placed himself in the first rank of our poets. His next work, Chastelard (1865), was a tragedy founded on the story of Mary, Queen of Scots, and the unfortunate young chevalier who accompanied the queen from France, and who fell a victim to his romantic and extravagant passion for Mary. The subject was a perilous one for the drama, even when handled with the utmost delicacy; but MR SWINBURNE treated it with voluptuous warmth; while his portrait of the heroine, whom he represented as cruel, relentless, and licentious, shocked the admirers of the queen. In 1866 appeared a volume of Poems and Ballads, which was considered so strongly objectionable, that Mr Swinburne's publishers, Messrs Moxon & Co., withdrew it from circulation. To the critical outcry against it, the poet replied in a pamphlet of Notes protesting against the prudery of his assailants; and one of his friends, Mr W. M. Rossetti, in a Criticism on Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, pleaded that 'in fact Mr Swinburne's mind appeared to be very like a tabula rasa on moral and religious subjects, so occupied is it with instincts, feelings, perceptions, and a sense of natural or artistic fitness and harmony!' The subsequent works of the poet areA Song of Italy, 1867; William Blake, a Critical Essay, 1867; Siena, a poem, 1868; Ode on the Proclamation of the French Republic, 1870; and Songs before Sunrise, 1871. He has also edited selections from the poems of Byron and Coleridge, and contributed a few admirable critical essays to literary journals. Mr Swinburne is a native of London, son of Admiral Swinburne, and born in 1837. He received his earlier education in France and at Eton; in 1857 he was entered a commoner of Balliol College, Oxford, but left the university without taking a degree. In his twenty-third year he published two plays, The Queen Mother and Rosamund, which exhibit literary power, but are crude and immature productions. We subjoin some extracts from Calydon. In these may be noted one drawback, which has come to be a mannerism of the poet-a too great proneness to alliteration. 'I will something affect the letter,' says Holofernes, 'for it argues facility;' but in highly poetical and melodious lines like the following, it is a defect. Extract from 'Atalanta in Calydon? CHIEF HUNTSMAN. Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars A light for dead men and dark hours, a foot man See goodlier hounds or deadlier hedge of spears; Rise up, shine, stretch thine hand out, with thy bow Touch the most dimmest height of trembling heaven, All gold, or shuddering or unfurrowed snow; Chorus. Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Grief, with a glass that ran; And Life, the shadow of death. From under the feet of the years; And dust of the labouring earth; In the houses of death and of birth; And death beneath and above, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south And night, and sleep in the night. In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; In 1874 Mr Swinburne published an epic drama or tragedy, Bothwell, continuing the history of Mary, Queen of Scots, after the episode of Chastelard. This tragedy of Bothwell is a most voluminous work-upwards of 15,000 lines-and with a numerous dramatis persona, including, besides Darnley and the Queen, the four Maries, Rizzio, John Knox, the Regent Murray, French and English ambassadors, &c. Though much too long and deficient in variety of situations and incidents for an English play, Bothwell is a powerful production-the most masterly of Mr Swinburne's dramatic works. Mary he has drawn in colours dark as the portraiture by Froude-as treacherous, passionate, fierce, cruel, and sensuous-a second Lady Macbeth. The historical facts, and much of the language of Knox and others, are skilfully introduced and interwoven with the passionate scenes; while occasionally French and English songs relieve the long dialogues. Carberry Hill: Parting of Bothwell and Queen Mary. Queen. Do not speak yet a word should burst my heart; It is a hollow crystal full of tears That even a breath might break, and they be spilt, Bothwell. Well, being sundered, we may live, Queen. O how does one break faith? My truth and trust that makes me true of heart, Fly where love will? Where will you turn from me? Queen. Ah God, that we were set Bothwell. But till Time change his tune : But what hath been and is, and whence they are, Re-enter KIRKALDY. With them you must go back to Edinburgh, Queen. Ay