wanes. If the young couple had not too much toyed they would not have furnished the inevitable rhyme cloyed. Mars leaves his card, calls in a full field-marshal's uniform, yet in manners bashful, even to sheepishness; so that the husband has no hesitation in trusting his wife with this pet-lamb. The world, however, will talk, trusted gallants will presume, then cool, then fly; but "Pandora scarce had lost the God of Slaughter When Neptune popped his head out of the water, Half the gods in turn follow these examples― "Nay, Vulcan, who had hammered her together, Pandora's fault survives her charms; low, despicable dame, her shameless loves are offered at last to the very satyrs. one bit of humility, which I must transcribe. "But most, like me, of great Apollo's sons, Have much degenerated from their father." The poem has The story which follows is droll, and has merit on which another man might have built his claim to the title of wit; yet, compared with its author's usual vein, it is heavy, like its hero and his king. Mr. Champernoune is one of Henry the Eighth's beefeaters huge things Employed to waddle after kings, Like broad-wheeled waggons wanting springs." When Colman wrote that, he foresaw not that he should himself become Lieutenant of the Yeoman Guard. This ballad is keen upon courtiers who sell their souls for place, loaves, and fishes, cringe to majesty, yet trample on its servants. Large unwieldy men are Colman's favourite quarry, easily run down, well worth cutting up; yet his preface to the "Luminous Historian, or Learning in Love," is replete with polished deference and sensitive enthusiasm for the memory of Gibbon. The poem's opening treats philosophically of life and death, of the blunders we all commit Evincing that It teaches us "Prone to be this or that too soon or late," "'Tis ne'er too soon nor late to play the fool." "To see worn One-and-twenty writhe with gout, But, he adds, though when the wise and good for a moment forget their cast of character, this calls for no reprobation, still 'tis laughable. We may admire the historian, though we chuckle at his clumsy love "Like a carved pumpkin was his classic jole, Flesh had the solo of his chin encored, Puffed were his cheeks, his mouth a little hole, A shade-portrait of the whole figure is added, stuck up on either long long heel, To look like an erect black tadpole taking snuff.” Colman justly derides the purblind partiality of those friends who expose a great man's defects, as if they were beauties. Pour moi, I think most biographers maliciously pretend this mistake of Punch for Apollo. Eudoxus (Gibbon), in the full meridian of his glory, no longer young, goes for retrenchment to Lausanne; and, though hitherto untouched by the tender passion, is smitten by a fair blue, who resides on a neighbouring hill. Sad news for one so funnily obese as to be incapable of horse-riding, unfit for climbing! Still he resolves to try; though not insensible to his charmer's weakness, nor she to his— "Each saw each other's foible, not their own, He smiled at science, in a lovely lass, She at a sapient squab, who turned philandering ass." His ascent is most ludicrously described. The path, greasy with recent rain, causes him to lose one step in three, as, like a well-fed maggot crawling up a deep fruit-plate, he works, slips, writhes, and waggles on, till he sees the lady's casement, with herself in it. "She'll let me in, he groaned, and should she frown, Love's bliss is lost; but oh! what rapture to sit down !” She does admit him, and "The fair pursued her literary prattle Now changed her author, now her attitude, And much more symmetry than learning showed." Till Eudoxus, of the double chin, unable longer to forbear -rescuing his cushion from its load, Flounced on his knees, appearing like a round Large fillet of hot veal just tumbled on the ground.” The fair Agnes is convulsed with laughter; Eudoxus strives to rise— "But Fate and Corpulency seemed to say There's a petitioner who must for ever pray!" At last a servant helps to raise him, and "Eudoxus, fretted with the morn's romance, Opined, as he was waddling to the plain, Who march'd up hill, and then-march'd down again.” In the midst of this quiz, Colman's advice for ladies to admit ugly lovers, if any, an' they would avoid scandal, comes with the better grace, as he had no personal sympathy with smirking hole mouths and knob noses; on the contrary, was a handsome fellow, "had been to the Promontory, and got a goodly one." "London Rurality" describes our suburban villas to the life, with their occupants-retired cits, government-clerks, half-pay officers, school-keepers, widows, and old maids; votaries to the genteelly-cheap, to brickkiln air, and overbuilt high road rusticity. The "Letters" that follow Colman did not create. Mathews had the originals. Their writers, worthy women! in perfect ignorance of evil and of Lindley Murray, had, indeed, traced "bitter words." Their queernesses, however, outrage no "moral feeling." To humour the expurgators, I assure them that "The Family Colman” would make a large volume. My limits forbid my culling hosts of varied flowers, pure and sweet as wild and gay. The Lady Erpinghams, the Agneses, would welcome such a bouquet to their breasts, though the Lucretias and Pandoras might dread its thorns, if any such females existed in this most exemplary age. WALTER ELLIS. LONE upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him, When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying Ask'd the midnight's silver queen. Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping; Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead; By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken? Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring, Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring love? Asks the midnight's weary queen. Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd untiring, Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh. He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, The poet's passionate world has entered in his soul; He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories, When sages and when kings first uphold the mind's control. When will he awaken? Ask'd midnight's stately queen. Lo! the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated; Soon he will awaken! Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart; Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos, but is bringing Music that is murmur'd from nature's inmost heart. Soon he will awaken, To his and midnight's queen! Lovely is the green earth-she knows the hour is holy; O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own, For the midnight's happy queen What is this old history but a lesson given, ! How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth, When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, Like that youth to night's fair queen! II. THE DEATH OF THE SEA KING. Dark, how dark the morning That kindles the sky! There gather'd round nor follower nor foeman, He has lived mid the hurtle Of spears and of snow; On some southern isle; Will wait her awhile: Ay, long is that waiting-for never again Will the Sea Raven sweep o'er her own northern main. He was born on the water, 'Mid storm and 'mid strife; Through tempest and slaughter Was hurried his life; Few years has he numbered, And golden his head, Yet the north hills are cumbered With bones of his dead. The combat is distant, the whirlwind is past From the spot where Earl Harald is breathing his last. Tis an isle which the ocean No step been addrest, Her fairest and best. Yet the wild winds have brought from the Baltic afar He saw his chiefs stooping, They knew not the sea; And a foe track'd their footsteps more stern than the tide- Left last, and left lonely, Life's burden sustain'd: She smiled when he woke; Tho' stern was his bearing and haughty his tone, Fierce the wild winds were blowing That drove them all night, The storm is forsaking Its strife with the main, And the blue sky is breaking Thro' clouds and thro' rain: They can see the fair island whereon they are thrown, Her bright hair is flying From what is so fair. Paler, colder the forehead that rests on her knee! He tries-vain the trying To lift up his sword, As if still defying The Death, now his lord. |