Mr. HORNE belongs to the intellectual bro- | therhood of whom we have already given specimens in the notices of DARLEY, BROWNING, and others. He has written several dramatic poems and sketches, among which are The Death of Marlowe, Cosmo de' Medici, and Gregory the Seventh, all of which have met the approval of the critics. His latest production (excepting The New Spirit of the Age, of which he acknowledges himself to be the editor only) is Orion, an epic poem, which, aside from its intrinsic merits, will find its record in the Curiosities of Literature for the novel circumstances of its publication. It was offered to the public at various prices, commencing with a farthing and rising through successive stages to a halfcrown in its fourth edition. In Orion we have modern transcendentalism wedded to the old Greek mythology. Orion, wandering in the mountains of Chios, encounters Artemis, who loves him, and by her love elevates his nature, but fails to make him happy. In a dream he sees Merope, the daughter of Enopion, king of Chios, who warns him to beware of Artemis, and on awaking he seeks and wins the affection of the princess. The king derides his pretensions, but promises him the hand of his daughter if in six days he will destroy the beasts and serpents of the island.

This he accomplishes, but Œnopion hesitating to fulfil his agreement, the giants make war against him and carry off Merope, with whom Orion lives happily in a secluded grove until the king discovers his retreat and deprives him of sight. In his wretchedness, deserted by Merope, he seeks the aid of Eos, who unseals his eyes and loves him with an affection which satisfies his soul. The jea lous Artemis now destroys him; but repents, and joins with Eos in a prayer to Zeus for the restoration of his life. The prayer is granted; Orion is made immortal, placed among the constellations, and enjoys for ever the love of Eos. This slight outline of the fable is necessary to a proper understanding of the extracts from the poem which are given in this volume.

Mr. HORNE is also author of an Essay on Tragic Infiuence, and an Introduction to Schlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Literature and Art; and he was associated with WORDS. WORTH, LEIGH HUNT, Miss BARRETT, and others, in the production of Chaucer Modernized, to which he prefixed an admirable essay on the riches of English poetry and the development of the principles of versification, by which the rhythm of CHAUCER is fully sustained, and which no poet who has a love for his art should fail to read.

EXTRACTS FROM ORION.

THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF ORION.

THE scene in front two sloping mountains' sides Display'd; in shadow one and one in light. The loftiest on its summit now sustain'd The sun-beams, raying like a mighty wheel Half seen, which left the forward surface dark In its full breadth of shade; the coming sun Hidden as yet behind: the other mount, Slanting transverse, swept with an eastward face Catching the golden light. Now while the peal Of the ascending chase told that the rout Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly Along the broad and sunny slope appear'd The shadow of a stag that fled across, Follow'd by a giant's shadow with a spear.

MORNING.

O'ER meadows green or solitary lawn,
When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants,
The long, clear shadows of the morning differ
From those of eve, which are more soft and vague,
Suggestive of past days and mellow'd grief.
The lights of morning, even as her shades,
Are architectural, and pre-eminent

In quiet freshness, midst the pause that holds
Prelusive energies. All life awakes,
Morn comes at first with white, uncertain light;
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud
Seen through gray mist; the mist clears of; the sky
Unfolds; grows ruddy; takes a crimson flush;
Puts forth bright sprigs of gold,-which soon ex
panding

In saffron, thence pure golden shines the morn;
Uplifts its clear, bright fabric of white clouds,
All tinted, like a shell of polish'd pearl,
With varied glancings, violet gleam and blush;
Embraces nature; and then passes on,
Leaving the sun to perfect his great work.

SUMMER NOON.

THERE was a slumbrous silence in the air, By noon-tide's sultry murmurs from without Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was heard From field or wood; but the grave beetle's drone Pass'd near the entrance: once the cuckoo call'd O'er distant meads, and once a horn began Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound Of murmurous music yet was in the breeze, For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings, And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustain'd Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads.

BUILDING OF THE PALACE OF POSEIDON.

