With hands held up to Love, I wept;
And, after sorrows spent, I slept:
Then in a vision I did see,

A glorious form appear to me.
A virgin's face she had; her dress
Was like a sprightly Spartaness;
A silver bow, with green silk strung,
Down from her comely shoulders hung;
And as she stood, the wanton air
Dandled the ringlets of her hair.
Her legs were such Diana shews,
When tucked up, she a hunting goes,
With buskins shortened to descry
The happy dawning of her thigh;
Which when I saw, I made access,
To kiss that tempting nakedness;
But she forbade me with a wand
Of myrtle she had in her hand;
And, chiding me, said, ' Hence, remove;
Herrick thou art too coarse to love.'

Mr.

Famous as Herrick was in his own day, and fine as his lyrics undoubtedly are, his poems were nevertheless for a long period forgotten. In 1823 they were reprinted at Edinburgh. Ellis, in his "Specimens of Early English Poetry," quoted four of his pieces; and Campbell also quotes from him, but not judiciously. Dr. Drake, in his Literary Hours, devoted several essays to him, and recommended no less than one hundred of his amatory odes for selection. Dr. Nott, in 1810, printed no less than two hundred and eighty-four. The edition before us only contains ninety-five; enoughfor it is ten more than the number of Anacreon's.

We pass from the Amatory Odes to the EPITHALAMIUM, in which we are continually reminded of Catullus'. But we may not stay here-much less speak-but with a chaste hush! pass Whither? Into Fairy Land!

on.

THE FAIRIES.

personal form of his mistress. Where
he chose to love, there was beauty.

LOVE DISLIKES NOTHING.
Whatsoever thing I see,
Rich, or poor, although it be,
'Tis a mistress unto me.

Be my maiden fair, or brown,
Does she smile, or does she frown,
Still I write a sweetheart down.

Be she rough or smooth of skin,
When I touch, I then begin
For to let affection in.

Be she bald, or does she wear
Locks incurled of other hair,
I shall find enchantment there.
Be she whole, or be she rent,
So my fancy be content,
She's to me most excellent.
Be she fat, or be she lean,
Be she sluttish, be she clean,
I'm a man for every scene.

NO LOATHSOMENESS IN LOVE.
What I fancy I approve,
No dislike there is in love:
Be my mistress short or tall,
And distorted therewithal.
Be she likewise one of those,
That an acre hath of nose;
Be her forehead and her eyes,
Full of incongruities.

Let fair or foul my mistress be,
Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me;
Or let her walk, or stand, or sit,
The posture her's, I m pleased with it;
Or let her tongue be still, or stir,
Graceful is every thing from her;
Or let her grant, or else deny,
My love will fit each history.
I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses;
Stately Julia, prince of all;
Sappho next, a principal;
Smooth Anthea, for a skin
White, and heaven-like crystalline;
Sweet Electra; and the choice
Myrrha, for the lute and voice;
Next, Corinna, for her wit,
And the graceful use of it;
With Perilla: all are gone,
Only Herrick's left alone,
For to number sorrow by
Their departures hence, and die.
Herrick's pastoral poetry is equally
good:

THE COUNTRY LIFE.
To the Honoured M. End. Porter,
Groom of the Bed-Chamber to his
Majesty.

Sweet country life, to such unknown
Whose lives are others', not their own;
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.

Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam,
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove,
To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No, thy ambitious master-piece,
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year.
But walk'st about thy own dear bounds,
Not envying other's larger grounds.
For well thou knows't, 'tis not the extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content, &c.

The following poem, in order for its full merits to be understood, should be quoted in connexion with Kit Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd," and Sir Walter Raleigh's "Come live with me and be my Love," and "The Nymph's Reply."

TO PHILLIS,

To Love and Live with Him.

Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;
What sweets the country can afford,
Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board:
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine overspread,
By which the silver-shedding streams,
Shall gently melt thee into dreams:
Thy clothing next shall be a gown
Made of the fleece's purest down;
The tongue of kids shall be thy meat,
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered.
Thy feasting tables shall be hills,
With daisies spread and daffodils;
Where thou shalt sit, and redbreast by,
For meat shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carkanets,
Of primroses and violets.

