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does the new dial mean? Is there really nothing new under the sun? And had they in the middle of the seventeenth century discovered the horologe of Flora?


The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm. Alas! nor could
Thy death to them do any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill;Nor do I for all this; nor will:But if my simple prayer may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears
Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!It cannot die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing,
And nothing may we use in vain:Even beasts must be with justice slain.

Inconstant Silvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning, (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then: I'm sure I do. Said he, "Look how your huntsmen hero

Hath brought a fawn to hunt his deer." But Silvio soon had me beguiled. This waxed tame, while he grew wild, And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this, and very well content Could so my idle life hsere spent;

For it was full of sport, and light

Of foot and heart; and did invite

Me to its game; it seemed to bless

Itself in me. How could I less

Than love It1 Oh! I can not be

Unkind to a beast that loveth me.

Had it Mved long, I do not know

Whethet it too might have done so

As Silvio did; Us gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he,

But I am sure, for aught that I

Could in so short a time espy,

Thy love was far more better than

The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar, first

I it at my own fingers nursed;

And, as it grew so every day

It waxed more sweet and white than they:

It had so sweet a breath. And oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft

And white, shall I say than my hand1

Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet

'Twas on those little silver feet;

With what a pretty skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race j

And, when't had left me far away,

'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness,

And all the spring-time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes;

For in the flaxen lilies' shade

It like a bank of lilies laid;

Upon the roses it would feed,

Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed;

And then to me 'twould boldly trip,

And print those roses on my lip.

But all its chief delight was still

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been

Lilies without, roses within.

* * * *

Nothing can exceed the grace, the delicate prettiness of this little poem. There is a trippingness in the measure, now stop- ping short, now bounding on, which could not have been exceeded by the playful motions of the poor fawn itself. We must forgive his want of gallantry. It must have been all pretense. No true woman-hater could so have embodied a feeling peculiar to the sex, the innocent love of a young girl for her innocent pet.


I must find room for a few stanzas of Marvell's Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's return from Ireland. Fine as the praise of Cromwell is, it yields in grandeur and beauty to the tribute paid by the poet to the demeanor of the King upon the scaffold; by far the noblest of the many panegyrics upon the martyred King.

# * # # •

Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armor's rust;Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease,
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous war

Urged his active star:


And if wc would speak true
Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere,
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,)

Could by 1ndustrious valor climb
To win the great work of Time,

And cast the kingdoms old

Into another mold!

Though justice against fate complain
And plead the ancient rights in vain,
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.

Nature that hateth emptiness Allows of penetration less.

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scarl

And Hampton shows what part

He had of wiser art:

Where, twining civil fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope,

That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn. While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands,

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.

And he who wrote this was Cromwell's Latin Secretary! and Cromwell's other Latin Secretary was Milton! There have been many praises of the Lord Protector written latterly, but these two facts seem to me worth them all.




Two of the ballads of William Motherwell are among the most beautiful in the Scottish dialect, so full of lyrical beauty; and yet the one which is the most touching is scarcely known, except to a few lovers of poetry. "Jeanie Morrison," indeed, has an extensive popularity in Scotland, and yet even that charming song is comparatively little known in this country.

Burns is the only poet with whom, for tenderness and pathos, Motherwell can be compared. The elder bard has written much more largely, is more various, more fiery, more abundant; but I doubt if there be in the whole of his collection any thing so exquisitely finished, so free from a line too many, or a word out of place, as the two great ballads of Motherwell. And let young writers observe that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during many years, did "Jeanie Morrison" attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling that would find vent. In "My heid is like to rend, Willie," the appearance of spontaneity is still more striking, as the passion is more intense,—intense, indeed, almost to painfulness.

Like Burns, Motherwell died before he attained his fortieth year, and like him, too, although a partisan of far different opinions, he was ardently engaged in political discussion as the editor of a Tory newspaper in Glasgow. He was even the Secretary of an Institution that sounds strangely in English ears—a Scotch Orange Lodge. I notice these facts only to observe, that they are already almost forgotten. The elements of bitterness and

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