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'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 glance"It 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,' 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 flameTen 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 time-
A 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 crave-
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave!

Heavily I rose up as soon

As light was in the sky-
And 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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The silk star-broidered coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid

Her full black ringlets downward rolled, Glows forth each softly shadowed arm

With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

[From the Palace of Art.']

Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters, That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sundered without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

[From the Miller's Daughter.']

Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look through my very soul with thine!
Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell!
They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.
Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow: for when time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness passed again,

And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,
With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort I have found in thee:
But that God bless thee, dear, who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind,
With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find!

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration of Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers in the Edinburgh Review, gratified and surprised the public by a

volume of poetry in 1842. He had previously, in his young collegiate days, thrown off a few spirited ballads, (one of which, The War of the League, is here subjoined); and in all his prose works there are indications of strong poetical feeling and fancy. No man paints more clearly and vividly to the eye, or is more studious of the effects of contrast and the proper grouping of incidents. He is generally picturesque, eloquent, and impressive. His defects are a want of simplicity and tenderness, and an excessive love of what Izaak Walton called strong writing. The same characteristics pervade his recent work, the Lays of Ancient Rome. Adopting the theory of Niebuhr (now generally acquiesced in as correct), that the heroic and romantic incidents related by Livy of the early history of Rome, are founded merely on ancient ballads and legends, he selects four of these incidents as themes for his verse. Identifying himself with the plebeians and tribunes, he makes them chant the martial stories of Horatius Cocles, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys. The style is homely, abrupt, and energetic, carrying us along like the exciting narratives of Scott, and presenting brief but striking pictures of local scenery and manners. The truth of these descriptions is strongly impressed upon the mind of the reader, who seems to witness the heroic scenes so clearly and energetically described. The masterly ballads of Mr Macaulay must be read continuously, to be properly appreciated; for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole. The following are parts of the first Lay::

[The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.]

Tall are the oaks whose acorns

Drop in dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;

Beyond all streams, Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves,

The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path
Up the Ciminian hill;

Unwatched along Clitumnus
Grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
In the Volsinian mere.

The harvests of Arretium,

This year old men shall reap;
This year young boys in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna,

This year the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls,
Whose sires have marched to Rome.

[Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate: 'To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods,

And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame?

Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he;
'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.'
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he;
"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.'

'Horatius,' quoth the Consul,

'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe,

And the tribunes beard the high,
And the fathers grind the low.

As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;

Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old.

[The Fate of the first Three who advance against the Heroes of Rome.]

Aunus from green Tifernum,

Lord of the Hill of Vines;

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves

Sicken in Ilva's mines;

And Picus, long to Clusium,

Vassal in peace and war,

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers

From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers

O'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth;

At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thrust;

And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii

Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo,

The rover of the sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,

Who slew the great wild boar,
The great wild boar that had his den
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,

And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
Along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns:

Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow.

'Lie there,' he cried, "fell pirate!

No more, aghast and pale,

From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
The track of thy destroying bark.
No more Campania's hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns when they spy
Thy thrice accursed sail.'

[Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself.]

He reeled, and on Herminius

He leaned one breathing-space;

Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet,
So fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a handbreath out
Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest

The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur's throat Horatius

Right firmly pressed his heel,

And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.

'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome,
Fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?'

[The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.]

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind;

Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!'
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

[How Horatius was Rewarded.]

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen

Could plough from morn till night :
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee:

And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home:
And wives still pray to Juno

For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened,

And the largest lamp is lit,

When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old,

The War of the League.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories

are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

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of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our lord the King.'

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'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he |

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