Abbot and abbess, side by side, return
To old companionship of innocence,
Our hearts re-purified at the altar's flame:
And thus let second childhood lead us, lovingly
As did the first, adown life's gentle slope,
To our unrocking cradle-one same grave?

Eth. I could, even now, sleep to the lullaby
Sung by Death's gossip, that assiduous crone,
Who hushes all our race!-if one hope fail,
One single, life-endearing hope-

Edg. Dear brother, [brow, Take hope from my content!-though pale this 'Tis calm as if she smiled on it, yon Prioress Of heaven's pure nunnery, whose placid cheer O'erlooks the world beneath her; this wren's voice, Though weak, preserveth lightsome tone and tenor, Ne'er sick with joy like the still-hiccupping swallow's,

Ne'er like the nightingale's with grief. Believe me Seclusion is the blessedest estate

Life owns; wouldst be amongst the bless'd on earth, Hie thither!

Eth. Ay-and what are my poor Saxons To do without their king?

Edg. Have they not thanes

And chiefs?

Eth. Without their father? their defender? Now specially, when rumours of the Dane Borne hither by each chill Norwegian wind, Like evening thunder creep along the ocean With many a mutter'd threat of morrow dire ? No! no! I must not now desert my Saxons, Who ne'er deserted me!

Edg. Is there none else

To king it?

Eth. None save the Etheling should; he cannot: Childe Edmund is o'er-green in wit; though pre

mature

In that too for his years, and grown by exercise
Of arms, and practice of all manlike feats,-
Which his bent towards them makes continual,
As young hawks love to use their beaks and wings
In coursing sparrows ere let loose at herons,-
Grown his full pitch of stature. Ah! dear sister,
Thy choice and lot with thy life's duties chime,
All cast for privacy. So best! our world
Hath need of such as thee and thy fair nuns,
And these good fathers of the monastery,
To teach youth, tend the poor, the sick, the sad,
Relume the extinguish'd lights of ancient lore,
Making each little cell a glorious lantern
To beam forth truth o'er our benighted age,
With other functions high, howe'er so humble,
Which I disparage not! But, dearest sister,
Even the care of our own soul becomes
A sin-base selfishness-when we neglect
All care for others; and self-love too oft
Is the dark shape in which the devil haunts
Nunneries, monkeries, and most privacies,
Where your devout recluse, devoted less
To God than self, works for his single weal;
When like that God he should, true catholic,
Advance the universal where he may.....
You see this penitential garb,

Yet call me best of men?

Eth. No! Unbosom'd pain Is half dismiss'd. I'll keep my punisher with me. Press me not! there is a way to crush the heart And still its aching as you bind the head When it throbs feverish.

Edg. Have care of that! There is a way to secret suicide, By crushing the swoln heart until you kill. Beware! self-death is no less sinful, given By sorrow's point conceal'd than by the sword.

Eth. Nay, I am jocund; let's to supper! There! A king shall be his own house-knight, and serve. See what a feast! we Saxons love good cheer!

[He takes from a cupboard pulse, bread, and water.] Edg. Ah! when he will but smile, how he can smile!

'Tis feigning all! this death sits on his bosom
Heavily as Night-Mara's horned steed:
His cares for the whole realm oppress him too :
And our book-learned Prior oft draws up
From some deep fountain a clear drop of truth,
Great natures are much given to melancholy.

A SONG FROM ETHELSTAN.

O'ER the wild gannet's bath
Come the Norse coursers!
O'er the whale's heritance
Gloriously steering!
With beak'd heads peering,
Deep-plunging, high-rearing,
Tossing their foam abroad,
Shaking white manes aloft,
Creamy-neck'd, pitchy-ribb'd,
Steeds of the Ocean!

O'er the Sun's mirror green
Come the Norse coursers!
Trampling its glassy breadth
Into bright fragments!
Hollow-back'd, huge-bosom'd,
Fraught with mail'd riders,
Clanging with hauberks,
Shield, spear, and battle-axe,
Canvas-wing'd, cable-rein'd,
Steeds of the Ocean!

O'er the wind's ploughing-field
Come the Norse coursers!
By a hundred each ridden,
To the bloody feast bidden,
They rush in their fierceness
And ravine all round them!
Their shoulders enriching
With fleecy-light plunder,
Fire-spreading, foe-spurning,
Steeds of the Ocean!

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

Ur the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.
Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,
As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.
Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain
Till its little breakers foam.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming, Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming Till we're at our play again.

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Down the dimpled green-sward dancing Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces,

Flush'd with joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At love's self, and do not fear it.

A VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

HERE he, your law, vociferous wits, Strong son of the sounding anvil, sits; Black and sharp his eyebrow edge, His hand smites heavily as his sledgeAt will he kindles bright discourse, Or blows it out, with blustrous force; The fiery talk, with dominant clamour, Moulds as hot metal with his hammer. Yet this swart sinewy boisterer, His wife and babe sit smiling near, All fairness with all feebleness in her arms, Safe in their innocence and in their charms.

