Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine;
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave

Dark and untimely met my view-
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,

To memory's fond regrets the prey;
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

Walter Savage Landor. Born 1775.

Died 1864.

BORN at Ipseley Court, Warwickshire, on 30th January 1775, of an ancient family, he was educated for the army, but his republican views caused him to decline supporting the monarchy in this way. He succeeded to the family estate about 1805, and in 1806 raised a troop at his own expense to support the Spaniards in their first insurrection. In 1815 he took up his abode in Italy, where he resided for many years. Landor's first poems were published in 1795, and the last in 1858. His prose writings especially his "Imaginary Conversations," are by far the finest of his compositions, although steeped in the bitter tone of the old mocking Paganism.

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

W nc wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears!

'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer,

'These may she never share!'

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate
His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,
And oh! pray, too, for me!

Charles Lamb.

{

Born 1775.
Died 1834.

A month or more she hath been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool;

But she was trained in Nature's school;
Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning.

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?

James Smith.
Horace Smith.

Born 1775.
Died 1839.

Born 1779.

Died 1849.

THE authors of "Rejected Addresses were the sons of Robert Smith, solicitor to the Board of Ordnance, and were born in London. James followed the profession of his father, to whose appointment he succeeded. Horace became a member of the Stock Exchange. Their first contributions to literature were published in the "Pic-nic" newspaper. They also

contributed largely to the monthlies, in which were first published their poetical pieces. In 1812 appeared their great work, "Rejected Addresses,' containing imitations of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Scott, &c. Its success was unexampled, and it brought the authors both wealth and fame. James Smith was content with the fame thus acquired, and only wrote a few occasional pieces for the magazines; but Horace opened up a new field of honour. and became a most successful novel writer. James died at London, 24th December 1839, and Horace at Tunbridge Wells. 12th July 1849.

FROM "REJECTED ADDRESSES."

(AFTER SIR W. SCOTT.)

AN awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When lo! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew

'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
'A Muggins to the rescue, ho!"
And poured the hissing tide;
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain.
For rallying but to fall again,
He tottered, sunk, and died?
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire-
His fireman's soul was all on fire-
His brother-chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite;
He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved.

His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps;
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps;
Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman, and afraid of bumps!

What are they feared on? fools-'od rot 'em!"-
Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE.

(BY JAMES SMITH.)

A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent rind
A venom distilled of the deadliest kind;
The Dutch sent their felons the juices to draw,
And who returned safe, pleaded pardon by law.

Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale,
Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale:
How few the reward of their victory earned !
For ninty-nine perished for one who returned.

Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer,
Removed it through Holland, and planted it here;
'Tis now a stock-plant of the genus wolf's-bane,
And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane.

The house that surrounds it stands first in the row,
Two doors at right angles swing open below;
And the children of misery daily steal in,
And the poison they draw they denominate Gin.

Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart,
This compound of crime at a sovereign a quart;
Let gin fetch per bottle the price of champagne,
And hew down the Upas in Marybone Lane.

FROM "ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION."

(BY HORACE SMITH.)

AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,