And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending,
That show'd where the hearts of the many were blending,
And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came
From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one fame
As a chorus of man,—and they streamed from the gates
Like a dusky libation poured out to the Fates.

But at times there were gentler processions of peace
That I watch'd with my soul in my eyes till their cease,
There were women! there men! but to me a third sex
I saw them all dots-yet I loved them as specks:
And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes

I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise

Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten
By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten!
Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother
Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother

Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep

Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep

In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks

That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks;
But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never

I return'd to a spot I had startled for ever,

Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none,
Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son?

For the haunters of fields they all shunn'd me by flight, The men in their horror, the women in fright;

None ever remain'd save a child once that sported
Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted
The breeze; and beside him a speckled snake lay

Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away

From the flower at his finger; he rose and drew near

Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear,

But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright To grow to large manhood of merciful might.

He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel,

The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel,

And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when under
My lids he saw tears, for I wept for his wonder,
He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then,
That the once love of women, the friendship of men

*

In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss
On my heart in its desolate day such as this!

And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent,
And lifted him up with my arms with intent

To kiss him, but he cruel-kindly, alas!
Held out to my lips a pluck'd handfull of grass!
Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled
The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head,
That dissever'd my ear,-but I felt not, whose fate
Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate!

Thus I wander'd companion'd of grief and forlorn
Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born,
But what was that land with its love, where my home
Was self-shut against me for why should I come
Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father,
With a blight to the last of his sight ?—let him rather
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn
To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how
Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now
Like Gods to my humbled estate?— or how bear
The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care

Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came
Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same
As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream
That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild eyes
Against heaven, and so vanish'd.-The gentle and wise
Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill
In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.*

Although "Lycus" has never met with very warm admirers, owing, perhaps, to its classical origin and style (indeed, in a letter I have of his, simple John Clare confesses he does not understand a word of it), I incline to hold with the following opinion from a letter written to my father by Hartley Coleridge, in 1831.

"I wish you would write a little more in the style of 'Lycus the Centaur,' or "Eugene Aram's Dream.' In whatever you attempt you excel. Then why not exert your best and noblest talent, as well as that wit, which I would never wish to be dormant? I am not a graduate in the Academy of Compliment, but I think 'Lycus' a work absolutely unique in its lirre, such as no man has written, or could have written, but yourself."

JOHN HUGGINS was as bold a man
As trade did ever know,

A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round

And single Glos'ter flat;

And English butter in a lump,

And Irish-in a pat.

Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At counter, with his apron tied
About his counter-part.

The seventh, in a Sluice-house box

He took his pipe and pot;

On Sundays, for eel-piety,

A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!

One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head!

Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage popp'd;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig's flesh is always chopp'd.

But famous more as annals tell,
Because of Easter chase;

There every year, 'twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,

And slapped his leather thigh, And sang the burden of the song, "This day a stag must die."

For all the live-long day before,

And all the night in bed,

Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,

And echo's answering sounds,

All poets' wit hath every writ

In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,

Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the dear.

No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;

Not chicken-hearted he, although

'Twas whispered of his eggs!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee,
And Surgeon Hunter's bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;

The liquid black they wore that day
Was Warren-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,

As erst upon a stag;

Thus well equipped he gayly skipped, At once upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung;
For holding of the horse !—why, no,
For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins' own
Would only be a brag;

His neighbour Fig and he went halves,

Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray,

Unknown to brother cit;

The horse he knew would never tell,

Although it was a tit.

A well-bred horse he was, wis,

As he began to show,
By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."

But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne'er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.