That let light in upon the gloomy woods,
A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,
Arch with small pucker'd mouth and mocking eye:
The morn has enterprise-deep quiet droops
With evening-triumph when the sun takes rest-
Voluptuous transport when the corn-fields ripen
Beneath a warm moon like a happy face:
And this to fill us with regard for man,
Deep apprehension of his passing worth,
Desire to work his proper nature out,
To ascertain his rank and final place,
For all these things tend upward-progress is
The law of life-man is not man as yet:
Nor shall I deem his object served, his end
Attain'd, his génuine strength put fairly out,
While only here and there a star dispels
The darkness-here and there a towering mind
O'erlooks its crawling fellows: when the host
Is out at once to the despair of night;
When all mankind is perfected alike,
Equal in full-blown powers-then, not till then,
Begins the general infancy of man.
EXTRACTS FROM SORDELLO. CARYATIDES BY SUNSET.
To the main wonder now. A vault, see; thick
Black shade about the ceiling, through fine slits
Across the buttress suffer light by fits
Upon a marvel in the midst: nay, stoop-
A dullish gray-streak'd cumbrous font, a group
Round it, each side of it, where'er one sees,
Upholds it-shrinking caryatides
Of just-tinged marble like Eve's lilied flesh
Beneath her Maker's finger, when the fresh
First pulse of life shot brightening the snow:
The font's edge burdens every shoulder, so
They muse upon the ground, eyelids half closed,
Some, with meek arms behind their backs disposed,
Some, cross'd above their bosoms, some, to veil
Their eyes, some, propping chin and cheek so pale,
Some, hanging slack an utter helpless length
Dead as a buried vestal whose whole strength
Goes when the grate above shuts heavily;
So dwell these noiseless girls, patient to see,
Like priestesses because of sin impure
Penanced for ever, who resign'd endure,
Having that once drunk sweetness to the dregs;
And every eve Sordello's visit begs
Pardon for them: constant as eve he came
To sit beside each in her turn, the same
As one of them, a certain space: and awe
Made a great indistinctness, till he saw
Sunset slant cheerful through the buttress chinks,
Gold seven times globed; surely our maiden shrinks,
And a smile stirs her as if one faint grain
Her load were lighten'd, one shade less the stain
Obscured her forehead, yet one more bead slipt
From off the rosary whereby the crypt
Keeps count of the contritions of its charge?
Then with a step more light, a heart more large,
He may depart, leave her and every one
To linger out the penance in mute stone.
EGLAMOR.
HE, no genius rare,
Transfiguring in fire or wave or air
At will, but a poor gnome that, cloister'd up
In some rock-chamber with his agate cup,
His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few
And their arrangement finds enough to do
For his best art. Then, how he loved that art!
The calling marking him a man apart
From men-one not to care, take counsel for
Cold hearts, comfortless faces, (Eglamor
Was neediest of his tribe,) since verse, the gift,
Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift
Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth
And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth.
So Eglamor was not without his pride!
The sorriest bat which cowers through noontide
While other birds are jocund, has one time
When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime
Of earth is its to claim, nor find a peer.
AN INCIDENT AT RATISBON.
You know we French storm'd Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoléon
Stood on our storming day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall;"
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reach'd the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
Just by his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd,
Scarce any blood came through,)
You look'd twice e'er you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon!
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perch'd him." The chief's eye flash'd; his plans
Soar'd up again like fire.
The chief's eye flash'd; but presently
Soften'd itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touch'd to the quick, he said;
"I'm kill'd, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.