is it, sir; the last word I shall hear- Bothwell. Then, farewell, I do not think one can die more than this. Kirkaldy. My Lord is gone! Mary leaves Scotland. [Exit. Queen. Methinks the sand yet cleaving to my foot On those that would have quenched it. I will make Or bow mine own down to no royal end, Mary Beaton. But I will never leave you till you die. In 1876 Mr Swinburne published Erechtheus, a Tragedy, founded on a fragment of Euripides, and characterised by the same fine classic spirit which distinguished Atalanta in Calydon, but evincing more matured power and a richer imagination. The poet is young, and we may hope for some still greater work from him. ROBERT BUCHANAN. ROBERT BUCHANAN, a native of Scotland, born in 1841, and educated at the High School and University of Glasgow, whilst still a minor produced a volume of poems entitled Undertones, 1860. He has since published various works, and contributed largely to periodicals. Residing mostly at Oban in Argyleshire, the young poet has visited in his yacht and described the picturesque islands and scenes of the Hebrides with true poetic taste and enthusiasm. His prose work, The Land of Lorne, 2 vols. 1871, contains some exquisite descriptions of the sea-board of Lorne and the outlying isles, from Mull to the Long Island. The poetical works of Mr Buchanan, besides the Undertones, are Idylls of Inverburn, 1865; London Poems, 1866; translation of Danish Ballads, 1866; The Book of Orm, a Prelude to the Epic, 1870; Napoleon Fallen, a Lyrical Drama, 1871; The Drama of Kings, 1871 ; &c. In 1874 Mr Buchanan commenced the publication of a collected edition of his poetical works in five volumes―a very tasteful and interesting reprint. The Curse of Glencoe. Alas for Clan Ian !* alas for Glencoe ! The lovely are fled, and the valiant are low! They chased on your hills, in your hall did they dine, They ate of your bread, and they drank of your wine, The hand clasped at midnight in friendship, was hued With crimson, ere morn, in your life-streaming blood. Glenlyon! Glenlyon! the false and the fell! And Lindsay and Drummond, twin bloodhounds of hell! On your swords, on your souls, wheresoever ye go, Its spell be upon you by day and by night- Its spell be upon you to shrink, when you see blood! And hark! from the mountains of Moray and Mar, Round the flag of a King, rise the shouts of a warThen, then, false clan Dermid, with wasting and woe Comes the reckoning for blood, comes the curse of Glencoe ! Youth. Ah! through the moonlight of autumnal years suns; The berry glittered and the brown nut fell The young were merrier when our life was young; Of Mr Buchanan's prose description (which is Thy rocks that look down from their cloudland of air, poetry in all but rhyme or form) we subjoin a But shadow destruction, or shelter despair! No voice greets the bard from his desolate glen, No voice but the eagle's that screams o'er the slain, Alas for Clan Ian! alas for Glencoe! Our hearths are forsaken, our homesteads are low! There cubs the red hill-fox, the coy mountain-deer Disports through our gardens, and feeds without fear. Thy sons, a sad remnant, faint, famished, and few, Ye sleep not, my kinsmen, the sleep of the brave! specimen : The Seasons in the Highlands. The As the year passes, there is always something new to attract one who loves nature. When the winds of March have blown themselves faint, and the April heaven has ceased weeping, there comes a rich sunny day, and all at once the cuckoo is heard telling his name to all the hills. Never was such a place for cuckoos in the world. cry comes from every tuft of wood, from every hillside, from every projecting crag. The bird himself, so far from courting retirement, flutters across your path at every step, attended invariably by half a dozen excited small birds; alighting a few yards off, crouches down for a moment, between his slate-coloured wings; and finally, rising again, crosses your path with his sovereign cry. O blithe new-comer, I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. Then, as if at a given signal, the trout leaps a foot into the air from the glassy loch, the buds of the water-lily float to the surface, the lambs bleat from the green and heathery slopes; the rooks caw from the distant rookery; the cock-grouse screams from the distant hill-top; and the blackthorn begins to blossom over the nut-brown John,' agreeably to a practice in use among the clans, in order to pools of the burn. Pleasant days