companions on a sea-voyage. The tales are as homely in style and incident as those of Crabbe, but are less interesting and less poetical. number of small occasional pieces, 'poems of the inner life,' were thrown off from time to time by the poet; and a selection from his papers, with letters and a memoir, edited by his widow, was published in two volumes in 1869.

Autumn in the Highlands.

It was on Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, Then when brackens are changed and heather-blooms are faded,

And amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie;

Alders are green, and oaks; the rowan scarlet and yellow;

One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the aspen, And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair of the birch-tree,

Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, and ear-rings,

Cover her now o'er and o'er; she is weary, and scatters them from her.

There upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,

Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip,

For as they talked, anon she said: 'It is well, Mr Philip;

Yes, it is well: I have spoken and learned a deal with the teacher.

At the last I told him all; I could not help it;

And it came easier with him than could have been with my father;

And he calmly approved as one that had fully considered. Yes, it is well, I have hoped, though quite too great and sudden;

I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for years yet; I am afraid, but believe in you; and I trust to the teacher;

You have done all things gravely and temperate, not as in passion;

And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell what is likely.

What my father will say, I know not; we will obey him :

But for myself, I could dare to believe all well, and

venture.

O Mr Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be different!' And she hid her face-oh, where, but in Philip's bosom.

Morning in the City.

As the light of day enters some populous city, Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day-streak signal,

High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out the gas-lamps

All the great empty streets are flooded with broadening clearness,

Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous access Permeates far and pierces to the very cellars lying in Narrow high back-lane, and court, and alley of alleys. He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding to the suburb,

Sees sights only peaceful and pure : as labourers settling

Slowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweetness of slumber;

Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not only Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the

Hampered as they haste, those running, these others Early clerk anon turning out to stroll, or it may be maidenly tripping; Meet his sweetheart-waiting behind the garden gate there;

Merchant on his grass-plat haply bare-headed; and now by this time

Little child bringing breakfast to 'father,' that sits on

the timber

In a Gondola on the Grand Canal, Venice.
Afloat; we move-delicious! Ah,
What else is like the gondola?
This level floor of liquid glass
Begins beneath us swift to pass.
It goes as though it went alone
By some impulsion of its own.
(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Were all things like the gondola !)

How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Could life as does our gondola,
Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,
And moral duties and affairs,
Unswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong,
For ever thus-thus glide along!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air;
With no more effort than expressed
The need and naturalness of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade
Should take on peaceful pillows laid!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

In one unbroken passage borne
To closing night from opening morn,
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark
Some palace front, some passing bark;
Through windows catch the varying shore,
And hear the soft turns of the oar !
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.

The distinguished American sculptor, MR W. STORY, whose Cleopatra' was the object of much interest and admiration in the Exhibition of 1862, has been a considerable contributor to our imaginative literature. His Ginevra da Siena, a long poem published in Blackwood's Magazine for June 1866; his Primitive Christian in Rome, published in the Fortnightly Review for December 1866; and his Graffiti d'Italia, 1868, are productions of genuine worth and interest. In 1870 Mr Story published a singular narrative poem in

blank verse on Judas's betrayal of Christ. The poet assumes that Judas was really devoted to his Master, was of an enthusiastic temperament, and believed that, if he delivered up Jesus, a glorious manifestation of the Godhead would take place, confounding the Saviour's enemies, and prostrating them in adoration; but when he saw Christ bound with cords and taken prisoner, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror, and flinging down the money he had received, went and hanged himself! The following is Mr Story's conception of the appearance of the Saviour on earth:

Tall, slender, not erect, a little bent;
Brows arched and dark; a high-ridged lofty head;
Thin temples, veined and delicate; large eyes,
Sad, very serious, seeming as it were
To look beyond you, and whene'er he spoke
Illumined by an inner lamping light-