Mr. HORNE belongs to the intellectual bro- | This he accomplishes, but Enopion hesitattherhood of whom we have already given ing to fulfil his agreement, the giants make specimens in the notices of DARLEY, BROWN- war against him and carry off Merope, with ING, and others. He has written several dra- whom Orion lives happily in a secluded grove matic poems and sketches, among which are until the king discovers his retreat and deThe Death of Marlowe, Cosmo de' Medici, prives him of sight. In his wretchedness, and Gregory the Seventh, all of which have deserted by Merope, he seeks the aid of Eos, met the approval of the critics. His latest who unseals his eyes and loves him with an production (excepting The New Spirit of the affection which satisfies his soul. The jeaAge, of which he acknowledges himself to be lous Artemis now destroys him; but repents, the editor only) is Orion, an epic poem, and joins with Eos in a prayer to Zeus for which, aside from its intrinsic merits, will the restoration of his life. The prayer is find its record in the Curiosities of Litera- granted; Orion is made immortal, placed ture for the novel circumstances of its pub- among the constellations, and enjoys for ever lication. It was offered to the public at vari- the love of Eos. This slight outline of the ous prices, commencing with a farthing and fable is necessary to a proper understanding rising through successive stages to a half of the extracts from the poem which are given crown in its fourth edition. In Orion we have in this volume. modern transcendentalism wedded to the old Greek mythology. Orion, wandering in the mountains of Chios, encounters Artemis, who loves him, and by her love elevates his nature, but fails to make him happy. In a dream he sees Merope, the daughter of Enopion, king of Chios, who warns him to beware of Artemis, and on awaking he seeks and wins the affection of the princess. The king derides his pretensions, but promises him the hand of his daughter if in six days he will destroy the beasts and serpents of the island. ❘ for his art should fail to read.
Mr. HORNE is also author of an Essay on Tragic Influence, and an Introduction to Schlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Literature and Art; and he was associated with WORDSWORTH, LEIGH HUNT, Miss BARRETT, and others, in the production of Chaucer Modernized, to which he prefixed an admirable essay on the riches of English poetry and the development of the principles of versification, by which the rhythm of CHAUCER is fully sustained, and which no poet who has a love
EXTRACTS FROM ORION.
THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF ORION.
O'ER meadows green or solitary lawn,
THE Scene in front two sloping mountains' sides When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants,
Display'd; in shadow one and one in light.
The loftiest on its summit now sustain'd
The sun-beams, raying like a mighty wheel
Half seen, which left the forward surface dark
In its full breadth of shade; the coming sun
Hidden as yet behind the other mount,
Slanting transverse, swept with an eastward face
Catching the golden light. Now while the peal
Of the ascending chase told that the rout
Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly
Along the broad and sunny slope appear'd
The shadow of a stag that fled across,
Follow'd by a giant's shadow with a spear.
The long, clear shadows of the morning differ
From those of eve, which are more soft and vague,
Suggestive of past days and mellow'd grief.
The lights of morning, even as her shades,
Are architectural, and pre-eminent
In quiet freshness, midst the pause that holds
Prelusive energies. All life awakes,
Morn comes at first with white, uncertain light;
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud
Seen through gray mist; the mist clears of; the sky
Unfolds; grows ruddy; takes a crimson flush;
Puts forth bright sprigs of gold, which soon ex-
In saffron, thence pure golden shines the morn;
Uplifts its clear, bright fabric of white clouds,
All tinted, like a shell of polish'd pearl,
With varied glancings, violet gleam and blush;
Embraces nature; and then passes on,
Leaving the sun to perfect his great work.
THERE was a slumbrous silence in the air, By noon-tide's sultry murmurs from without Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was heard From field or wood; but the grave beetle's drone Pass'd near the entrance: once the cuckoo call'd O'er distant meads, and once a horn began Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound Of murmurous music yet was in the breeze, For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings, And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustain'd Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads.
BUILDING OF THE PALACE OF POSEIDON.