follow, days of high white clouds and fresh winds whose wings are full of The Macdonalds of Glencoe were styled Mac-Ians, 'the race of distinguish them from other branches of their common name. warm dew. If you are a sportsman you rejoice, for there is not a hawk to be seen anywhere, and the weasel and foumart have not yet begun to promenade the mountains. About this time more rain falls, preliminary to a burst of fine summer weather, and innumerable glow-worms light their lamps in the marshes. At last the golden days come, and all things are busy with their young. Frequently in the midsummer, there is drought for weeks together. Day after day the sky is cloudless and blue; the mountain lake sinks lower and lower, till it seems to dry up entirely; the mountain brooks dwindle to mere silver threads for the water-ousel to fly by, and the young game often die for want of water; while afar off, with every red vein distinct in the burning light, without a drop of vapour to moisten his scorching crags, stands Ben Cruachan. By this time the hills are assuming their glory the mysterious bracken has shot up all in a night, to cover them with a green carpet between the knolls of heather; the lichen is pencilling the crags with most delicate silver, purple, and gold; and in all the valleys there are stretches of light yellow corn and deep-green patches of foliage. The corn-crake has come, and his cry fills the valleys. Walking on the edge of the corn-field you put up the partridges-fourteen cheepers, the size of a thrush, and the old pair to lead them. From the edge of the peat-bog the old cock-grouse rises, and if you are sharp you may see the young following the old hen through the deep heather close by. The snipe drums in the marsh. The hawk, having brought out his young among the crags of Kerrera, is hovering still as stone over the edge of the hill. Then perchance, just at the end of July, there is a gale from the south, blowing for two days black as Erebus with cloud and rain; then going up into the north-west, and blowing for one day with little or no rain; and dying away at last with a cold puff from the north. All at once, as it were, the sharp sound of firing is echoed from hill to hill; and on every mountain-top you see the sportsman climbing, with his dog ranging above and before him, the keeper following, and the gillie lagging far behind. It is the twelfth of August. Thenceforth for two months at least there are broiling days interspersed with storms and showers, and the firing continues more or less from dawn to sunset. Day after day, as the autumn advances, the tint of the hills is getting deeper and richer; and by October, when the beech leaf yellows, and the oak leaf reddens, the dim purples and deep greens of the heather are perfect. Of all seasons in Lorne the late autumn is perhaps the most beautiful. The sea has a deeper hue, the sky a mellower light. There are long days of northerly wind, when every crag looks perfect, wrought in gray and gold, and silvered with moss, when the high clouds turn luminous at the edges, when a thin film of hoar-frost gleams over the grass and heather, when the light burns rosy and faint over all the hills, from Morven to Cruachan, for hours before the sun goes down. Out of the ditch at the woodside flaps the mallard, as you pass in the gloaming, and, standing by the side of the small mountain loch, you see the flock of teal rise, wheel thrice, and settle. The hills are desolate, for the sheep are being smeared. There is a feeling of frost in the air, and Ben Cruachan has a crown of snow. When dead of winter comes, how wondrous look the hills in their white robes! The round red ball of the sun looks through the frosty steam. The far-off firth gleams strange and ghostly, with a sense of mysterious distance. The mountain loch is a sheet of blue, on which you may disport in perfect solitude from morn to night, with the hills white on all sides, save where the broken snow shews the rusted leaves of the withered bracken. A deathly stillness and a deathlike beauty reign everywhere, and few living things are discernible, save the hare plunging heavily out of her form in the snow, or the rabbit scuttling off in a snowy spray, or the small birds piping disconsolate on the trees and dykes. WILLIAM MORRIS. merit, cast in the old story-telling style of Chaucer, Two poems of great length and undoubted and several interesting translations from Icelandic authors, have been produced by WILLIAM