For some fairer bosom-queen, Death hath boldness I will look out to his future- Unto other eyes than mine, Whatsoever eyes terrene DESPAIR. I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless; Of the free charter'd heavens. Be still! express She left him the riband from her hair. THE DEPARTED. WHEN Some belovéd voice, which was to you WHAT ARE WE SET ON EARTH FOR? THE SPINNING-WHEEL. THE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle, She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian church-that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, So swift and steadfast, so intent and strongWhile so, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune-proving our work The better for the sweetness of our song. THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound Breaks its own cloud-my flesh would perish there, WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, we believe, was a native of London, where members of his family now reside, occupied with the business of banking. The author of " Lillian" was placed, when very young, at Eton, where JOHN MOULTRIE, HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE, and other clever men of kindred tastes, were his associates. He was principal editor of "The Etonian," one of the most spirited and piquant under-graduate magazines ever sent from a college. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where he carried away an unprecedented number of prizes, obtained by Greek and Latin odes and epigrams and English poems. On leaving Trinity College, he settled in London, and soon after became associated with THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, and other young men who have since been distinguished at the bar or in the senate, in the conduct of "Knight's Quarterly Magazine." After the discontinuance of this miscellany, he occasionally wrote for the "New Monthly," and for the annuals; and a friend of his informs us that a large number of his playful lyrics, thrown off with infinite ease and readiness, are yet unprinted in the possession of his numerous friends. For a few years before his death, Mr. PRAED was in parliament, where he was considered a rising member, though his love of ease, and social propensities, prevented the proper cultivation and devotion of his powers. He died on the 15th of July, 1839. "Lillian," with the exception of DRAKE'S "Culprit Fay," is the most purely imaginative poem with which we are acquainted. PRAED delighted in themes of this sort, and "The Red Fisherman," the "Bridal of Belmont," and some of his other pieces, show the exceeding cleverness with which he reared upon them his fanciful creations. "The Vicar," "Josephine," and a few more of the lively and graceful compositions in this volume have been widely known in this country through the periodicals, and in the present season Mr. Langley of New York has issued a very neat edition of his poetical writings, with a memoir. THE RED FISHERMAN. THE abbot arose, and closed his book, A starlight sky was o'er his head, And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought But he did not tell the beads; If he look'd to the heaven, 't was not to invoke If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke A pious priest might the abbot seem, But what was the theme of the abb t's dreani, As a lover thinks of constancy, He did not mark how the skies in wrath He did not mark how the mossy path And nearer he came, and still more near The water had slept for many a year, Lightly and brightly they glide and go; And the life-blood colder run: The startled priest struck both his thighs, All alone, by the side of the pool, You would have sworn, as you look'd on them, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about, From the bowels of the earth, Cold by this was the midnight air; And a hump upon his shoulder. For he who writhed in mortal pain Was camp'd that night on Bosworth plainThe cruel Duke of Glou'ster! There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It was a haunch of princely size, Could better have guess'd the very wood Sounded then the noisy glee Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat; And the priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, Sounds seem'd dropping from the skies, And the breath of vernal gales, Smile, lady, smile!—I will not set Till thou wilt gather roses white One jerk, and there a lady lay, A lady wondrous fair; But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay, And torn was her raven hair. "Ah, ha!" said the fisher, in merry guise, "Her gallant was hook'd before;" There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, That ever was press'd from the Burgundy vine; As the fisherman armed his golden hook; On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer; There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, Oh, ho! Oh, ho! The cock doth crow; It is time for the fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!" The abbot had preach'd for many years, As ever was heard in the House of Peers His words had made battalions quake, And the king himself three quarters: He stammer'd and he stutter'd, As if an axe went through his head With every word he utter'd. He stutter'd o'er blessing, he stutter'd o'er ban, And none but he and the fisherman THE VICAR. SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagg'd all their tails and seem'd to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!" Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown, Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reach'd his journey's end, He had not gain'd an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;— If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor,- His talk was like a stream which runs It slipp'd from politics to puns: It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses: Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He establish'd truth, or started error, The Baptist found him far too deep: The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or show'd That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Sit in the vicar's seat: you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose tone is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?-look down, And construe on the slab before you, HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN, VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses; And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost, Lines to a ringlet or a turban; And trifles for the Morning Post, And nothing for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a taste for smoking: He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus: From him I learn'd the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ Genus; I used to singe his powder'd wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in; And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustin. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before; You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more: And pews are fitted up for gentry. SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS. TWELVE years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics: I wonder'd what they meant by stock; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supp'd with fates and furies; Twelve years ago!-how many a thought Those whisper'd syllables have brought The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books, The voices of dear friends, the looks Where are my friends ?-I am alone, No playmate shares my beaker— And some compose a rondo; And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, Without the fear of sessions; Charles Medler loath'd false quantities, As much as false professions; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medler's feet repose unscann'd, While Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext's duty; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, And Darrel studies, week by week, His Mant and not his Manton; And I am eight-and-twenty now— The world's cold chain has bound me; In parliament I fill my seat, |