For him I built a palace underground, Of iron, black and rough as his own hands. Deep in the groaning, disembowel'd earth, The tower-broad pillars and huge stanchions, And slant supporting wedges I set up, Aided by the Cyclops who obey'd my voice, Which through the metal fabric rang and peal'd In orders echoing far, like thunder-dreams. With arches, galleries, and domes all carvedSo that great figures started from the roof And lofty coignes, or sat and downward gazed On those who strode below and gazed aboveI fill'd it; in the centre framed a hall: Central in that, a throne; and for the light, Forged mighty hammers that should rise and fall On slanted rocks of granite and of flint, Work'd by a torrent, for whose passage down A chasm I hew'd. And here the god could take, Midst showery sparks and swathes of broad, gold fire, His lone repose, lull'd by the sounds he loved; Or, casting back the hammer-heads till they choked The water's course, enjoy, if so he wish'd, Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron sleep.
ORION'S EXTIRPATION OF THE BEASTS FROM CHIOS.
FRESH trees he fell'd and wove
More barriers and fences; inaccessible
To fiercest charge of droves, and to o'erleap
Impossible. These walls he so arranged
That to a common centre each should force
The flight of those pursued; and from that centre
Diverged three outlets: one, the wide expanse
Which from the rocks and inland forests led;
One was the clear-skied windy gap above
A precipice; the third, a long ravine
[ran
Which through steep slopes, down to the seashore
Winding, and then direct into the sea.
Waving a torch, his course at night began,
Through wildest haunts and lairs of savage beasts. With long-drawn howl, before him troop'd the
The panthers, terror-stricken, and the bears
With wonder and gruff rage; from desolate crags
Leering hyenas, griffin, hippogriff,
Skulk'd, or sprang madly, as the tossing brands
Flash'dthrough themidnightnooksandhollowscold,
Sudden as fire from flint; o'er crashing thickets,
With crouch'd head and curl'd fangs dash'd the wild
Gnashing forth on with reckless impulses, [boar,
While the clear-purposed fox crept closely down
Into the underwood, to let the storm,
Whate'er its cause, pass over. Through dark fens,
Marshes, green rushy swamps, and margins reedy,
Orion held his way and rolling shapes
Of serpent and of dragon moved before him
With high-rear'd crests, swan-like, yet terrible,
And often looking back with gem-like eyes.
All night Orion urged his rapid course
In the vex'd rear of the swift-droving din,
And when the dawn had peer'd, the monsters all
Were hemm'd in barriers. These he now o'erheap'd
With fuel through the day, and when again
Night darken'd, and the sea a gulf-like voice
Sent forth, the barriers at all points he fired,
Mid prayers to Hephæstos and his ocean-sire.
Soon as the flames had eaten out a gap
In the great barrier fronting the ravine
That ran down to the sea, Orion grasp'd
Two blazing boughs; one high in air he raised,
The other, with its roaring foliage, trail'd
Behind him as he sped. Onward the droves
Of frantic creatures with one impulse roll'd
Before this night-devouring thing of flames,
With multitudinous voice and downward sweep
Into the sea, which now first knew a tide,
And, ere they made one effort to regain
The shore, had caught them in its flowing arms,
And bore them past all hope. The living mass,
Dark heaving o'er the waves resistlessly,
At length, in distance seem'd a circle small,
Midst which one creature in the centre rose,
Conspicuous in the long, red, quivering gleams
That from the dying brands stream'd o'er the waves.
It was the oldest dragon of the fens,
Whose forky flag-wings and horn-crested head
O'er crags and marshes regal sway had held;
And now he rose up like an embodied curse,
Fromall the doom'd, fast sinking-some just sunk-
Look'd landward o'er the sea, and flapp'd his vans,
Until Poseidon drew them swirling down.
Now had Poseidon with tridental spear Torn up the smitten sea, which raged on high With grief and anger for Orion slain; And black Hephæstos deep beneath the earth A cold thrill felt through his metallic veins, Which soon with sparkling fire began to writhe Like serpents, till from each volcanic peak Burst smoke and threatening flames. Day hid his And while the body of Orion sunk [head, Drawn down into the embraces of the sea,
The four winds with confronting fury arose,
And to a common centre drove their blasts,
Which, meeting, brake like thunder-stone, or shells
Of war, far scattering. Shipwreck fed the deep.
