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Pardon tie affront"! Thou shouldst have asked thyself That question ere the sail first flapp'd 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.

Peiroeeus they re-entered, and their ship

Drove up the little naves against the quay, Whence was thrown out a rope from one above, And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's waist Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed to think He had retained it there, in sight of rude Irreverent men; he led her forth nor spake. Hippias walked silent too, until they reached The mansion of Peisistratos, her sire. Serenely in his sternness did the prince Look on them both awhile: they saw not him, For both had cast their eyes upon the ground.

"Arc these the pirates thou hast taken, son 1"

Said he. "Worse, father! worse than pirates they Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites Twice over."

"Well hast thou performed thy duty," Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos. "Nothing, then, rash young man! could turn thy heart From Eunoe, my daughter 1"

"Nothing, sir, Shall ever turn it. I can die but once And love but once. 0, Eunoe! farewell!" "Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her." "0 father! Shut me in my chamber, shut me In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive, But never let me see what he can bear; I know how much that is when borne for me." "Not yet: come on. And lag not thou behind, Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts! Before the people, and before the goddess, Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion, And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness To poverty and exile, this, my child." Then shuddered Thrasymedes, and exclaimed, "I see my crime, I saw it not before. The daughter of Peisistratos was bora Neither for exile nor for poverty, Ah! not for me!" He would have wept, but one Might see him, and weep worse. The prince, unmoved,Strode on, and said, " To-morrow shall the people
All who beheld thy trespasses, behold
The justice of Peisistratos, the love
He bears his daughter, and the reverence
In which he holds the highest law of God."
He spake; and on the morrow they were one.

Did not Mr. Landor write this scene of Orestes one fine June morning, seated on a garden-roller in the court before Mr. Kenyon's house in London? fitting home for such an inspiration! And is not that the way that such scenes are written? not sitting down with malice prepense to compose poetry, but letting it come when it will and how it will, and striking it off at a heat.

THE DEATH OP CLYTEMNESTRA.

ORESTES AND ELECTRA.

Eledra. Pass on, my brother! she awaits the wretch,
Dishonorer, dispoiler, murderer—
None other name shall name him—she awaits
As would a lover—

Heavenly Gods! what poison O'erflows my lips!

Adultress! husband-slayer!
Strike her, the tigress!

Think upon our father—
Give the sword scope—think what a man was he,
How fond of her! how kind to all about,
That he might gladden and teach us—how proud
Of thee, Orestes! tossing thee above
His joyous head, and calling thee his crown.
Ah! boys remember not what melts our hearts
And marks them evermore!

Bite not thy lip,
Nor tramp, as an unsteady colt, the ground,
Nor stare against the wall, but think again
How better than all fathers was our father.
Go.

Orestes. Loose me then! for this white hand, Electra,
Hath fastened upon mine with fiercer grasp
Than I can grasp the sword.

Electra. Go, sweet Orestes,

I knew not I was holding thee—Avenge him!

{Alone.) How he sprang from me!

Sure he now hath reached The room before the bath!

The bath-door creaks 1
It hath creaked thus since he—since thou, 0 father!
Ever since thou didst loosen its strong valves,
Either with all thy dying weight, or strength
Agonized with her stabs— *

What plunge was that1!

Ah! me!

What groans are those 1

Orestes (returning). They sound through hell

Rejoicing the Eumenides. She slew Our father: she made thee the scorn of slaves:
Me (son of him who ruled this land and more)
She made an outcast—

Would I had been so
Forever! ere such vengeance—

Electra. Oh that Zeus

Had let thy arm fall sooner at thy side
Without those drops! list! they are audible—
For they are many—from the sword's point falling
And down from the mid blade!

Too rash Orestes!
Couldst thou not then have spared our wretched mother1

Orestes. The gods could not.

Electra. She was not theirs, Orestes!

Orestes. And didst not thou—

Electra. 'Twas I! 'twas I who did it!

Of our unhappy house the most unhappy 1
Under this roof, by every God accurst,
There is no grief, there is no guilt, but mine.

Orestes. Electra! no!

'Tis now my time to suffer—
Mine be, with all its pangs, the righteous deed 1

What a picture is that of Agamemnon and his boy,

"Tossing thee above
His joyous head and calling thee his crown!"

Long may Mr. Landor conceive such pictures, and write such scenes!

The days are happily past when the paltry epithet of "Cockney Poets" could be bestowed upon Keats and Leigh Hunt: the world has outlived them. People would as soon think of applying such a word to Dr. Johnson. Happily, too, one of the delightful writers who were the objects of these unworthy attacks has outlived them also; has lived to attain a popularity of the most genial kind, and to diffuse, through a thousand pleasant channels, many of the finest parts of our finest writers. He has done good service to literature in another way, by enriching our language with some of the very best translations since Cowley. Who ever thought to see Tasso's famous passage in the "Amyntas" so rendered?

ODE TO THE GOLDEN AGE.

0 lovely age of gold!
Not that the rivers rolled

With milk, or that the woods wept honey-dew;

Not that the reedy ground

Produced without a wound,

Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew;

Not that a cloudless blue

Forever was in sight;

Or that the heaven which burns,

And now is cold by turns,

Looked out in glad and everlasting light;

No, nor that even the insolent ships from far

Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than war.

Who, again, ever hoped to see such an English version of one of Petrarch's most characteristic poems, conceits and all?

PETRARCH'S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH IN THE BOWER OF

LAURA.

Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,

Which the fair shape who seems

To me sole woman, haunted at noontide;

Fair bough, so gently lit,

(I sigh to think of it)

Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;

And turf and flowers bright-eyed,

O'er which her folded gown

Flowed like an angel's down;

And you, 0 holy air and hushed,

Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed,

Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,

To my last words, my last, and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below

And heaven will have it so,

That love must close these dying eyes in tears,

May my poor dust be laid

In middle of your shade,

While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.

The thought would calm my fears

When taking, out of breath,

The doubtful step of death;

For never could my spirit find

A stiller port after the stormy wind;

Nor in more calm abstracted borne

Slip from my traveled flesh, and from my bones outworn.

Perhaps, some future hour,

To her accustomed bower

Might come the untamed, and yet gentle she;

And where she saw me first,

Might turn with eyes athirst

And kinder joy to look again for me;

Then, oh the charity!

Seeing amidst the stones

The earth that held my bones,

A sigh for very love at last

Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past;

And heaven itself could not say nay,

As with her gentle vail she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind,

When from those boughs the wind

Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;And there she sat meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride,

Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower.

Some to her hair paid dower,

And seemed to dress the curls

Queenlike with gold and pearls;

Some snowing on her drapery stopped,

Some on the earth, some on the water dropped;

While others, fluttering from above,

Seemed wheeling round in pomp and saying, "Here reigns love."

How often then I said,

Inward, and filled with dread,

"Doubtless this creature came from paradise!"

For at her look the while,

Her voice, and her sweet smile

And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;

So that, with long-drawn sighs,

I said, as far from men,

"How came I here, and when I"

I had forgotten; and alas!

Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;

And from that time till this, I bear

Such love for the green bower, I can not rest elsewhere.

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