SUICIDE.

FOOL! I mean not

That poor-soul'd piece of heroism, self-slaughter:
Oh no! the miserablest day we live
There's many a better thing to do than die!

THE FAIRIES.

SUFFICE to say, that smoother glade,

Kept greener by a deeper shade,
Never by antler'd form was trod;
Never was strown by that white crowd
Which nips with pettish haste the grass;
Never was lain upon by lass
In harvest time, when Love is tipsy,
And steals to coverts like a gipsy,
There to unmask his ruby face
In unreproved luxuriousness.
'Tis true, in brief, of this sweet place,
What the tann'd moon-bearer did feign
Of one rich spot in his own Spain:
The part just o'er it in the skies
Is the true seat of Paradise.

Have you not oft, in the still wind,
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind,
That rose one moment, and then fell,
Swooning away like a far knell ?
Listen!-that wave of perfume broke
Into sea-music, as I spoke,
Fainter than that which seems to roar
On the moon's silver-sanded shore,
When through the silence of the night
Is heard the ebb and flow of light.
Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear!
Do you not hear, or think you hear,
A wide hush o'er the woodland pass
Like distant waving fields of grass ?-
Voices!-ho! ho!-a band is coming,
Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming,
Or ranks of little merry men
Tromboning deeply from the glen,
And now as if they changed, and rung
Their citterns small, and riband-slung.
Over their gallant shoulders hung!-
A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells;
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower
Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower;
Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear,
Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer;

But mix'd with whoops, and infant laughter,
Shouts following one another after,
As on a hearty holyday

When youth is flush and full of May;
Small shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew
Both how to hum, and holloa too.
What! is the living meadow sown
With dragon-teeth, as long agone?
Or is an army on the plains
Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes!
Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance,

Gorget and glaive through the long grass glance;
Red-men, and blue-men, and buff-men, small,
Loud-mouth'd captains, and ensigns tall,

Grenadiers, lightbobs, inch-people all,
They come! they come! with martial blore
Clearing a terrible path before;
Ruffle the high-peak'd flags i' the wind,
Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind,
Telling how deep the close files are
Make way for the stalwarth sons of war!
Hurrah! the bluff-cheek'd bugle band,
Each with a loud reed in his hand!
Hurrah! the pattering company,
Each with a drum-bell at his knee!
Hurrah! the sash-capt cymbal swingers!
Hurrah! the klingle-klangle ringers!
Hurrah! hurrah! the elf-knights enter,
Each with his grasshopper at a canter!
His tough spear of a wild oat made,
His good sword of a grassy blade,
His buckram suit of shining laurel,
His shield of bark, emboss'd with coral;
See how the plumy champion keeps
His proud steed clambering on his hips,
With foaming jaw pinn'd to his breast,
Blood-rolling eyes, and arched crest;
Over his and his rider's head

A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread,
Swoops round the staff in varying form,
Flouts the soft breeze, but courts the storm.

Hard on the prancing heel of these
Come on the pigmy Thyades;
Mimics and mummers, masqueraders,
Soft flutists and sweet serenaders
Guitarring o'er the level green,
Or tapping the parch'd tambourine,
As swaying to, and swaying fro,
Over the stooping flowers they go,
That laugh within their greeny breasts
To feel such light feet on their crests,
And ev'n themselves a-dancing seem
Under the weight that presses them.

But hark! the trumpet's royal clangour
Strikes silence with a voice of anger:
Raising its broad mouth to the sun
As he would bring Apollo down,
The in-back'd, swoln, elf-winder fills
With its great roar the fairy hills;
Each woodland tuft for terror shakes,
The field-mouse in her mansion quakes,
The heart-struck wren falls through the branches,
Wild stares the earwig on his haunches;
From trees which mortals take for flowers,
Leaves of all hues fall off in showers;
So strong the blast, the voice so dread,
'T would wake the very fairy dead!

Disparted now, half to each side,
Athwart the curled moss they glide,
Then wheel and front, to edge the scene,
Leaving a spacious glade between;
With small round eyes that twinkle bright
As moon-tears on the grass of night,
They stand spectorial, anxious, all,

Like guests ranged down a dancing hall,

Some graceful pair, or more to see
Winding along in melody.

Nor pine their little orbs in vain,
For borne in with an oaten strain
Three pretty Graces, arm-èntwined,
Reel in the light curls of the wind;
Their flimsy pinions sprouted high
Lift them half-dancing as they fly;
Like a bright wheel spun on its side
The rapt three round their centre slide,
And as their circling has no end
Voice into sister voice they blend,
Weaving a labyrinthian song
Wild as the rings they trace along.

A RURAL RETREAT.

ENTER JOHN OF SALISBURY WITH A BOOK.