At times, too, gleaming with a strange wild fire When taunted by the rabble in the streets; A Jewish face, complexion pale but dark; Thin, high-art nostrils, quivering constantly; Long nose, full lips, hands tapering, full of veins ; His movements nervous: as he walked he seemed Scarcely to heed the persons whom he passed, And for the most part gazed upon the ground. Besides the above poems and others scattered through periodical works, Mr Story is author of two interesting volumes in prose, Roba di Roma, or Walks about Rome, 1862. He has also published several legal works, and The Life and Letters of Justice Story, his father (1779-1845), a great legal authority in America. The artist himself is a native of Salem, Massachusetts, and was born in 1819.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The successor of Mr Longfellow in Harvard College has well sustained the honours of the professorial chair. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1819, appeared as an author in 1841, when he published a volume of poems entitled A Year's Life. In 1844 he produced a second series of Poems; in 1845, Conversations on some of the Old Poets; in 1848, a third series of Poems, and The Biglow Papers, a poetical satire on the invasion of Mexico by the United States, the slavery question, &c. In this last work Mr Lowell seems to have struck into the true vein of his genius. His humour is rich and original, and his use of the Yankee dialect was a novelty in literature. In his serious and sentimental verse the poet has several equals and some superiors in his own country; but as a humorist he is unrivalled. In January 1855 Mr Lowell succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-lettres in Harvard College. In 1864 appeared a second series of The Biglow Papers; in 1869, Under the Willows, and other Poems, and The Cathedral, an epic poem; in 1870, a volume of prose essays entitled Among my Books; and in 1871, My Study Windows, a second collection of essays, most of which had previously appeared in periodicals, and all of which are remarkable for critical taste and acumen. Mr Lowell has been connected editorially and as a contributor with many American reviews and magazines; has edited the poems of Marvell, Donne, Keats, Wordsworth, and Shelley, and also

I thank ye, my friens, for the warmth o' your greetin';
Ther''s few airthly blessins but wut's vain an' fleetin';
But ef ther' is one thet hain't no cracks an' flaws,
An' is wuth goin' in for, it's pop'lar applause;
It sends up the sperits ez lively ez rockets,
An' I feel it-wal, down to the eend o' my pockets.
Jes' lovin' the people is Canaan in view,
But it 's Canaan paid quarterly t' hev 'em love you;
It's a blessin' thet 's breakin' out ollus in fresh spots:
It's a-follerin' Moses 'thout losin' the flesh-pots.
An' folks like you 'n me, thet ain't ept to be sold,
Git somehow or 'nother left out in the cold.

I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a row,
Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln is now,
With Taney to say 't wuz all legle an' fair,
An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to swear
Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into the ditch
By the fault o' the North in misplacin' the switch.
Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss
'em ;

But the people they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em!
Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 'z you may say,
Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean away?
An' doosn't the right primy-fashy include
The bein' entitled to nut be subdued?
The fact is, we'd gone for the union so strong,
When union meant South ollus right an' North wrong,
Thet the people gut fooled into thinkin' it might
Worry on middlin' wal with the North in the right.

Hints to Statesmen.

A ginooine statesman should be on his guard,
Ef he must hev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 'em tu hard;
For, ez sure ez he does, he 'll be blartin' 'em out
"Thout regardin' the natur' o' man more 'n a spout,
Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a flaw
In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw :
An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint
Thet we'd better nut air our perceedins in print,
Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm,
Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, do us harm;
For when you've done all your real meanin' to
smother,

The darned things 'll up an' mean sunthin' or 'nother.
No, never say nothin' without you 're compelled tu,
An' then don't say nothin' thet you can be held tu,
Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' loose
For the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use.

What Mr Robinson Thinks.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
Thet th' apostles rigged out in their swallow-tail coats,
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes:
But John P.
Robinson, he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judec.

Invocation to Peace.

Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crust white,
Walk the col' starlight into summer;
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev been gladder o' sech things

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, They filled my heart with livin' springs, But now they seem to freeze 'em over; Sights innercent ez babes on knee,

Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, Jes' coz they be so, seem to me

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.

In-doors an' out by spells I try;

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin', But leaves my natur' stiff an' dry

Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same,

Calmer than clock-work, an' not carin',
An' findin' nary thing to blame,

Is wus than ef she took to swearin.
Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane
The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to what they're say'n',
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,

Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin'
Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale
To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Under the yaller-pines I house,

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, An' hear among their furry boughs

The baskin' west-wind purr contentedWhile 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low

Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow, Further an' further South retreatin'.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street

I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet

Thet follered once an' now are quiet, White feet ez snowdrops innercent,

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan,
Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.

Why, han't I held 'em on my knee?
Didn't I love to see 'em growin',

Three likely lads ez wal could be,

Handsome an' brave, an' not tu knowin'?

I set an' look into the blaze

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,

An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth
On war's red techstone true metal,
rang
Who ventered life an' love an' youth
For the gret prize o' death in battle?
To him who, deadly hurt, agen

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder,
Tippin' with fire the bolt of men

Thet rived the rebel line asunder?

