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stuff that killed poor KEATS;' but ALFRED was not to be knocked over so easily. The harsh censure was to him wholesome advice, which he has used to good purpose. Of all the passages assailed by the reviewer, there is but one which has not been either entirely expunged or carefully re-written.

But there were many poems in these earlier volumes, which have received no subsequent correction, and which needed none, about which the hostile critic, as it was not his business to praise them, preserved a discreet silence. Al ' Mariana' none have ever carped. The ballad of Oriana, with its plaintive refrain, is exceedingly pathetic, though its claim to originality is somewhat doubtful. The resemblance which it bears to · Fair HELEN of Kirkconnel can scarcely be accidental. As that very beautiful old ballad may not be familiar to all our readers, we annex a few stanzas in corroboration of our assertion:

• Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And cursed the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms Burd HELEN dropt,

And died to succor me!

I would I were where HELEN lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
Out of my bed she bids me rise ;

Says Haste and come to me!'

O Helen fair! O HELEN chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest.
Would I were with thee, and at rest

Beneath the kirk-yard tree!

. that I were where HELEN lies!

Night and day on me she cries ;
And I am weary of the skies
For her sake that died for me.'

The various female characters are also reproduced without alteration. The usual criticism upon these is, that they are very beautiful, but somewhat unreal and vague. We have remarked, however, that the speaker or writer usually made an exception in favor of some particular one, which led to the suspicion in our own mind that it came near to his ideal standard, or the realization of that standard wbich he had found for himself. For ourselves we confess to a penchant for ELEANORE:

'Serene, imperial ELEANORE.' There are few passages in the language that can match the gorgeous description which concludes his picture of her, involving as it does some magnificent imitations, or rather transfusions, of Sappho and Catullus:

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And a languid fire creeps

Through my veins to all my frame
Dissolvingly and slowly ; soon

From thy rose-red lips my name
Flou eth; then as in a swoon

With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue fa'tereth,
I lose my color, I lose my breath,

I drink the cup of a costly death
Brimm'd with delicious draughts of warmest life;
I die with my delight before

I hear what I would hear from thee ;
Yet tell my name again to me,
I would be dying evermore;

So dying ever, ELEANORE.'

Morte bonâ Morior, dulci nece necor,' as old Walter DE Mapes hath it. Reader, do you know an ELEANORE?

Most of the other poems in the first volume have been subjected to considerable altera


tion. •Enone' is a beautiful succession of pictures. Most of it reads like a translation, by some master in the art, of some long-lost Idyll of Theocritus. This poem has undergone many changes and corrections. In some places we are disposed to doubt whether the original version has been or can be improved. The same observation applies to the * Lotos Eaters.' The first conclusion, in which all images that suggest repose were aptly combined in lulling and harmonious numbers, has been changed to a stream of long-rolling powerful verse, vividly embodying the epicurean notion of the divine life removed from all earthly concerns. It is hard to choose between the two, but we cannot help wishing that such lines as these had been preserved at any sacrifice :

We will eat the Lotos sweeter
Than the yellow honey comb.

And no more roam
O'er the loud hoar foam
To the melaucholy home

On the summit of the brine,
The little isle of Ithaca beneath the day's declina.

Hark ! how sweet the horned ewes bleat

On the solitary shore;
And the merry lizard leaps,

And the foam-white waters pour;
And the dark pine weeps,
And the lithe vine creeps,

And the heavy melon sleeps,

On the level of the shore,
O Islanders of Ithaca! we will not wander more!'

The text of this dreamy and fanciful poem is to be found in two lines of the Odyssey :

Τωνο 'όστις λωτοιο φάγος μεδιηδέα καρπών
Ουκέτ 'απαννειλαι πάλιν ήθελεν ουδέ νέεσθας.

The · Lady of Shalote' seems to have had more trouble expended on its revision than any other of the re-published poems. We doubt whether it was worth it, as even in its present state it loses by comparison with the poems around it. As there has been no little doubt respecting its meaning, some taking it for an allegory, it may be as well to state that the original story (from which the poet has scarcely deviated) is to be found in the latter part of that glorious old Romance, 'Morte d'Arthur,' where it forms a beautiful episode.