No moon had dared the ringing vault to climb;
No star, no meteor's steed; and ancient night
Shook the dishevell'd lightning from her brows,
Then sank in deeper gloom. Ere long the roar
Roll'd through a distant yawning chasm of flame,
Dying away, and in the air obscure,
Feverish and trembling-like the breath of one
Recovering from convulsion's throes-appear'd
Two wavering misty shapes upon a mount:
Whence now a solemn and reproachful voice,
With broken pauses spake, and thus lamented:
"Call it not love!-oh never yet for thee
Did love's ambrosial pinions fan the hours,
To lose themselves in bliss, which memory
Alone can find, so to renew their life,
Thou couldst not ever thus enjoy, thus give
Thy nature fully up; thine attributes,
Whate'er of loveliness or high estate'
They own'd, surrendering all before love's feast,
And in his breath to melt. How shall we name
Thy passion-ice-pure, self-entire, exacting
All worship, for a limited return?
But how, ah me! shall time record the hour,
When with thy bow-its points curved stiffly back,
Like a snake's neck preparing for a spring-
Thou stood'st in lurid ire behind a cloud,
And loosed the fatal shaft! Where then was love?
Oh Artemis! Oh miserable queen!
Call it pride,jealousy, revenge-self-love;
No other. Thou repliest not. Wherefore pride?
Thou gavest thyself that wound, rejecting one
Who to thee tender'd all his nature; noble,
Though earth-born, as thou knew'st when first ye
And thou not Zeus with a creator's power [met,
His being to re-make? Thou answerest not.
Why jealous, but because thou saw'st him happy
Without thee, tho' cast off by thee. Then wherefore
Destroy? Revenge, the champion of self-love,
Can make his well-known sign. Oh, horrible!
Despair to all springs up from murder'd love,
And smites revenge with idiotcy of grief,
Seeing itself. But wake, and look upon
My loss unutterable. What hast thou gain'd?
Nothing but anguish; and for this accomplish'd
His death, my loss, and the earth's loss beside
Of that much needed hand. I curse thee not-
Thou hast, indeed, cursed me-thou know'stitwell."
With face bow'd o'er her bosom, Artemis,
As in sad trance, remain'd. The night was gone;
The day had dawn'd, but she perceived it not;
Nor Eos knew that any light had pass'd
From her rent robes. But hope unconsciously
Grew up in her, and yet again she spake:
"Ah me! alas! why came this great affliction, Which, indeed, seems beyond all remedy, Though scalding tears from our immortal eyes Make constant arcs in heaven. Beauty avails not Where power is needed. Seek we, then, for power, That some reviving or renewing beam May call him back, now pale in the deep sea. Thou answerest not. I think thou hast a heart,
Which beats thy reasoning down to silent truth,
And therefore deem I thou with me wilt seek
The throne of Zeus, who may receive our prayers,
Nor from our supplications utterly
Take sorrow's sweetness, which hath secret hope,
Like honey drops in some down-fallen flower."
Her lofty pallid visage Artemis Raised slowly, but with eyes still downward bent Upon the ocean rolling dark below, And answer'd, "I will go with thee." The twain Departed heavily on their ascent [reach'd Through the gray air, and paused not till they The region of Olympos, where their course Was barrier'd by a mass of angry cloud Piled up in surging blackness, with a gleam Of smouldering red seen through at intervals. The sign well understood, both goddesses Knelt down before the cloud, and Artemis Broke silence first, with firm yet hollow voice:
"Father of gods, and of the populous earth! Who know'st the thoughts and deeds we most would And also know'st the secret thrill within, [hide; Which owns no thought nor action, yet comprises Life's sole excuse for what seems worthiest hateExtremes and madden'd self-opposing springsNot always thus excused,-O Zeus! receive Our prayers, and chiefly mine, which pardon sue, Besides the dear request. Grant that the life Of him these hands, once dazzling white, have slain, May be to earth restored." More had she said, But the dark pile of clouds shook with the voice Of Zeus, who answer'd: "He shall be restored; But not return'd to earth. His cycle moves Ascending!" The deep sea the announcement And from beneath its ever-shifting thrones [heard; The murmuring of a solemn joy sent up.
