He flung the slave who moved the lid,
A purse of maravedis ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.

He vowed a vow, that noble knight,
Before he went to table,

To make his only sport the fight,
His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged as he was bid
Five score of Turks to Cadiz ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.

To ride through mountains, where my First
A banquet would be reckoned ;
Through deserts, where to quench their thirst
Men vainly turn my Second.

To leave the gates of fair Madrid,
And dare the gates of Hades ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.

II.

Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower;
Hark! to the chimes from yonder tower!
Call ye my First from her chamber now,
With her snowy vail and her jeweled brow.

Lo! where my Second in gorgeous array,
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her as he curvets by

With an arching neck and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet and studied the song,
Ranged in meet order the menial throng,
Jerome is ready with book and with stole,

And the maidens strew flowers,-but where is my Whole?

Look to the hill!—is he climbing its side?
Look to the stream!-is he crossing its tide?
Out on the false one!-he comes not yet-
Lady, forget him! yea, scorn and forget!

The next is a surname, and one of the most beautiful compliments ever offered to a great poet.

III.

Come from my First, ay, come!

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought;

So; forward and farewell!

Toll ye my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed
So, take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, ay, call

The lord of lute and lay;

And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day:

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

I add a few more of these graceful pleasantries:

IV.

He talked of daggers and of darts,

Of passions and of pains,

Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;

He said, though love was kin to grief,
He was not born to grieve;

He said, though many rued belief,
She safely might believe.

But still the lady shook her head,

And swore by yea and nay,

My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

He said my First whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,

VI.

My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be!

The stars that gemmed her ebon hair
Were only two or three:

King Cole saw thrice as many there
As you or I could see.

Away, King Cole," mine hostess said,
"Flagon and flask are dry;

Your steed is neighing in the shed,
For he knows a storm is nigh."
She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.

VII.

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt,—
Sooth 'twas an awful day!

And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,

'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer.

My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun;

My Next with her cold and quiet cloud
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done;

And both together to all blue eyes

That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

This charade is still a mystery to me. Solve it, fair readers

X.

PEASANT POETS.

JOHN CLARE.

NEARLY at the same period when Macaulay and Praed sprang into public life, the world of letters was startled by the announcement of a new poet, a Northamptonshire peasant, whose claims to distinction were vouched for by judges of no ordinary sagacity, little given to mistake, and by no means addicted to enthusiasm. His character was blameless and amiable. Although of a frame little suited to severity of toil, he had for many years supported his aged parents by manual labor, and in bringing his powers into the light of day, he had undergone more than the ordinary amount of delay, of suspense, of disappointment, and of "the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick.”

From the prefaces to his three publications, the “Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," "The Village Minstrel," and “The Rural Muse," his early history may be collected. At the age of thirteen, when he could read tolerably, and knew something of writing and arithmetic, he met, accidentally, with "Thomson's Seasons," a book which not only awakened in his mind the love of poetry, but led him at once to the kind of poetry in which, from situation and from natural aptitude, he was most likely to succeed. For another sixteen years his brief leisure was filled with attempts, more or less successful, to clothe, in the language of verse, his own feelings and observations. His chief trial, during this long probation, must have been his entire loneliness of mind-the absence of all companionship or sympathy. At this time he met with the "Patty" whom he afterward married, and, in the hope of improving his circumstances, began to consider seriously about publishing a small volume by subscription; and, having ascertained that the expense of three hundred copies of a prospectus would not be more than a pound, he set himself