The · Palace of Art' is generally quoted by TENNYSON's admirers as the poem by which he must stand or fall. Though preferring to it others in the present collection, • Morte d'Arthur' for instance, we cannot deny that it is the poem most characteristic of his genius, most Tennyson, so to speak, of any that he has written. The versification of this poem bears signs of extreme polish before its first publication. The changes since made in it are generally not so much alterations as omissions ; retrenchment of superfluities, or what appeared to the author to be such. We are inclined to think that in some cases he has over-refined upon it, and cut it down too much. For instance, the description of Europa :

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped

From off her shoulder backward borne,
From one hand dropped a crocus; one hand grasped

The mild bull's golden horn.'
Was originally thus expanded :

He through the streaming crystal swam, and rolled

Ambrosial breaths that seemed to float
In light wreathed curls; she from the ripple cold
Updrew her sundalled foot.'

systems be infinite. But if the number be finite, and there be a mutual and counteracting attraction between these systems of the worlds, then it is evident that those on the confines of creation, according to this theory, would be subjected to an influence from the centre only, and would be drawn in that direction. The theory then requires its advocates to believe that there are no limits to creation ; that there is no real distinction between time and eternity, and that matter itself is eternal; for if there be no limits to its extent, there can be no limit to its duration. There would seem to be nothing to warrant this belief but the most un. philosophical assumption alone; for if matter be thus limitless and selfsustained, the received theory of planetary motion involves a practical denial of the necessary agency of a Great Controlling Mind in the system of the universe.

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The widow's home is desolate, and lonely is its hearth,
That echoes not with cheerful tones nor sounds of household mirth;
And when the golden sunshine falls within each lonely room,
It only lends to her sad heart a deeper shade of gloom.
The perfumed breath of summer winds, revealing early flowers,
Steals softly through the open sash from out the garden bowers,
But bears not on its freshening breeze the sounds of childish glee
That fell upon that mother's heart, like music wild and free.


Yet often to the casement still, with anxious steps she flies,
But turns away with bitter tears and agonizing sighs;
The voices that were calling her with tones of tenderest love,
The restless and unquiet dreams of yearning fancy prove;
For she has laid them all to rest, the earliest and the last;
The bourne to which their steps are gone, no traveller e'er repassed!
On earth those fondly-cherished ones will meet her not again -
The memory of her vanished bliss is all she may retain.


But ever dwells she on their words, their kisses and their tears,
As if they parted yesterday, and not in long-past years ;
And well can she remember yet, each gentle look and tone,
The pressure of the soft white arms that round her neck were thrown;
The pleading eyes so sadly raised in sickness and in pain,
As meekly asking aid from her who felt it was in vain;
The dying clasp; the parting sigh; life's lowest, faintest moan,
Deep graven on her heart will be, till life itself is flown.


And now her thoughts to others seem but memory of the dead,
For all save interest in the past for her has ever ded;
A locket with the differing braids of brown and golden hair,
Is dearer to her aching sight than jewels rich and rare;
The broken toy, the faded flower, that last their young hands pressed,
Are daily wet with burning tears, and clasped upon her breast;
And but one soothing hope can cheer the path yet to be trod,
The children that are lost to her, have found a home with God.

GU A RD-HO U 8 E T A L E s.

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I was born with the present century, or nearly so; for in February, 1800, in a quiet town in England, I drew my first breath. My father gained some notoriety, and considerable money, at the bar of my native place. He had the misfortune to be a younger brother. My mother was the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, and was rich only in family pride. I was educated in Scotland; and to a mistake made in my school, may be attributed much of my subsequent misfortunes. My first development' was impetuosity, and I was permitted to be arrogant and domineering. If I had been properly curbed, this evil might have been avoided. I was suffered, at the instance of my too-indulgent pa. rents, to visit in certain families of the neighborhood. Among them was that of a clergyman, who was a class-mate of my father's. In his presence my general manner was so disguised that I retained his esteem; and it seemed that he was not the only one whose regard I had secured. Even when I sat in his presence, self.condemned, he would look at me and say : How like you are to your father when he was young, both in appearance

and manners! Once he told me an anecdote of the bashfulness of my father and himself: “They had called upon some ladies, and finding the room quite full, neither could muster courage to knock at the door, and by mutual consent both retired unnoticed! His daughter, like himself, mixed in society only to see its bright side; she knew no guile, and thought none. Finding that her father had so much con. fidence in me, the daughter gave me hers; and it was the only instance in which I did not abuse it. Why it was, I know not; but I could never bring my mind to do her a wrong. It is a hard matter to sustain two characters; and my real one was known to every one else.