'Tan't right to hev the young go fust,
All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces,
Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust
To try an' make b'lieve fill their places:

Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' thet world seems so fur from this Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners; I pity mothers, tu, down South,

For all they sot among the scorners : I'd sooner take my chance to stan'

At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han'

Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis !
Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted,
But proud, to meet a people proud,
With eyes that tell o' triumph tasted!
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,

An' step that proves ye Victory's daughter! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water! Come, while our country feels the lift

Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, An' knows thet freedom an't a gift

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men, A nation saved, a race delivered!

The Courtin'.

Zekle crep up, quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's arm that gran'ther Young
Fetched back frum Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiney on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in,
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu,
Araspin' on the scraper-
All ways to once her feelins flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the seekle;
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

The eldest son of the celebrated Dr Arnold of Rugby has inherited no small share of his father's critical talent and independent judgment. MATTHEW ARNOLD was born at Laleham, near Staines, in Middlesex, December 24, 1822. He won the Newdigate Prize at Oxford in 1843, by a poem on Cromwell, and was elected a Fellow of Oriel College in 1845. In 1847 the Marquis of Lansdowne nominated him his private secretary, and he held this post till 1851, when he was appointed one of the government school inspectors.

Previous to this, Mr Arnold published anonymously The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems; in 1853 appeared Empedocles on Etna, and other Poems; and in 1854, Poems, the first volume to which his name was attached, and which consisted of selections from the previous two volumes, with the addition of some new pieces. In 1857 Mr Arnold was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford; and in the year following he published Merope, a tragedy after the antique, with a preface, in which he explains and comments on the principles of the Greek tragedy. In 1861 he published Three Lectures On Translating Homer; and in 1867 a new volume of Poems. In 1869 he issued a collected edition of his Poems in two volumes, the first narrative and elegiac, the second dramatic and lyric. As a poet, Mr Arnold may be ranked with Lord Lytton; he is a classic and elaborate versifier, often graceful, but without the energy and fire of the true poet. His prose works include Essays on Criticism, 1865; On the Study of Celtic Literature, 1867; Culture and Anarchy, 1869; St Paul and Protestantism, 1870; &c. A somewhat haughty aristocratic spirit pervades these essays. Mr Arnold has no patience with the middle-class 'Philistines,' the dullards and haters of light, who care only for what is material and practical. He is also a zealous Churchman, with little regard for Nonconformists or Puritans; yet in all these treatises are fine trains of thought and criticism, and original suggestive observations from which all sects may profit. Mr Arnold has received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from both Edinburgh and Oxford universities.

The following is a specimen of Mr Arnold's blank verse:

Mycerinus.

Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He was a just king, according to Herodotus, but an oracle proclaimed that he was to live but six years longer, on which he abdicated his throne, and, accompanied by a band of revellers, retired to the silence of the groves and woods.'

There by the river banks he wandered on
From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,
Their smooth tops shining sunwards, and beneath
Burying their unsunned stems in grass and flowers;
Where in one dream the feverish time of youth
Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy
Might wander all day long and never tire.
Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,
Rose-crowned, and ever, when the sun went down,
A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom,
From tree to tree, all through the twinkling grove,
Revealing all the tumult of the feast,

Flushed guests, and golden goblets, foamed with wine;
While the deep-burnished foliage overhead
Splintered the silver arrows of the moon.

It may be that sometimes his wondering soul
From the loud joyful laughter of his lips
Might shrink half-startled, like a guilty man
Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale Shape,
Gliding half-hidden through the dusky stems,
Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,
Whispering: A little space, and thou art mine.'
It may be on that joyless feast his eye
Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,
Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,
And by that silent knowledge, day by day,
Was calmed, ennobled, comforted, sustained.
It may be ; but not less his brow was smooth,
And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom,
And his mirth quailed not at the mild reproof
Sighed out by winter's sad tranquillity;

Nor, palled with its own fullness, ebbed and died
In the rich languor of long summer days;
Nor withered, when the palm-tree plumes, that roofed
With their mild dark his grassy banquet hall,
Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring;
No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds.
So six long years he revelled, night and day;
And when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull sound
Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came,
To tell his wondering people of their king;
In the still night, across the steaming flats,
Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile.

Children Asleep.-From Tristram and Isrult.
They sleep in sheltered rest,
Like helpless birds in the warm nest,
On the castle's southern side;
Where feebly comes the mournful roar
Of buffeting wind and surging tide
Through many a room and corridor.
Full on their window the moon's ray
Makes their chamber as bright as day;
It shines upon the blank white walls,
And on the snowy pillow falls,
And on two angel-heads doth play
Turned to each other-the eyes closed,
The lashes on the cheeks reposed.
Round each sweet brow the
cap close-set
Hardly lets peep the golden hair;
Through the soft-opened lips the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet.