A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought, and this as brave,
So that as either shall express,
The wearer's no mean shepherdess..
At shearing times and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be, and be the wit,
Nay, more, the feast and grace of it.
On holidays, when virgins meet,
To dance the hays with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth, and then appear
The queen of roses for that year;
And having danced, both all the best,
Carry the garland from the rest.
In wicker baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherdling,
The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shamefaced plumb, all simpering

there.

Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind
Of every straight and smooth-skinn'd tree,
Where, kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee.

To thee a sheep hook I will send,
Beprank'd with ribands, to this end,
That his alluring hook might be,
Less for to catch a sheep than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
Not made of ale, but spiced wine;
To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glittering hearth:
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and
strings;

Of winning colours, that shall move
Others to lust, but me to love:
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love and live with me.

We quote the following to acknowledge a theft of our own afore time. In the Descent into Hell occur these two lines:

All silent, save the toning of a tear, The silver cadence of a veiled sigh. These lines have been quoted more than once for commendation. The toning of a tear," however, belongs to Herrick, from whom, we believe, we consciously took it.

EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN.

Here a solemn fast we keep:
While all beauty lies asleep,
Hushed be all things; no noise here,
But the toning of a tear,
Or a sigh of such as bring,
Cowslips for her covering.

We should have acknowledged this obligation before; but, in fact, we have not had a Herrick in our possession for years, nor one of our own at all, until the present copy, for which we are indebted to Mr. Murray, the publisher, whose books being mostly good, we shall always be glad to review. There are, in fact, three publishers, on whom, we think, tolerable dependance may be placedMurray, Moxon, Pickering. Other houses deal so much in the professedly ad captandum, or do so much on mere commission, that we know not where to have them. But as we read all the books we notice, this inconvenience is not without remedy.

The Anacreontic and bacchanalian songs with which the volume concludes, serve to confirm us in our opinion of the ideal character of Herrick's poetry. Notwithstanding the conviviality of his muse, his life is said to have been sober. How freely many a man disports himself in the Eden of his fancy! It is more easy to sing of nectar and

Translations from the Lyric Poets of Germany; with Brief Notices of their Lives and Writings. By John Macray. Oxford: J. H. Parker. 1838.

We pass from the former work to this in natural transition-still continuing in the lyric vein. We wish that the translator had given the whole of the Legend of the Three Holy Kings, by Gustavus Schwab. It is in twelve Romances. Mr. Macray presents us only with the first. The legend alluded to is founded on the gospel account of the Wise Men and the Star in the East, which in the fourteenth century was improved by Prior John of Hildesheim. In the poem before us, the twelve star-gazers are supposed to be part of

a

multitudinous assemblage that always meet on the high mountain Vaus, to watch the appearing of the promised Star; and that this number, twelve, ever continues, through succeeding ages, to be the faithful few, who, through every vicissitude, direct their gaze to the sign of the coming Saviour.

Perfumed by herbs, all sweetness blending,
And graced with trees on every side,
A hill arose, to heaven ascending,

Of all the East the boast and pride.

Steep the ascent, and long the stages,

But bright above shine day and night; Upon its summit stand twelve sages,

And fix on heaven their raptured sight.

When morn returns they yield to slumber,
And each around him wraps his robe:
In vain the hours, in dazzling number,
Pour day and glory o'er the globe.
But ever, as the breezes waken,

That gently sigh at fall of night,
Then straight on high, with gaze unshaken,
They turn to hail the promised light.
To them the wond'rous book of heaven-
Each radiant page-is then unrolled;,
On earth, what silver seemed, is given
To shine above, as radiant gold.

If e'er the stars, to man revealing
His earthly fate, were truly read-
Here, on this mount, when nightly
kneeling,

That light is o'er the sages shed.
And there they stand, intent exploring,
What may the will of heaven be;
Yet ne'er, while o'er the prospect poring,
The crown of all their hopes they see.
That Star-triumphantly resplendent
O'er all the host of heaven far;
BEACON and LIGHT, for ever pendent,
The blinded heathen's guiding star.
That STAR-prophetic Balaam greeted-
The herald of the Saviour-King;
Upon His throne of glory seated,

The people's guide, and light, and wing. So ran the story; and astonished,

The expectant East awaited now: 'Twas this the gazing seers admonished, To meet upon the mountain's brow. And hope made every step seem lighter, And smoothed the path, so steep and

rude;

And faded eyes again beamed brighter, And forms long bent erectly stood. And when even Death surprised them, gazing,

Still turned their last fond looks on high, Where thousand thousand suns are blazing, To which on earth they longed to fly.

