ilarity of sentiment in a similar situation. These imprisoned cavaliers think and feel alike, and must needs speak the same language.

Beat on, proud billows. Boreas, blow;

Swell-curled waves, high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though truly heroes frown, my thoughts are calm;
Then strike affliction, for my wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me;

While a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty;

Locks, bars, and solitude together met
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, while I wished to be retired,

Into this private room was turned,
As if their wisdoms had conspired

The Salamander should be burned;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
Even constrained to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness,

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus :

Contentment can not smart. Stoics we see
Make torments easy to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favors, wear;
And for to keep my ankles warm

I have some iron shackles there;

These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet locked up

Like some high-priced Marguerite ;
Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,
Am cloistered up from public sight.
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin, for want of food, must starve
Where tempting objects are not seen;

And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in;
Malice of late's grown charitable, sure;
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking to have made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure.

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favor by the event.

When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
Sweet patience I can learn from him.
Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart;

When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I can not see my King,

Neither in person nor in coin,

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not, mine.

My King from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

Have you not seen the nightingale
A prisoner-like cooped in a cage;
How she doth chant her morbid tale
In that her narrow hermitage?

Even then her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird whom they contrive

Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corpse confine,

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free.

And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King.

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd;
While loyal thoughts do still repair
To accompany my solitude.
Although rebellion do my body bind,

My King alone can captivate my mind.

The following lines were written by the Marquis of Montrose upon the execution of Charles the First. He shut himself up for

Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with the point of a

diamond upon the glass window of his prison, after receiving his

sentence:

Let them bestow on every airth a limb;
Then open all my veins that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboil'd head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes; strew them in the air :-
Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,
I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust,

And confident Thou'lt raise me with the Just.

They who would follow the great Marquis to the last should read the fine ballad called "The Execution of Montrose," in Professor Aytoun's charming volume, "The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers."

XXIV.

POETRY THAT POETS LOVE.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR-LEIGH HUNT-PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

-JOHN KEATS.

To no one can the words that I have placed at the head of this paper apply more perfectly than to Mr. Landor. No poetry was ever dearer to poets than his. Nearly fifty years ago, we find Southey writing of and to the author of "Gebir," with a respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man for another; and, from that hour to the present, all whom he would himself most wish to please have showered upon him praises that can not die. The difficulty in selecting from his works is the abundance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming volume, because few, very few, have given such present life to classical subjects. I begin with the Preface, so full of grace and modesty.

It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gentlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily promenade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated on an old wall, high up and sadly weak in coloring. As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there should be one) will remember that Sculpture and Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the scenes and figures which we venture once more to introduce in poetry, it being our belief that what is becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbecoming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth to them."

And now comes the very first story; with its conclusion that goes straight to the heart.

THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE.

Who will away to Athens with me? Who

Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers