'My gentle lad, what is't you read— Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?' The young boy gave an upward glance"It is the Death of Abel.' The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again : And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain; And, long since then, of bloody men, And hid in sudden graves; And how the sprites of injured men Are seen in dreams from God! He told how murderers walked the earth And well,' quoth he,' know, for truth, Wo, wo, unutterable wo Who spill life's sacred stream! For why Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream! One that had never done me wrongA feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold! Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I feared him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill! And lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flameTen thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by the hand, And called upon his name! Oh God, it made me quake to see My head was like an ardent coal, A dozen times I groaned; the dead And now from forth the frowning sky, I heard a voice-the awful voice I took the dreary body up, Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, I could not share in childish prayer, And peace went with them one and all, But Guilt was my grim chamberlain And drew my midnight curtains round, All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, One stern, tyrannic thought, that made Heavily I rose up as soon As light was in the sky- Merrily rose the lark, and shook For I was stooping once again With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, There was no time to dig a grave In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, And all that day I read in school, But my thought was other where ! As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, Or land or sea, though he should be Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream And my red right hand grows raging hot, And still no peace for the restless clay The horrid thing pursues my soul- The fearful boy looked up, and saw That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist. ALFRED TENNYSON. ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published two volumes of poetry in 1830 and 1832. They contain various pieces, domestic and romantic -some imaginative and richly-coloured-the diction being choice and fine, but occasionally injured by affected expressions. Among our secondary living poets, there is no one of whom higher expectations may be formed than Mr Tennyson; for, with his luxuriant fancy and musical versification, he is often highly original in his thoughts and conceptions. He reminds us at times of Leigh Hunt, but his spirit is more searching, as well as expansive. Mr Tennyson has perhaps more to unlearn than to learn in the art of poetry, and it may be hoped that he will shake off his conceits, and take a bolder flight than he has yet attempted. Love and Death. What time the mighty moon was gathering light, And talking to himself, first met his sight: Love wept, and spread his sheeny vans for flight; Life eminent creates the shade of death; The Sleeping Palace. The varying year with blade and sheaf Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the tomb. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns, Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. Roof-haunting martens warm their eggs: In these, in those the life is stayed. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily: no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are severed as to speak: His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that through the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gathered in a ring. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows High up the topmost palace-spire. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward rolled, Glows forth each softly shadowed arm With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. [From the Palace of Art.'] Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters, That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sundered without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. [From the Miller's Daughter.'] Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul with thine! Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; The comfort I have found in thee: THOMAS B. MACAULAY. MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration of Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers in the Edinburgh Review, gratified and surprised the public by a volume of poetry in 1842. He had previously, in his young collegiate days, thrown off a few spirited ballads, (one of which, The War of the League, is here subjoined); and in all his prose works there are indications of strong poetical feeling and fancy. No man paints more clearly and vividly to the eye, or is more studious of the effects of contrast and the proper grouping of incidents. He is generally picturesque, eloquent, and impressive. His defects are a want of simplicity and tenderness, and an excessive love of what Izaak Walton called strong writing. The same characteristics pervade his recent work, the Lays of Ancient Rome. Adopting the theory of Niebuhr (now generally acquiesced in as correct), that the heroic and romantic incidents related by Livy of the early history of Rome, are founded merely on ancient ballads and legends, he selects four of these incidents as themes for his verse. Identifying himself with the plebeians and tribunes, he makes them chant the martial stories of Horatius Cocles, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys. The style is homely, abrupt, and energetic, carrying us along like the exciting narratives of Scott, and presenting brief but striking pictures of local scenery and manners. The truth of these descriptions is strongly impressed upon the mind of the reader, who seems to witness the heroic scenes so clearly and energetically described. The masterly ballads of Mr Macaulay must be read continuously, to be properly appreciated; for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole. The following are parts of the first Lay:: [The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.] Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Unwatched along Clitumnus The harvests of Arretium, This year old men shall reap; This year the must shall foam [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate: 'To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods, And for the tender mother Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the tribunes beard the high, As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. [The Fate of the first Three who advance against the Heroes of Rome.] Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium, Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; Who slew the great wild boar, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. 'Lie there,' he cried, "fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark [Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself.] He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, The good sword stood a handbreath out And the great Lord of Luna The giant arms lie spread; On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, 'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome, [The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.] Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river 'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. [How Horatius was Rewarded.] They gave him of the corn-land, Could plough from morn till night : And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, And underneath is written, How valiantly he kept the bridge And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the goodman mends his armour, How well Horatius kept the bridge The War of the League. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our lord the King.' די 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he | |