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attract much attention. But in 1784 he published "The Task," which was received with much more favor. Its vigorous and manly style, its energetic moral tone, and its charming pictures of natural scenery and domestic life, were soon appreciated, although the general taste, at that time, preferred a more artificial style of poetry. After the publication of "The Task," he spent some years upon a translation of Homer into blank verse, published in 1791. Many of Cowper's smaller pieces still enjoy great and deserved popularity. Like many men of habitual melancholy, he had a vein of humor running through his nature. His "John Gilpin" is a well-known instance of this; and the same quality throws a frequent charm over his correspondence. Cowper's life is full of sad and deep interest. His mind was more than once eclipsed by insanity, and often darkened by melancholy. He had tender and loving friends, who watched over him with affectionate and untiring interest. His most intimate friendships were with women; and there is a striking contrast between the masculine vigor of his style and his feminine habits and manner of life.

His letters are, perhaps, the best in the language. They are not superior, as intellectual efforts, to those of Gray, Walpole, Byron, or Scott; but they have in the highest degree that conversational ease and playful grace which we most desire in this class of writings. They are not epistolary essays, but genuine letters the unstudied effusions of the heart, meant for no eye but that of the person to whom they are addressed. Cowper's life has been written, and his poems and prose writings edited, by Southey; and they form a work of great interest and permanent value in literature.]

O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,

5 Might never reach me more. My ear is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled,
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,

It does not feel for man; the natural bond

10 Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own; and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
15 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else
Like kindred drops been melted into one.

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
5 With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.

Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush,
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
10 I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
15 Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave,

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home -

then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
20 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
25 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein

Of all your empire; that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

XXXVII. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

TENNYSON.

[ALFRED TENNYSON, a living poet of England, was born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, in 1810. He has published two volumes of miscellaneous poetry; also, "The Princess," a narrative, in blank verse; a volume called "In Memoriam ;""Maud,” in which an unhappy love story is told in a broken and frag

mentary way; and "Idyls of the King," comprising four poems founded on the legends of King Arthur.

He is a man of rare and fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined and cultivated minds. The music of his verse and his skill in the use of language are alike excellent. He is a poet of poets; and, in general, is only fully appreciated by those who have something of the poetical faculty themselves. He is more valued by women than by men, and by young men than by old. He is evidently a man of the finest organization, and his poetry is of the most exquisite and ethereal cast. He has an uncommon power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words. His pages are crowded with subjects for the artist. A portion of what he has written is rather remote from the beaten track of human sympathies and feelings; but that he can write popular poetry is shown by his well-known " May Queen."

His volume called "In Memoriam," is a very remarkable book. It is a collection of one hundred and twenty-nine short poems, written in a peculiar and uniform metre, which were called forth by the early death of Arthur Henry Hallam, the eldest son of the historian, a young man of rare excellence of mind and character, the intimate friend of Tennyson, and betrothed to his sister. Such a book will not be welcome to all minds, nor to any mind at all periods and in all moods; but it contains some of the most exquisite poetry which has been written in our times, and some of the deepest and sweetest effusions of feeling to be found anywhere.

The following spirited poem commemorates a gallant and desperate charge made by a brigade of English light-horse at the battle of Balaklava, in the Crimea, October 25, 1854, under circumstances that seemed to insure the destruction of the whole body. The order to charge was supposed to have been given under a mistake; but nothing was ever distinctly known about it, as Captain Nolan, who delivered it, was the first man who fell. Of six hundred and thirty who started on the charge only a hundred and fifty returned.]

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Into the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.

3 Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered:

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred.

4 Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

5 Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well,

Came through the jaws of death,

Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

6 When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !

XXXVIII. —UNION AND LIBERTY.
O. W. HOLMES.

1 FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory,
Borne through our battle-field's thunder and flame,
Blazoned in song and illumined in story,
Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame!

Up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;
While through the sounding sky,

Loud rings the nation's cry,

Union and Liberty !—one evermore!

2 Light of our firmament, guide of our nation,
Pride of her children, and honored afar,
Let the wide beams of thy full constellation
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star!

3 Empire unsceptred! what foe shall assail thee,
Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ?
Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,
Striving with men for the birthright of man!

4 Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted,

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,

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