Beneath the tender sigh-the loving smileCurl'd the dark snake of hatred's bitterest sneer; And 'neath the lover-poet's flowing robes

There lurk'd an arm as strong, as sharp a blade Of wit as ever flash'd; and ill he fared

Who dared to draw his weapon on that breast,— Well if he 'scaped with life those fearful strokes That laid full many a helmet in the dust.

In conscious power exulting, thou didst dare
To launch thy new and untried bark upon
Ambition's dangerous flood, and didst attack
The strongholds of high Fame's imperial crags.
O vainly did the many forts outpour
Shower after shower of fierce invective fire

Upon that bark of iron in briefest time

Each fortress fell o'erwhelmed beneath the mass.

As from the metal of some giant boom,
With loud-tongued menace and defiant roar,
Thy mighty shells of Satire soared aloft,
Then fell with crushing and resistless weight,
Crashing upon those long-built fastnesses,

As fell the iron storm upon the towers

Of proud Sebastopol's imperial heights.

How clear and how majestic was the march
Of thy rich, massive song; how pleasantly
Thy words flow'd on the grateful ear, unlike
The obscure nothingness of modern verse—
The murky mistiness of rhymesters now.
Would that once more we could recall that light,
Without the gloomy shadows that it cast!

The traveller who turns him from the sun
Beholds his image cast on objects near,
Steeping each coming form in heavy shade,

And darkening with its gloom the path he takes :
So thou, who turn'dst thy back upon the light
Of thy Creator's friendly love, beheldst

Thy blacken'd shape projected far and deep
On everything thou camest to; for thou
Didst never deign to walk towards the sun.
With steps averted from thy God, thy life
Grew dark and darker, as the evening shades
Waxed longer; till the sun thou didst so hate
Sank down, and left thee to thyself and night.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF EDGAR POE.

THOSE strange and melancholy eyes are closed
In death's sleep now, the dark orb's curtained lid
Is fallen o'er the brain's bright busy stage,
No more to rise again with coming day :
The stirring drama of that wayward mind,
With all its brilliant scenes, is acted out.

Genius without a loving heart was thine,
Light without heat, a chilling lunar fire
That with its wizard rays delights the eye,
But desolate itself and giving warmth to none.
The ray that formed thy various-tinted life
Was broken, as it fell, in prismed hues,

And shone and gave delight to all that gazed.

But not by such bright iris-painted rays,

However beautiful, do others see

To do the work that God has given to each.

The demon of the goblet was thy god,

Before whose altar thou wert wont to bow
In slavish adoration night and morn,

To the insatiate fiend who craved for all,

And gave more woe, the greater worship paid.
Beneath that soul-polluting altar shrine

Thou offeredst up the riches of thy mind,
The sacred blessedness of wedded life,
The weal and happiness of either world,
As if to teach that genius without God,
Is but a bark with all her powers complete,
At whose loose helm no guardian pilot stands;
And waiting for the storm to meet her doom.

LIKES AND DISLIKES.

'Tis passing strange, and by no common law To be interpreted, that some we love,

And some, if Heaven did not a bridle strong
Upon our feelings place, should even hate.

Not always those who love us do we love,
Nor does the heart reciprocate again
Alway the scorn and hatred that it meets.
We cannot add our fellows' virtues up,
And from that total sum essay to love;
Nor do our dear companions' many faults
Subtract one figure from the love we give.
Of some we needs must take the photograph,
With all their faults in blacken'd prominence;
Of some, how does the pencil overlook,

Almost unconsciously, defects that seem

To us but shades to throw their virtues forth.