A Prophecy.

Buyck. "Friede, ihr Herren! Muss der Soldat Friede rufen? Nun da ihr von uns nichts hören wollt, nun bringt auch eure Gesund

heit aus, eine bürgerliche Gesundheit.

Tetter. Dazu sind wir bereit! Sicherheit und Ruhe!

Soëst.

Ordnung und Freiheit!

Buyck. Brav! das sind auch wir zufrieden.

Alle.

Sicherheit und Ruhe! Ordnung und Freiheit!"

GOETHE'S Egmont.

"No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes;
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpet kindle rage no more:
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end."

POPE's Messiah.

RARE mid the Nations is the Prophet-Seer,
Whose soul unto the Future mounts serene :
Our thoughts are fashion'd to the present scene,
Or swath'd in the Past's cerements: we fear
Too much the scoffer's jibe, the sceptic's sneer.
Yet Chaucer saw the Crystal-palac'd Queen;
And War amid the idols that have been,

Shall be, and babes smile when of it they hear.

The Beast's-mark brands the War-God's brow,

unclean

As the foul murder-shrines of Mexico:

Cleft is his shield, for all the heraldic gilt
Emblazon'd there in Chivalry's false sheen:
Shiver'd his sword: he leans upon the hilt,
And shrinks from Commerce' swift-impending blow.

On Human Progress.

"L'age d'or, qu'une aveugle tradition a placé jusqu'ici dans le passé, est devant nous."-ST. SIMON.

"Say not thou, What is the cause that the former days were better than these; for thou dost not inquire wisely concerning the same." Eccl. vii. 10.

How often hath the Poet's story told

Of three great epochs of the human mind,
Wherein from good to worse we have declin'd
The first age in Creation was of Gold;
Of Silver fashion'd, forth the second roll'd;
The third in ribs of Iron is confin'd:-

'Tis false. In everything the immortal mind
Hath ever been advancing from of old.
Iron was largely mix'd with our first clay;
A richer metal shines, though feebly bright,
In present men; and Time perchance may see
The costliest ore in our posterity.

So breaks the silvery dawn from iron night
To the full splendour of a golden day.

Buttery.

"You shall have ale: I'll give you cheer in bowls." Scornful Lady: BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

FILL high the tankard; crown the silver bowl
With bright October's foaming amber; spread
The ashen board with manchets white of bread;
For hark! the hour of noon; and forth the whole
Dry Lecture rushes with a thirsty soul!
Up the hall-stairs the merry youths draw near,
And throng the buttery for noontide cheer.
See Charon comes to claim his weekly dole:-
O grim old ferryman, how oft my boat,
Through the long summer eve, on Isis' wave,
Beside thy fearful barge would careless float,
While thou o'er thy kind-cruel weapons sate,
And, with an artist's fondness, didst relate

:

Of drowning youths saved from a watery grave.

[At one o'clock, all the lectures for the day concluded, and there was then a pretty general rush to the buttery, for bread and cheese, and beer. The character I have introduced into this Sonnet deserves a word. He was an old man, a servant of the Humane Society, stationed on the river, for the prevention of accidents. His punt was filled with horrid-looking implements-the drags, hooks, &c., of his calling. Many a skiffer, like myself, used to linger on our way to Iffley or Sandford, while the old man, pushing his punt alongside, related wonderful tales of "perils by flood," if not by field. He was always armed with a scrap of paper and a pencil, ready to receive a "buttery order." His boat, his appearance, and profession, obtained for him the sobriquet of "Charon," by which he was universally known. He related his stories with a professional gusto highly diverting.]

Coquus: a Sketch from Memory.

"He lards the lean earth as he walks along."-Henry IV.

HARD by, the kitchen. Though 'tis something hot, Let's enter. There:-salute respectfully

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Our Coquus;" him of roguish, twinkling eye.

Not only from the constant fire, I wot,

But from full many a well-quaffed silver pot
Of humming ale, did that rich ruby fly
Noseward, ho! noseward. See, how jauntily
His paper cap, push'd back, hath learnt to squat
High on his beaded brow; how cleanly swell
The apron-folds upon his rounded paunch;
With what an air he dandleth carelessly
His knife. Salute him; for we love him well,
Our oracle; and touching loin, or haunch,
Indeed a man of grave authority.

The Ride.

"Sequar quo vocas."-SENECA.

"Orva che un sol volere, è il ambedue

Tu duca, tu signore, e tu maestro."-DANTE.

OUR steeds are ready; whither shall we ride?
To Woodstock, where a woman's jealous hate
Gave her frail rival horrid choice of fate,
And Blenheim rises in majestic pride?

Or to old Cumnor, where false Lei'ster's bride,
Like a fair falcon by the hawker lur'd,
Was in the shades of that grim Place immur'd,
Till, trusting to Love's well-feign'd note, she died?
Or shall we slowly saunter to the wood

Of Bagley, there explore each sylvan glen;
Or to the Quentin, sport of ages rude,

On the green heights of open Bullenden ?

Lead where you will; I follow, friend, to-night: All ways are equal to a spirit light.