John of S. Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.

LET me pause here, both tongue and foot; such melody

Of words doth strike the wild-birds mute to hear it!
Honey-lipp'd Virgil, 'tis an ignorant truth
To name thee-Sorcerer; for thou dost indeed
Enchant by happiest art! Here is a place
To meditate thy sylvan music in,
Which seems the very echo of these woods,
As if some dryad taught thee to resound it.
Oh gentle breeze, what lyrist of the air
Tunes her soft chord with visionary hand
To make thy voice so dulcet? Oh ye boughs
Whispering with numerous lips your kisses close
How sweet ye mingle secret words and sighs!
Doth not this work grow warmer with the hum
Of fervent bees, blithe murmurers at their toil,
Minstrels most bland? Here the dim cushat, perch'd
Within his pendulous arbour, plaintive woos,
With restless love-call, his ne'er distant mate;
While changeful choirs do flit from tree to tree,
All various in their notes, yet chiming all
Involuntary, like the songs of cherubim.
Oh, how by accident, apt as art, drops in
Each tone to make the whole harmonial. [sounds
And when need were, thousands of wandering
Though aimless, would, with exquisite error sad,
Fill up the diapason! Pleasant din !
So fine that even the cricket can be heard [mark'd
Soft fluttering through the grass. Long have I
The silver toll of a clear-dipping well

Peal in its bright parishioners, ouphes and elves:
'Tis nigh me, certes!-I will peer between
These honeysuckles for it-Lo! in verity
A Sylph, with veil-fallen hair down to her feet,
Bending her o'er the waters, and I think
Giving them purer crystal from her eyes-
Oh learned John, but thou art grown fantastic
As a romancer!

MR. BROWNING's first appearance as an author was in 1835, when he published Paracelsus, a dramatic poem founded on the history of the celebrated professor of that name at Basil, in the days of LUTHER and ERASMUS. He has since written three tragedies, entitled Strafford, King Victor and King Charles, and A Blot in the 'Scutcheon; and many shorter pieces, most of which are included in his Bells and Pomegranates, issued by Moxon in 1843. There are in Mr. BROWNING's writings vigour, force of character, and passionate strength; but unhappily few of them are adapted to the popular apprehension. They are not easily read in the boudoir, where the

EXTRACT FROM PARACELSUS.

WITH still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view, thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams baskGod joys therein!.... Earth is a wintry clod; But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure

[blooms,

Buds here and there upon rough banks, between
The wither'd tree-roots and the cracks of frost;
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swollen with
Like chrysalids impatient for the air;
The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run
Along the furrows, ants make their ado;
Above birds fly in merry flocks-the lark
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews
His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all,
From life's minute beginnings, up at last
To man-the consummation of this scheme
Of being the completion of this sphere
Of life: whose attributes had here and there
Been scatter'd o'er the visible world before,
Asking to be combined-dim fragments meant
To be united in some wondrous whole-
Imperfect qualities throughout creation,
Suggesting some one creature yet to make-

perusal of MOORE and ROGERS is the highest exertion of intellect. Indeed, with some striking merits which will give them an influence in the formation of the taste of another generation, they are deformed by so many novelties of construction, and affectations of various kinds, that few will have patience to wade through his marshes to cull the flowers with which they are scattered. Mr. BROWNING'S Blot in the 'Scutcheon was acted in 1843, under the management of Mr. MACREADY. Though its dramatic qualities were in direct opposition to the prevailing style of the stage, it met with a hearty reception from the best critics.

.. some point

Whereto those wandering rays should all converge;
Might: neither put forth blindly, nor controll'd
Calmly by perfect knowledge-to be used
At risk-inspired or check'd by hope and fear;
Knowledge: not intuition, but the slow
Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil,

Strengthen'd by love; love: not serenely pure,
But power from weakness, like a chance-sown plant,
Which, castonstubborn soil, puts forth changed buds,
And softer stains, unknown in happier climes:
A blind, unfailing, and devoted love,
And half-enlighten'd, often-checker'd trust.
Anticipations, hints of these and more
Are strewn confusedly everywhere-all seek
An object to possess and stamp their own;
All shape out dimly the forthcoming race,
The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false,
And man appears at last: so far the seal
Is put on life: one stage of being complete,
One scheme wound up; and from the grand result
A supplementary reflux of light
Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains
Each back step in the circle; not alone
The clear dawn of those qualities shines out,
But the new glory mixes with the heaven
And earth. Man, once descried, imprints for ever
His presence on all lifeless things-the winds
Are henceforth voices, wailing, or a shout
A querulous mutter, or a quick, gay laugh-
Never a senseless gust now man is born:
The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts,
A secret they assemble to discuss,
[glare
When the sun drops behind their trunks which
Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat
Of the lake-lily is an urn; some nymph
Swims bearing high above her head: no bird
Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above