A circumstance at last occurred, which drove me from my last hold upon virtuous society. A poor girl, who had been deluded by myself and companions, was brought to a sense of her lost condition. In a moment of penitence, she sought the consolation of a full confession of her errors to my father's friend, the pastor. What were his surprise and my mortification, I will not attempt to describe. It was the first thing to call me to a sense of my degradation. I had many misgivings as to my course. I would have quitted the place at once, but I could not think of doing so without an attempt, at least, to excuse myself to

*Our friend 'ROPER,' to whose pen we were indebted for the admirable sketch of The White Fawn,' has sept us a series of Gud House Tales, led on fact, which we have reason to believe will prove of no common interest to our readers. The present story was written down from the lips of a soldier in the American army, during the Seminole war. It bears upon its face the air of perfect truthfulness; and while its iucidents are spirited though simple, its lessons are highly valuable, in a moral point of view.



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her whose good opinion I found was so dear to me. To leave her in disgrace, and to be forgotten, as a lost and unworthy acquaintance, was more than I could brook. I had sundry severe visitings of conscience. My first determination was, to go to the parson. While revolving in my mind what to do, I was joined by some of my associates in frivolity and vice. They soon dispelled the idea, and a new proposition, more suited to my old views, was made and acquiesced in ; and soon all feeling was benumbed in the inordinate cup. It has been well said that the devil takes his own method to destroy those whom he has first led astray. Half-inebriation removes all qualms, and gives a man a good opinion of himself; and I soon began to reason favorably upon my own, miscon. duct. At last I became so eloquent, that I determined to try it on? others. I posted off to the clergyman's, inquired for his daughter, and was shown into the room.

I rose as the door opened, expecting to meet the daughter, but to my great discomfiture it was the father. The good pastor looked fixedly at me, and I became sadly embarrassed as the idea of my situation flashed across my mind. I endeavored to speak, but my eloquence had all vanished. My tongue.clave to the roof of my mouth,' and I could not utter a word. I was fully prepared for severe reproach, not only for my conduct but for my presumption. I waited for him to begin. Observing that I did not speak, he motioned me to be seated. I sat down mechanically, for I could easier do it than walk. He took a seat nearly opposite to me, with his eyes fixed on the floor. I took this for the gathering of a storm; but when he raised them, I could see the tears standing in them. At length he broke silence. John,' he said, ' I could

. have followed you to your grave with less regret than I now speak to you. What must be the feelings of your parents, when they read a letter which I have just written them? While there was hope that youthful folly was your only sin, I trusted that reform would not be difficult; but when I find drunkenness and crime associated in a boy of your age, I cease to hope. You have succeeded in deceiving me, who never thought that any thing dishonorable could find a place in your imagination. But a full and complete history of your misconduct has reached my ear.

I do not wish to upbraid you; your own conscience will do that. Your true situation is not better known to yourself than it is to me.


very fact of your coming here, in your present condition, must convince


lost sense of shame. Yet with all this there is life left yet and with it hope. No restraint can effect a change, unless it be a voluntary one; and only years, long years of the most exemplary life, can do away the impression already made, or convince me that you are worthy to enter my doors again. You have ventured to ask for my daughter. Did you think that I would permit her to come into the presence of one who has put at defiance every law of society, of God and of man? No, John; you can never see her again, unless in my presence, until I am entirely satisfied that you are a changed man.'

The good pastor's conversation had been harsher than his manner; and I found myself, instead of being roused as I expected to be, selfcondemned, and could say nothing. At length I found words to say: • You might have saved your advice; my friends will never see me more

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