For him I built a palace underground, Of iron, black and rough as his own hands. Deep in the groaning, disembowel'd earth, The tower-broad pillars and huge stanchions, And slant supporting wedges I set up, Aided by the Cyclops who obey'd my voice, Which through the metal fabric rang and peal'd In orders echoing far, like thunder-dreams. With arches, galleries, and domes all carvedSo that great figures started from the roof And lofty coignes, or sat and downward gazed On those who strode below and gazed aboveI fill'd it; in the centre framed a ball: Central in that, a throne; and for the light, Forged mighty hammers that should rise and fall On slanted rocks of granite and of flint, Work'd by a torrent, for whose passage down A chasm I hew'd. And here the god could take, Midst showery sparks and swathes of broad, gold fire, His lone repose, lull'd by the sounds he loved; Or, casting back the hammer-heads till they choked The water's course, enjoy, if so he wish'd, Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron sleep.

Through wildest haunts and lairs of savage beasts. With long-drawn howl, before him troop'd the wolves

The panthers, terror-stricken, and the bears
With wonder and gruff rage; from desolate crags
Leering hyenas, griffin, hippogriff,

Skulk'd, or sprang madly, as the tossing brands
Flash'd through the midnight nooks and hollows cold,
Sudden as fire from flint; o'er crashing thickets,
With crouch'd head and curl'd fangs dash'd the wild
Gnashing forth on with reckless impulses, [boar,
While the clear-purposed fox crept closely down
Into the underwood, to let the storm,

Whate'er its cause, pass over. Through dark fens,
Marshes, green rushy swamps, and margins reedy,
Orion held his way-and rolling shapes
Of serpent and of dragon moved before him
With high-rear'd crests, swan-like, yet terrible,
And often looking back with gem-like eyes.
All night Orion urged his rapid course
In the vex'd rear of the swift-droving din,
And when the dawn had peer'd, the monsters all
Were hemm'd in barriers. These he now o'erheap'd
With fuel through the day, and when again
Night darken'd, and the sea a gulf-like voice
Sent forth, the barriers at all points he fired,
Mid prayers to Hephaestos and his ocean-sire.
Soon as the flames had eaten out a gap
In the great barrier fronting the ravine
That ran down to the sea, Orion grasp'd
Two blazing boughs; one high in air he raised,
The other, with its roaring foliage, trail'd
Behind him as he sped. Onward the droves
Of frantic creatures with one impulse roll'd
Before this night-devouring thing of flames,
With multitudinous voice and downward sweep
Into the sea, which now first knew a tide,
And, ere they made one effort to regain
The shore, had caught them in its flowing arms,
And bore them past all hope. The living mass,
Dark heaving o'er the waves resistlessly,
At length, in distance seem'd a circle small,
Midst which one creature in the centre rose,
Conspicuous in the long, red, quivering gleams
That from the dying brands stream'd o'er the waves.
It was the oldest dragon of the fens,

Whose forky flag-wings and horn-crested head
O'er crags and marshes regal sway had held;
And now he rose up like an embodied curse,
From all the doom'd, fast sinking-some just sunk-
Look'd landward o'er the sea, and flapp'd his vans,
Until Poseidon drew them swirling down.

The four winds with confronting fury arose,
And to a common centre drove their blasts,
Which, meeting, brake like thunder-stone, or shells
Of war, far scattering. Shipwreck fed the deep.
No moon had dared the ringing vault to climb;
No star, no meteor's steed; and ancient night
Shook the dishevell'd lightning from her brows,
Then sank in deeper gloom. Ere long the roar
Roll'd through a distant yawning chasm of flame,
Dying away, and in the air obscure,

Feverish and trembling-like the breath of one
Recovering from convulsion's throes-appear'd
Two wavering misty shapes upon a mount:
Whence now a solemn and reproachful voice,
With broken pauses spake, and thus lamented:
"Call it not love!-oh never yet for thee
Did love's ambrosial pinions fan the hours,
To lose themselves in bliss, which memory
Alone can find, so to renew their life,
Thou couldst not ever thus enjoy, thus give
Thy nature fully up; thine attributes,
Whate'er of loveliness or high estate

They own'd, surrendering all before love's feast,
And in his breath to melt. How shall we name
Thy passion-ice-pure, self-entire, exacting
All worship, for a limited return?