MORRIS, London, born in 1834, and educated at Exeter College, Oxford. The first work of Mr Morris was a poem, The Defence of Guenevere, 1858. This was followed by The Life and Death of Jason, 1867—a poem in seventeen books, presenting a series of fine pictures and bright clear narratives flowing on in a strain of pure and easy versification. The next work of the author was a still more voluminous poem, The Earthly Paradise, in four parts, 1868-70. "Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troubles, and the lapse of many years, came old men to some western land, of which they had never before heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, much honoured of the strange people.' The author says of himself— Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas tide such wondrous things did shew, In the manner of this northern wizard, Mr Morris presents the tales of his Earthly Paradise under the aspects of the different seasons of the year. The first and second parts range from March to August, and include fourteen tales-Atalanta's Race, the Doom of King Acrisius, Cupid and Psyche, the Love of Alcestis, the Son of Croesus, Pygmalion and the Image, Ogier the Dane, and others. Part III., or 'September, October, and November,' contains the Death of Paris, the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, the Story of Acontius and Cydippe, the Man who never Laughed Again, the Lovers of Gudrun, &c. Part IV., or Winter, December, January, and February,' contains the Story of the Golden Apples, the Fostering of Aslang, Bellerophon at Argos, Bellerophon in Lycia, the Hill of Venus, &c. In this mixture of classic and Gothic fable, and in the number of tales in each part, the reader has variety enough in the Earthly Paradise, but the poem is too long ever to obtain general popularity. July. Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent Peace and content without us, love within, E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat, He cannot waste his life-but thou and I- Song-From The Love of Alcestis. O dwellers on the lovely earth, Than these blue waves that kiss the shore. O brooder on the hills of heaven, FRANCIS BRET HARTE. An American humorist, somewhat in the style of Professor Lowell, has recently appeared in the pages of the Californian and United States journals, and whose fame soon spread to this country. FRANCIS BRET HARTE was born in Albany, New York, in 1831. His works have been republished in 1871 and 1872, by two London booksellers (Hotten, and Routledge & Co.), and consist of East and West, That Heathen Chinee, Truthful James, The Luck of Roaring Camp, &c. A prose work, Condensed Novels, is a travesty of some popular works of fiction. We subjoin one of Bret Harte's graver effusions: A Sanitary Message. Last night, above the whistling wind, A fusilade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane: The key-hole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew ; Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife A softer voice stole through. 'Give thanks, O brothers!' said the voice, 'I come to wash away no stain I raise no banners save the ones Upon the mountain-side, where Spring 'I visit every humble roof; My blessings fall in snow; And thus all night, above the wind, A tattoo on the pane: The key-hole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew ; But, mingling with these sounds of strife, This hymn of peace stole through. ELIZA COOK-MRS PARKES BELLOE-MISS HUME -MISS PROCTER-ISA CRAIG-KNOX JEAN INGELOW-MRS WEBSTER. In poetry, as in prose fiction, ladies crowd the arena, and contend for the highest prizes. Among other fair competitors are the following: In 1840 MISS ELIZA COOK (born in Southwark, London, about 1818) published a volume of miscellaneous poems, entitled Melaia, and other Poems. A great number of small pieces have also been contributed by Miss Cook to periodical works; and in 1849 she established a weekly periodical, Eliza Cook's Journal, which enjoyed considerable popularity from 1849 until 1854, when ill health compelled Miss Cook to give it up. In 1864 she published a second volume of poems, New Echoes, &c.; and the same year a pension of £100 a year was settled on the authoress. Old Songs. Old songs! old songs !—what heaps I knew, To greet Tom Bowling' and 'Poor Jack ;' I doted on the 'Auld Scots' Sonnet,' As though I'd worn the plaid and bonnet ; I went abroad with 'Sandy's Ghost,' I stood with Bannockburn's brave host, |