One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane,
And often the fingers close in haste,
As if their baby owners chased
The butterflies again.

Lines written in Kensington Gardens.

In this lone open glade I lie,

Screened by deep boughs on either hand, And, at its head, to stay the eye,

Those dark-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand.

Birds here make song; each bird has his
Across the girdling city's hum;

How green under the boughs it is!

How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead,

Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass!
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirred forest fresh and clear.
Scarce fresher is the mountain sod

Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, And, eased of basket and of rod,

Counts his day's spoil, his spotted trout.

In the huge world which roars hard by
Be others happy, if they can;
But, in my helpless cradle, I

Was breathed on by the rural Pan.

I on men's impious uproar hurled
Think often, as I hear them rave
That peace has left the upper world,
And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace for ever new!
When I, who watch them, am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.

Then to their happy rest they pass,

The flowers close, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed. Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine,

Man did not make, and cannot mar!

The will to neither strive nor cry,

The power to feel with others, give! Calm, calm me more, nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI-MISS ROSSETTI.

An English artist, MR D. G. ROSSETTI, one of the originators of what is termed the Pre-Raphaelite style of art, or imitation of the early Italian painters, with their vivid colours, minute details, and careful finish, is known also as a poet and translator. In 1861 Mr Rossetti published The Early Italian Poets from Ciullo d'Alcamo to Dante Alighieri (1100-1200-1300), in the original metres, together with Dante's Vita Nuova. In 1870 he issued a volume of Poems, some of which were early productions printed in periodical works. Nearly all of them are in form and colour, subject and style of treatment, similar to the PreRaphaelite pictures. The first relates the thoughts and musings of a maiden in heaven while waiting the arrival of her lover from the land of the living:

From The Blessed Damozel.

The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe ungirt from clasp to hem,
Nor wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift

For service, meetly worn;

And her hair hanging down her back,
Was yellow like ripe corn.

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on,

By God built over the starry depth,
The which is space begun,

So high that looking downward thence,
She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in heaven, across the flood
Of ether like a bridge,
Beneath the tides of day and night,
With flame and darkness ridge,
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.

Heard hardly some of her new friends
Amid their loving games,
Spake evermore among themselves
Their virginal chaste names:
And the souls mounting up to God,
Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself, and stooped
Out of the circling charm,
Until her bosom must have made
The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep,

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.

The Sea Limits.

Consider the sea's listless chime ;
Time's self it is, made audible-
The murmur of the earth's own shell
Secret continuance sublime

Is the sea's end: our sight may pass
No furlong further. Since time was,
This sound hath told the lapse of time.

No quiet, which is death's-it hath

The mournfulness of ancient life,
Enduring always at dull strife.
As the world's heart of rest and wrath,
Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands
Gray and not known, along its path.
Listen alone beside the sea,

Listen alone among the woods;
Those voices of twin solitudes
Shall have one sound alike to thee:
Hark when the murmurs of thronged men
Surge and sink back and surge again-
Still the one voice of wave and tree.
Gather a shell from the strown beach,*
And listen at its lips; they sigh
The same desire and mystery,
The echo of the whole sea's speech.
And all mankind is thus at heart
Not anything but what thou art ;
And earth, sea, man, are all in each.

Mr Rossetti is a native of London, born in 1828, son of Mr Gabriel Rossetti, Professor of Italian at King's College, London, and author of a Commentary on Dante (1826-27), who died in 1854, aged seventy-one.

CHRISTINA GABRIELA ROSSETTI (born in 1830), daughter of the Professor, and sister of the above Dante Gabriel, is also an author, having written Goblin Market, and other Poems, 1862; Prince's Progress, 1866; Commonplace and other Short Stories (in prose), 1870; Nursery Rhyme Book, 1872; &c.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

In 1865 appeared a dramatic poem entitled Atalanta in Calydon, founded on the beautiful Greek legend of Calydon, and thoroughly Grecian in form and spirit. This work was hailed, both by the lovers and critics of poetry, as one of the most finished imaginative poems produced since the days of Shelley. 'It is the produce,' said the Edinburgh Review, 'not of the tender lyrical faculty which so often waits on sensitive youth, and afterwards fades into the common light of day, nor even of the classical culture of which it is itself a signal illustration, but of an affluent apprehensive genius which, with ordinary care and fair fortune, will take a foremost place in English literature.' In truth, the young poet had by this one bound

*This image of the sea-shell had been previously used both by Landor and Wordsworth.