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MISCONCEPTIONS.

This is a spray the Bird clung to,

Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.

Oh, what a hope beyond measure

Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to-
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,

Thrilled in a minute erratic,

Ere the true bosom she bent on,

Meet for love's regal dalmatic.

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on-
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows-
Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower,
-Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

FROM "ONE WORD MORE" (1855).
Love, you saw me gather men and women,
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy,
Enter each and all, and use their service,
Speak from every mouth-the speech, a poem.
Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows,
Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving :

I am mine and yours-the rest be all men's,

Karshook, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty.

Let me speak this once in my true person,

Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea,

Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence

Pray you, look on these my men and women,

Take and keep my fifty poems finished ;

Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also!

Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things.

Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self!

Here in London, yonder late in Florence,

Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured.
Curving on a sky imbrued with colour,
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight,

Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth.
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder,
Perfect till the nightingales applauded.
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished,
Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs,
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver,
Goes dispiritedly-glad to finish.

THE LOST MISTRESS.

All's over, then does truth sound bitter

As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter

About your cottage eaves !

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,

I noticed that, to-day;

One day more bursts them open fully
-You know the red turns grey.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,-well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart's endeavour,-
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stays in my soul for ever!-

-Yet I will but say what mere friends say,

Or only a thought stronger;

I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE.

June was not over,

Though past the full,

And the best of her roses

Had yet to blow, When a man I know (But shall not discover,

Since ears are dull,

And time discloses)

Turned him and said with a man's true air,
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 'twere,—
"If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"

Well, Dear, indoors with you!

True, serene deadness

Tries a man's temper.

What's in the blossom

June wears on her bosom?

Can it clear scores with you?

Sweetness and redness,

Eadem semper!

Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!

If June mends her bowers now, your hand left unsightly
By plucking their roses-my June will do rightly.

And after, for pastime,

If June be refulgent

With flowers in completeness,

All petals, no prickles,
Delicious as trickles

Of wine poured at mass-time-
And choose One indulgent

To redness and sweetness :

Or if, with experience of man and of spider,

She use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,
To stop the fresh spinning-why, June will consider.

Enthusiasm

While these great writers were waiting patiently for the public to turn to Reason and them, there occurred in our poetical literature a struggle between the sedative and the enthusiastic temperament which has left a certain mark on its history. The influence of Wordsworth and Southey in their old age was towards the encouragement of good sense and "the equipoise of reason" against an extravagant Byronism. During the reign of William IV., passion and enthusiasm were greatly out of mode, and the school of poetic utility found a successful leader in HENRY TAYLOR, who strenuously advocated the supremacy of reason over imagination and irregularity. From 1834, when the famous preface to his drama of Philip van Artevelde appeared, the doctrines of Taylor were almost paramount, until in 1839 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY published his apocalyptic drama of Festus, founded not on Byron, however, but on Goethe, in which a direct counterblast was blown, and the liberty of imaginative speculation proclaimed as from

Photo.]

a trumpet. This counteraction, at a very dead moment of our poetical existence, claims a record in the briefest outline of the national literature.