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Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song

Are taught within the mountain solitudes;

For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth-earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!

The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend.

'And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?
'I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see!'

And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?'

'I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.'

And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?

'I heard the drops of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.'

'Oh, tell me all, my Mary-
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night on the Caldon-Low.'

'Then take me on your knee, mother,
And listen, mother of mine:
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.

And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,
And their dancing feet so small;
But, oh, the sound of their talking
Was merrier far than all!'

And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?'

'I'll tell you all, my mother

But let me have my way!

And some they played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;

"And this," they said, "shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May;

And a busy man shall the miller be
By the dawning of the day!

Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,
Till the tears fill both his eyes!"

And some they seized the little winds,
That sounded over the hill,

And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew so sharp and shrill:-

"And there," said they," the merry winds go,

Away from every horn;

And those shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn:

Oh, the poor, blind old widow

Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong!"

And some they brought the brown lintseed,
And flung it down from the Low-
"And this," said they, "by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow!

Oh, the poor, lame weaver,

How will he laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!"

And then upspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin-
"I have spun up all the tow," said he,
"And want some more to spin.

I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another-
A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!"

And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.

And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.

But, as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

And I peeped into the widow's field;
And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.

And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high;
But I saw the weaver at his gate

With the good news in his eye!

Now, this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;

So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be!'

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Now that posture is not right,
And he is not settled quite;
There! that's better than before-
And the knave pretends to snore.

Ha! he is not half asleep;
See, he slyly takes a peep.
Monkey, though your eyes were shut,
You could see this little nut.

You shall have it, pigmy brother!
What, another! and another!
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack-
Sit down, and begin to crack.
There the little ancient man
Cracks as fast as crack he can!
Now good-by, you merry fellow,
Nature's primest Punchinello.

:

THOMAS HOOD.

THOMAS HOOD has come before the world chiefly as a writer of comic poetry; but several compositions of a different nature show that he is also capable of shining in the paths of the imaginative, the serious, and the romantic. He was born in London in 1798, the son of a member of the well-known bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharp. The poet was bred in the profession of an engraver, which he in time forsook, when he found that he could command the attention of the public by his whimsical verses. His first publication was a volume entitled Whims and Oddities, which attained great popularity soon after, he commenced The Comic Annual, the success of which was not less remarkable. A novel entitled Tylney Hall, published in 1834, was a variation of the poet's labours, which the public did not encourage him to repeat. The comic poetry of Hood was usually set off by drawings executed in a peculiar style by himself, and to which they were in some degree indebted for their success. The most original feature of these productions was the use which the author made of puns a figure usually too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. Of the serious poems of our author, his Plea for the Midsummer Fairies, and The Dream of Eugene Aram, are the most popular.

Song.

It was not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses

We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet;

Oh no!-the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met.

"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses→→

We plucked them as we passed!

What else could peer my glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?

And when I asked the like of love,
You snatched a damask bud-

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still blowing to the last;

It was the time of roses

We plucked them as we passed!

Town and Country.

Oh well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh O rus!'
Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parched, my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust;
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me dust to dust.'

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;
The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,
But down a chimney pot!

Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe;
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!

My grass is of that sort-alas!
That makes no hay-called sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip cups-but meet
With very vile rebuffs!

For meadow-buds I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese-or only sniff

The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau reviewed
His periwinkles!-mine are strewed!
My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown. Where are ye, birds, that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!
Where are ye linnet, lark, and thrush,
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my tuneful throng.'
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams
And colours of the skies?

My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes!

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones:
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,
Though never off the stones.'
Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
The Arcadian herdsman used to play

Sweetly-here soundeth not;

But merely breathes unwholesome fumes;
Meanwhile the city boor consumes

The rank weed-' piping hot.'

All rural things are vilely mocked,
On every hand the sense is shocked

With objects hard to bear:
Shades-vernal shades!-where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers,
And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more:
See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er;
And that bare wood-St John's.

No pastoral scenes procure me peace;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees:

No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers-not with bees.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh ' O rus!
Of city pleasures sick :

My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire?)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,

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Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamblike frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown,) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

The Dream of Eugene Aram.

[The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.]

"Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,

And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can:

But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside;

For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide :

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:
'O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took;

Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook:

And lo he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book!

72

'My gentle lad, what is't you read— Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?'

The young boy gave an upward glanceIt is the Death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain;
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again :
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod-
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God!

He told how murderers walked the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain-
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain!

'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme

Wo, wo, unutterable wo

Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream!

One that had never done me wrongA feeble man, and old;

I led him to a lonely field,

The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife-
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my foot,
But lifeless flesh and bone!

Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;
And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill!

And lo! the universal air

Seemed lit with ghastly flame-
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by the hand,
And called upon his name!

Oh God, it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain!
But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!

My head was like an ardent coal,

My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price:

A dozen times I groaned; the dead Had never groaned but twice!

And now from forth the frowning sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,

I heard a voice-the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
"Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight!"

I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream-
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme.
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,
And vanished in the pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young

That evening in the school!

Oh heaven, to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn:
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,
'Mid holy cherubim !

And peace went with them one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,

And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!

All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep;
My fevered eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin had rendered unto her
The keys of hell to keep!

All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That racked me all the timeA mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime!

One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation craveStill urging me to go and see

The dead man in his grave!

Heavily I rose up--as soon

As light was in the skyAnd sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry!

Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.

With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man!

And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was other where ! As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

Then down I cast me on my face,

And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep;
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep!

So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh-
The world shall see his bones!

Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with a dizzy brain,
The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.

And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow :

The horrid thing pursues my soul

It stands before me now!'

The fearful boy looked up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow!

That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin eyelids kissed,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published two volumes of poetry in 1830 and 1832. They contain various pieces, domestic and romantic -some imaginative and richly-coloured-the diction being choice and fine, but occasionally injured by affected expressions. Among our secondary living poets, there is no one of whom higher expectations may be formed than Mr Tennyson; for, with his luxuriant fancy and musical versification, he is often highly original in his thoughts and conceptions. He reminds us at times of Leigh Hunt, but his spirit is more searching, as well as expansive. Mr Tennyson has perhaps more to unlearn than to learn in the art of poetry, and it may be hoped that he will shake off his conceits, and take a bolder flight than he has yet attempted.

Love and Death.

What time the mighty moon was gathering light,
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a casia, full in view,
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,

And talking to himself, first met his sight:
'You must be gone,' said Death, 'these walks are
mine.'

Love wept, and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted, said, 'This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun, and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity

Life eminent creates the shade of death;
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall-
But I shall reign for ever over all.'

The Sleeping Palace.

The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf,

Here stays the blood along the veins.
Faint shadows, vapours lightly curled,
Faint murmurs from the meadows come,
Like hints and echoes of the world
To spirits folded in the tomb.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn.
The fountain to his place returns,
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.
Roof-haunting martens warm their eggs :
In these, in those the life is stayed.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,
Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all
Than those old portraits of old kings,
That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the butler with a flask

Between his knees, half-drained; and there

The wrinkled steward at his task,

The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are severed as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss:

The blush is fixed upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams, that through the Oriel shine,
Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimmed with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

Grave faces gathered in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps.
He must have been a jolly king.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green
Close-matted, bur and brake and brier,
And glimpsing over these just seen,

High up the topmost palace-spire.
When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
Bring truth that sways the souls of men?
Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered ages since.
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain,
And bring the fated fairy prince.

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