But how, ah me! shall time record the hour,
When with thy bow-its points curved stiffly back,
Like a snake's neck preparing for a spring-
Thou stood'st in lurid ire behind a cloud,
And loosed the fatal shaft! Where then was love?
Oh Artemis! Oh miserable queen!
Call it pride, jealousy, revenge-self-love;
No other. Thou repliest not. Wherefore pride?
Thou gavest thyself that wound, rejecting one
Who to thee tender'd all his nature; noble,
Though earth-born, as thou knew'st when first ye
And thou not Zeus with a creator's power [met,
His being to re-make? Thou answerest not.
Why jealous, but because thou saw'st him happy
Without thee, tho' cast off by thee. Then wherefore
Destroy Revenge, the champion of self-love,
Can make his well-known sign. Oh, horrible!
Despair to all springs up from murder'd love,
And smites revenge with idiotey of grief,
Seeing itself. But wake, and look upon
My loss unutterable. What hast thou gain'd?
Nothing but anguish; and for this accomplish'd
His death, my loss, and the earth's loss beside
Of that much needed hand. I curse thee not-
Thou hast, indeed, cursed me-thou know'st it well."
With face bow'd o'er her bosom, Artemis,
As in sad trance, remain'd. The night was gone;
The day had dawn'd, but she perceived it not;
Nor Eos knew that any light had pass'd
From her rent robes. But hope unconsciously
Grew up in her, and yet again she spake:

"Ah Ine! alas! why came this great affliction,
Which, indeed, seems beyond all remedy,
Though scalding tears from our immortal eyes
Make constant arcs in heaven. Beauty avails not
Where power is needed. Seek we, then, for power,
That some reviving or renewing beam
May call him back, now pale in the deep sea.
Thou answerest not. I think thou hast a heart,

Which beats thy reasoning down to silent truth,
And therefore deem I thou with me wilt seek
The throne of Zeus, who may receive our prayers,
Nor from our supplications utterly
Take sorrow's sweetness, which hath secret hope,
Like honey drops in some down-fallen flower."
Her lofty pallid visage Artemis

Raised slowly, but with eyes still downward bent
Upon the ocean rolling dark below,
And answer'd, I will go with thee." The twain
Departed heavily on their ascent [reach'd
Through the gray air, and paused not till they
The region of Olympos, where their course
Was barrier'd by a mass of angry cloud
Piled up in surging blackness, with a gleam
Of smouldering red seen through at intervals.
The sign well understood, both goddesses
Knelt down before the cloud, and Artemis
Broke silence first, with firm yet hollow voice:

"Father of gods, and of the populous earth!
Who know'st the thoughts and deeds we most would
And also know'st the secret thrill within, [hide;
Which owns no thought nor action, yet comprises
Life's sole excuse for what seems worthiest hate-
Extremes and madden'd self-opposing springs-
Not always thus excused,-O Zeus! receive
Our prayers, and chiefly mine, which pardon sue,
Besides the dear request. Grant that the life
Of him these hands, once dazzling white, have slain,
May be to earth restored." More had she said,
But the dark pile of clouds shook with the voice
Of Zeus, who answer'd: "He shall be restored;
But not return'd to earth. His cycle moves
Ascending!" The deep sea the announcement
And from beneath its ever-shifting thrones [heard;
The murmuring of a solemn joy sent up.

The cloud expanded darkly o'er the heavens, Which, like a vault preparing to give back The heroic dead, yawn'd with its sacred gloom, And iron-crown'd Night her black breath pour'd

around

To meet the clouds that from Olympos roll'd
Billows of darkness with a dirging roar,
Which by gradations of high harmony
Merged in triumphal strains. Their earnest eyes
Fill'd with the darkness, and their hands still clasp'd,
Kneeling, the goddesses bright rays perceived,
Reflected, glance before them. Mute they rose
With tender consciousness; and, hand in hand,
Turning, they saw, slow rising from the sea,
The luminous giant clad in blazing stars,
New-born and trembling from their Maker's breath-
Divine, refulgent effluence of love.
With pale gold shield, like a translucent moon
Through which the morning with ascending cheek
Sheds a soft blush, warming cerulean veins;
With radiant belt of glory, typical
Of happy change that o'er the zodiac round
Of the world's monstrous fantasies shall come;
And in his hand a sword of peaceful power,
Streaming like a meteor to direct the earth
To victory over life's distress, and show [glooms,
The future path whose light runs through death's
In grandeur, like the birth of motion, rose
The glorious giant, towards his place in heaven.

MRS. BUTLER is a daughter of CHARLES KEMBLE, and a niece of JOHN Philip Kemble and Mrs. SIDDONS. After a brilliant career at the Drury Lane Theatre, she in 1832 came with her father to the United States, where she played with unprecedented success in the principal cities, confirming a reputation already acquired as the greatest British actress of the age. In 1834 she retired from the stage and was married to Mr. PIERCE BUTLER of Philadelphia.