Little Derwent's Breakfast. By a Lady. Illustrated by Engravings. London: Smith, Elder, & Co. 65, Cornhill. 1839.

This book deserves to be reviewed in this connexion, if it were only that Little Derwent is none other than the grandson of the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and the authoress, we sus. pect, none other than his daughter. The poems are intended for children seven years old, and are as delightful as they are simple. They are connected with the subjects of the Breakfast Table, and instruct the young.

How many different hands 'twill take
A single loaf of bread to make!

That tea and sugar must be sought
In distant lands, whence they are brought:
In short, what time it will employ
Only to feed one little boy.

There is an introductory poem on Early Rising, which deserves extract. Up with the cock when he cheerily crows, When nature awakes from her night's repose.

He calls the farmer-"Come guide the plough"

He calls the maiden-"Come milk the

COW."

Up, little Derwent, away, away!

Up, up with the lark when he soars on high,

And carols his morning song to the sky; Follow him forth o'er each balmy field, And taste the health-giving air they yield.

Up, little Derwent, away, away! Up, up with the bee in "the hour of prime," Who tells little boys how to value their timė:

His books are the flowers on which he feeds, He sips the honey, but leaves the weeds.

Up, little Derwent, away, away

Up, up with the ant, who no minute will lose,

While the sun is shining, her stores to choose.

In youth and summer she labours and strives,

In age and winter how happy she lives. Up, little Derwent, away, away!

Then up with the birds the bright sun to

see,

With the working ant and the busy bee; Leave dull sloth with his drowsy head, Don't let him come to your little bed. Begin, like the birds, with a song of praise, Go on, like the insects, in wisdom's ways, You'll be good, and happy, and merry as they.

Up, up little Derwent, away, away! Clear it is that poetry runs in the Coleridge family-it is an hereditary merit. The "West India Islands" is prettily done.

The islands where sugar canes flourish,
Those beautiful isles of the West-
Abundance of other plants nourish,

The gayest, and choicest, and best.
There, in full beauty and splendour,
Grow cocoa and tamarind trees;
The aloe-the palm, light and slender,

That waves in the soft cooling breeze. There-loveliest flowers are blooming, While creepers that gracefully twine, The air with rich odours perfuming,

In colours harmonious combine." There-insects so brilliantly gleaming, Fresh hues every moment unfold, The fireflies and butterflies seeming

Like emerald, sapphire, and gold.

There-birds of fair form and bright feather,

Inhabit each deep shaded grove;
While humming-birds flitting together,
The delicate flower-cups love.

There lie the fair shells of the ocean,
The spiral, the conch, the volute,
Thrown in by the waves' ceaseless motion,
In numbers we cannot compute.
Thence come the turtles in plenty,

Which epicures think such a treat,
And sweetmeats, most luscious and dainty,
Which at our desserts we may eat.
Thence also, those fruits so delicious,
The orange, the shaddock, the lime,
With arrow-root pure and nutritious:
All grow in this tropical clime.
But still-much as all these may charm us,
And make us quite long to be there,
Yet many things also will harm us,
Of which we may not be aware.
For there comes the hurricane sweeping,
The trees and the houses to shake,
Ere-suddenly roused from their sleeping,
The people their dwellings forsake.
The thunder above them is rolling-
The ocean is raging below ;—
The danger past human controlling,
The lightnings so vividly glow.
The hailstones are pattering around them,
Destroying their rich sugar-canes;
The rain seems as if it would drown them,
In torrents it streams o'er the plains!
There-birds may be richer in colour,
Yet harsh and discordant in voice;
Whilst ours whose plumage is duller,

Our hearts with their songs can rejoice. Though fireflies there may delight us,

And butterflies spread their bright wing; Yet gnats and musquitoes will bite us, And serpents will terribly sting.

Then think when these wonders they're telling,

And when you are longing to roam,
There's no place like England to dwell in,
There's nothing like England for home.
Tis right that an Englishman ever
This feeling should well understand;
But if he is just, he will never

Despise any nation or land.
For God to each country has given,
Some charm to its native most dear;
Wherever he's banished or driven,
The land of his birth he'll revere.