The cloud expanded darkly o'er the heavens,
Which, like a vault preparing to give back
The heroic dead, yawn'd with its sacred gloom,
And iron-crown'd Night her black breath pour'd
around
To meet the clouds that from Olympos roll'd
Billows of darkness with a dirging roar,
Which by gradations of high harmony
Merged in triumphal strains. Their earnest eyes
Fill'd with the darkness, and their hands still clasp'd,
Kneeling, the goddesses bright rays perceived,
Reflected, glance before them. Mute they rose
With tender consciousness; and, hand in hand,
Turning, they saw, slow rising from the sea,
The luminous giant clad in blazing stars,
New-born and trembling fromtheir Maker's breath-
Divine, refulgent effluence of love.
With pale gold shield, like a translucent moon
Through which the morning with ascending cheek
Sheds a soft blush, warming cerulean veins;
With radiant belt of glory, typical
Of happy change that o'er the zodiac round
Of-the world's monstrous fantasies shall come;
And in his hand a sword of peaceful power,
Streaming like a meteor to direct the earth
To victory over life's distress, and show [glooms;
The future path whose light runs through death's
In grandeur, like the birth of motion, rose
The glorious giant, towards his place in heaven.
MRS. BUTLER is a daughter of CHARLES | which in this respect have been more fortuKEMBLE, and a niece of JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE nate. The volume of her shorter poems puband Mrs. SIDDONS. After a brilliant career lished in Philadelphia in 1844 entitles her to at the Drury Lane Theatre, she in 1832 came be ranked with the first class of living Engwith her father to the United States, where lish poetesses. Their general tone is melanshe played with unprecedented success in the choly and desponding; but they are vigorous principal cities, confirming a reputation already in thought and execution, and free from the acquired as the greatest British actress of the sickly sentiment and puerile expression for age. In 1834 she retired from the stage and which so much of the verse of the day is was married to Mr. PIERCE BUTLER of Phila- chiefly distinguished. She has written besides delphia. the works before mentioned A Journal, which was published on her return from this country to London. It is a clever, gossipping book, with such absurdities of opinion as might have been expected from a commentator on national character of her age and position: very amus
Mrs. BUTLER is among the few of her profession who have been eminent in the world of letters. Her dramas, Francis the First and the Star of Seville, were written when she was very young, and do not retain possession of the stage, though superior to many pieces | ing and very harmless.
THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.
I AM alone-Oh be thou near to me,
Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.
Not in presumption of the daring spirit,
Striving to find the secrets of itself,
Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.
I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;
None that be kindred, none companion to me,
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.
Around me grow the trees, each by the other;
Innumerable leaves, each like the other,
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.
Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup
Hath sisters leaning their fair cheeks against it.
The birds fly all above me; not alone,
But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering
A joyous band, sweeping in companies
The wide blue fields between the clouds; -the clouds
Troop in society, each on the other
Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light.
The waves, a multitude, together run
To the great breast of the receiving sea:
Nothing but hath its kind, its company,
O God! save I alone! then, let me come,
Good Father! to thy feet; when, even as now,
Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe,
O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father!
When in my heart the stores of its affections,
Piled up unused, lock'd fast, are like to burst
The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;-accept them thou,
Dear Father!-Fountoflove! Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, O Father! Maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears and weeping of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!
ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,
BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND.
FLOWER of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand
Robb'd of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day;
Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way,
And bloom to wither in the stranger's land?
Hueless and scentless as thou art,
How much that stirs the memory,
How much, much more, that thrills the heart,
Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee!
Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade [now;
There lives more fragrance and more freshness
Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade
Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou.
The dew that on the mountain lies,
The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs,
Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish;
But thou-not e'en those sunny eyes,
As bright, as blue as thine own skies,
Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.
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