Mrs. BUTLER is among the few of her profession who have been eminent in the world of letters. Her dramas, Francis the First and the Star of Seville, were written when she was very young, and do not retain possession of the stage, though superior to many pieces

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

I AM alone-Oh be thou near to me, Great God! from whom the meanest are not far. Not in presumption of the daring spirit, Striving to find the secrets of itself, Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee; If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship, Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee. I have no fellow, Father! of my kind; None that be kindred, none companion to me, And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood, Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me, Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot. Around me grow the trees, each by the other; Innumerable leaves, each like the other, Whisper and breathe, and live and move together. Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup Hath sisters leaning their fair cheeks against it. The birds fly all above me; not alone, But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering A joyous hand, sweeping in companies The wide blue fields between the clouds;-the clouds Troop in society, each on the other Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light. The waves, a multitude, together run To the great breast of the receiving sea: Nothing but hath its kind, its company, O God! save I alone!-then, let me come, Good Father! to thy feet; when, even as now, Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe, O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father! When in my heart the stores of its affections, Piled up unused, lock'd fast, are like to burst

which in this respect have been more fortunate. The volume of her shorter poems published in Philadelphia in 1814 entitles her to be ranked with the first class of living English poetesses. Their general tone is melancholy and desponding; but they are vigorous in thought and execution, and free from the sickly sentiment and puerile expression for which so much of the verse of the day is chiefly distinguished. She has written besides the works before mentioned A Journal, which was published on her return from this country to London. It is a clever, gossipping book, with such absurdities of opinion as might have been expected from a commentator on national character of her age and position: very amusing and very harmless.

The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;-accept them thou,
Dear Father!--Fount of love! Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, O Father! Maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears and weeping of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!

ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,

BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND.

FLOWER of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand Robb'd of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day; Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way, And bloom to wither in the stranger's land? Hueless and scentless as thou art,

How much that stirs the memory, How much, much more, that thrills the heart, Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee! Where is thy beauty in the grassy blade [now; There lives more fragrance and more freshness Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou. The dew that on the mountain lies, The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs, Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish; But thou-not e'en those sunny eyes, As bright, as blue as thine own skies, Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.

ON A MUSICAL BOX.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell

Caged by the law of man's resistless might! With thy sweet, liquid notes, by some strong spell, Compell'd to minister to his delight,

Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight

Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight,

And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell? Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,

Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing, And sail upon the sunset's amber glow? When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme, Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream, Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam. Whilst thou in darkness sing'st thy life away. And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee; When in the wide creation nothing mourns,

Of all that lives, save that which is not free? Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer, How would thy little voice beseeching cry, For one short draught of the sweet morning air. For one short glimpse of the clear, azure sky! Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt be free, Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling; While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee, To every bud with honey-dew distilling. That hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay, Thou'st be a shunn'd and a forsaken thing,

'Mongst the companions of thy happier day. For fairy sprites, like many other creatures,

Bear fleeting memories, that come and go; Nor can they oft recall familiar features,

By absence touch'd, or clouded o'er with wo. Then rest content with sorrow: for there be Many that must that lesson learn with thee; And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail, For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail, Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!

A WISH.

On! that I were a fairy sprite to wander In forest paths, o'erarch'd with oak and beech; Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays, Sleeps on the dewy moss; what time the breath Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs, And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms. Or lie at sunset mid the purple heather, Listening the silver music that rings out From the pale mountain bells, sway'd by the wind. Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful night

shade!

LINES

WRITTEN IN LONDON.

STRUGGLE not with thy life!-the heavy doom Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave: Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb Thou shalt go crush'd and ground, though ne'er

so brave.

Complain not of thy life!-for what art thou

More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not

weep?

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrow'd brow, And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep. Marvel not at thy life!-patience shall see

The perfect work of wisdom to her given; Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

FRAGMENT.

WALKING by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature's solitary haunts
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew, link by link,
It seem'd as though the midnight heavens wax'd
brighter,

The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light play'd o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven or earth it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed;
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swell'd, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze; it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their

heads

Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams. Anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch or flower
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly did I mark; one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glisten'd, like a pearl, in its white bosom.