Fight as thy father fought; Fall as thy father fell; Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought; So; forward and farewell! Toll ye my Second! toll! Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed. So, take him to his rest! Call ye my Whole, ay, call The lord of lute and lay! And let him greet the sable pall Go, call him by his name! No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame I add a few more of these graceful pleasantries: IV. He talked of daggers and of darts, Of passions and of pains, Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts, Of kisses and of chains; He said, though love was kin to grief, He was not born to grieve; He said, though many rued belief, She safely might believe. But still the lady shook her head, He said my First whose silent car And then he set a cypress wreath And drew his rapier from its sheath,— My Second there should dim, And swore by yea and nay, And all that he could say. V. My First came forth in booted state, For fair Valencia bound; And smiled to feel my Second's weight, And hear its creaking sound. 'And here's a gaoler sweet," quoth he, And "blessings on the bonds," quoth he, "Which wrinkled age imposes, If woman must a prisoner be, Her chain should be of roses." VI. My First was dark o'er earth and air, The stars that gemmed her ebon Kair Were only two or three: King Cole saw thrice as many there 'Away, King Cole," mine hostess said, "Flaggon and flask are dry; Your steed is neighing in the shed, For he knows a storm is nigh.” She set my Second on his head, VII. Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt,— Sooth 'twas an awful day! And though in that old age of sport 'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there My First to all the brave and proud My Next with her cold and quiet cloud And both together to all blue eyes This charade is still a mystery to me. Solve it, fair readers! X. PEASANT POET S. JOHN CLARE. NEARLY at the same period, when Macaulay and Praed sprang into public life, the world of letters was startled by the announcement of a new poet, a Northamptonshire peasant, whose claims to distinction were vouched for by judges of no ordinary sagacity, little given to mistake, and by no means addicted to enthusiasm. His character was blameless and amiable. Although of a frame little suited to severity of toil, he had for many years supported his aged parents by manual labour, and in bringing his powers into the light of day, he had undergone more than the ordinary amount of delay, of suspense, of disappointment, and of "the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick." From the prefaces of his three publications, the "Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," |