Obscured her forehead, yet one more bead slipt
From off the rosary whereby the crypt
Keeps count of the contritions of its charge?
Then with a step more light, a heart more large,
He may depart, leave her and every one
To linger out the penance in mute stone.

AN INCIDENT AT RATISBON.
You know we French storm'd Ratisbon:
A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoléon

Stood on our storming day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind,
As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall

Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall;"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reach'd the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

Just by his horse's mane, a boy :

You hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd,
Scarce any blood came through,)

You look'd twice e'er you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon !
The marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perch'd him." The chief's eye flash'd; his plans
Soar'd up again like fire.

The chief's eye flash'd; but presently
Soften'd itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touch'd to the quick, he said;

"I'm kill'd, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.