And years have rotted off his fleshThe world shall see his bones! "Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again-again, with a dizzy brain, And my red right hand grows raging hot Like Cranmer's at the stake. "And still no peace for the restless clay The horrid thing pursues my soul— That very night, while gentle sleep Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, HOOD. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. G ATHER ye rosebuds while ye may ! Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower, that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, That age is best which is the first, Then be not coy, but use your time; HERRICK. A PROTUS. MONG these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thong'd vest, Loric and low-brow'd Gorgon on the breast; One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As those were all the little locks could bear. Now read here. "Protus ends a period Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant; Till he was borne out on a balcony To pacify the world when it should see. The captains ranged before him, one, his hand Made baby points at, gain'd the chief command. And day by day more beautiful he grew In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, In easy tomes a life's experience: And artists took grave counsel to impart In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art— Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, And mortals love the letters of his name." Stop! Have you turn'd two pages? Still the same. As hearsay. Some think John let Protus live F He wrote the little tract On worming dogs,' Is extant yet. A Protus of the Race Is rumour'd to have died a monk in Thrace,- Here's John the smith's rough-hammer'd head. Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man! ROBERT BROWNING. I SONG. WANDER'D by the brook-side, I could not hear the brook flow, I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade, I did not feel afraid; I listen'd for a word,- He came not,-no, he came not; Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, Fast silent tears were flowing, I knew its touch was kind: R. M. MILNES. THE NIGHTINGALE, A CONVERSATION POEM. No slip O cloud, no relique of the sunken day Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 1 Most musical, most melancholy.—This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the melancholy |