The end of the volume is graced with poems of a more ambitious character, from which we extract twoTHE BAYA, OR HINDU SPARROW. I told you of those little birds,

Who build such different nests,
All ready to receive and lodge

Their pretty little guests ;-
Swallow and martin-wren and thrush,
Beneath the roof-or in the bush!

But I can tell a wondrous tale,
About a gentle creature,
A bird, whom I am sure you'll love,
If ever you can meet her.
Yet only within India's bound
The Hindu sparrow can be found.
So docile, and so teachable,
So faithful, and so true,
So ready and so tractable,

In all they're told to do;
Even letters they will safely take,
Nor ever will a blunder make.
Away the winged messenger
Upon its errand flies,
Swiftly to some expecting one

The wished-for news supplies;
Then nestles in her folded dress,
And waits to have a fond caress.
Or pretty little tricks it plays,

The clever little bird -
The sparkling jewel seizes, when
Its master gives the word.
If down the well he drops a ring,
Swift flies his bird the prize to bring.
But when this faithful bird, at last,
Her own true mate has found,
They hie them to the river's side,
Where cocoa trees abound,
And here a curious nest they form-
Roomy, and safe, and snug, and warm.
For, not one lodging room alone

Contents this careful pair:
Three chambers may be clearly seen,
Built and divided there,
Securely for her precious eggs
A little nursery she begs.

There, with a mother's patient love,
Does she so fondly brood,
And only to their parlour come,
To take her daily food;

That food her faithful mate provides,
And builds a little porch besides ;
There sings his sweetest tunes, or seeks
Where fire-flies brightly gleam,
Fixing them round his porch, where they
Like brilliant lamps may seem,
Lights that may guide him to his home,
When far away for food he'll roam.
And when the mother-bird, ere long,
Her pretty nestlings shews;
When by their early chirpings, soon
Their wants he duly knows; [seeds,
He brings them worms, and flies, and
Supplying all their daily needs.

Yet danger lurks around this spot,
Where wily snakes entwine
Their coiling forms around the trees,
Poor birds to slyly gain.

But well the cunning sparrow's nest
Is formed for safety and for rest:
He twists a slender cord, yet firm,
From off the spreading tree,
And, o'er the river's bank let down,

By this his house you'll see. Suspended from the branches' height, Hundred such nests will meet our sight.

How knows this pretty bird to shun

A danger ere it come? Or how can such a tiny thing Construct so safe a home? Does he not fear, lest every blast His treasures may o'erwhelm at last? He feels them safe-he's taught by One Whose care his work directs,

Who, man, and bird, and beast, through life,

With guardian care protects.

To bird and beast he instinct gives,
But man by nobler reason lives.

And mark, dear boy, that birds and beasts
Have ever done the same,
Since in the world's creation first

At His command they came :
He gave them instinct to supply
Life's daily wants-and then they die.
But man, continuing progress makes
Through each succeeding age,
From barbarous to polished life,

From savage up to sage:
Improvement was to him assigned,
The powers of a thoughtful mind.
Tis well, that for his sojourn here
Fresh pleasures he should gain,
While for a higher state he strives
Than birds or beasts attain,
That-for which all his powers were given,
To live for evermore in heaven.

Keep this in mind, dear child, admire
The instinct of the bird,

In that and in your reason too

The voice of God is heard.
And with your highest powers fulfil
In all things, His almighty will.

THE EAGLET OF BENVENUE.*
PART I.

On the high and towring summit,
Of the mighty Benvenue,
An eagle in her lofty eyrie,

Hid her eaglets from our view.
Beneath the sheltering mountain
In the fair and fertile plain;
On a lovely autumn noon-day,

Still they reaped the golden grain. And among those joyous reapers

Was a youthful mother seen,
Her orphan boy was near her laid,
For whom she came to glean.

Fair Margaret at the Manse+ had lived,
A maiden prized and loved,
Where Donald won her for his bride,
And constant truth had proved.
He fought in his country's battles,
And died, as brave men die;
And Margaret for their boy had toiled,
Placing her trust on high.

* A mountain in Scotland.

+ The name given in Scotland to the clergyman's house.