The following lines were written by the Marquis of Montrose, upon the execution of Charles the First. He shut himself up for three days; and when Dr. Wishart, his chaplain, and the elegant historian of his wars, was admitted to him, he found these verses, which probably were intended as a sort of vow, on his table. We all know how that vow was redeemed.

Great, good, and just! could I but rate

My grief to thy too rigid fate,

I'd weep the world to such a strain

As it should deluge once again;

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,

I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.

LOVE VERSES, BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

Sometimes the jargon of the different governments of the day, and sometimes the technical phrases of warfare, are made strange use of in these verses; yet some of the lines are so noble, and many so original, that we forgive this soldierly mode of wooing in favour of its frankness. It is to be presumed the lady did the same.

My dear and only love, I pray
This noble world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest monarchy.
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert's too small,

That puts it not unto the touch

To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find
Thou shun'st the prize to bore,
Or that thou sett'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

Or in the empire of thy heart,
Where I would solely be,
Another do pretend a part,

And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,
And goest on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,

I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before,

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee evermore.

Could it be in woman to resist such promises from such

a man?

PART SECOND.

My dear and only love, take heed
Lest thou thyself expose,

And let all longing lovers feed
Upon such looks as those;

A marble wall, then, build about,
Beset, without a door,

But, if thou let thy heart fly out,
I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,
Make any breach at all,

Nor smoothness of their language plot
Which way to scale the wall;

Nor balls of wildfire love consume
The shrine which I adore,
For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise,
Which victuall'd by my love so long,

The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee ruled in that health
And state thou wast before;
But if thou turn a Commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

But if by fraud or by consent
Thy heart to ruin come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,
Nor march by beat of drum;

But hold my arms like ensigns up,
Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire;

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor,
And smiling sing, until I die,—
I'll never love thee more.

Yet for the love I bare thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,
A monument of marble stone
The truth shall testify,
That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why
I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung,

A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue.
Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end,
Love one, and love no more.

Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with the point of a diamond upon the glass window of his prison, after receiving his sentence:—

Let them bestow on every airth a limb;
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboil'd head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes; strew them in the air :—

Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,

I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust,

And confident Thou 'lt raise me with the Just.

They who would follow the great Marquis to the last should read the fine ballad called "The Execution of Montrose," in Professor Aytoun's charming volume, "The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers."

XXIV.

POETRY THAT POETS LOVE.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR-LEIGH HUNT-PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

JOHN KEATS.

Mr. Landor. No
Nearly fifty years

To no one can the words that I have placed at the head of this paper apply more perfectly than to poetry was ever dearer to poets than his. ago, we find Southey writing of and to the author of "Gebir," with a respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man for another; and, from that hour to the present, all whom he would himself most wish to please have showered upon him praises that cannot die. The difficulty in selecting from his works is the abundance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming volume, because few, very few, have given such present life to classical subjects. I begin with the Preface, so full of grace and modesty.

"It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gentlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily promenade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated on an old wall, high up, and sadly weak in colouring. As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there should be one) will remember that Sculpture and Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the scenes and figures which we venture once more to introduce in poetry; it being our belief that what is becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbecoming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth to them."

And now comes the very first story; with its conclusion that goes straight to the heart.

THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE.

Who will away to Athens with me? Who

Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers
Unenvious? Mount the pinnace; hoist the sail.

I promise ye, as many as are here,

Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard, or a plant ill-pruned.
But such as anciently the Ægean isles
Poured in libation at their solemn feasts;
And the same goblets shall ye grasp, embost
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have lived with and have led.
The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail
Plays yonder? What pursues it? Like two hawks
Away they fly. Let us away in time

To overtake them. Are they menaces

We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak,
Enraged at her defender? Hippias!

Art thou the man? 'T was Hippias. He had found
His sister borne from the Cecropion port

By Thrasy medes. And reluctantly?
Ask, ask the maiden; I have no reply.
"Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love,
If pity ever touched thy breast, forbear!
Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved,
My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone
Protecting his own head and mine from harm."
"Didst thou not once before," cried Hippias,
Regardless of his sister, hoarse with wrath
At Thrasymedes, "didst thou not, dog-eyed,
Dare, as she walked up to the Parthenon
On the most holy of all holy days,

In sight of all the city, dare to kiss
Her maiden cheek?"

"Ay, before all the gods,

Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis,
Ay, before Aphrodite, before Herè,

I dared; and dare again. Arise, my spouse!
Arise and let my lips quaff purity

From thy fair open brow."

The sword was up,

And yet he kissed her twice. Some god withheld The arm of Hippias; his proud blood seethed slower And smote his breast less angrily; he laid

His hand on the white shoulder and spoke thus : "Ye must return with me.

A second time

Offended, will our sire Peisistratos

Pardon the affront? Thou shouldst have asked thyself
That question ere the sail first flapt the mast."
"Already thou hast taken life from me;

Put up thy sword," said the sad youth, his eyes
Sparkling; but whether love or rage or grief
They sparkled with, the gods alone could see.
Peirceus they re-entered, and their ship