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

diamond upon

sentence:

the glass window of his prison, after receiving his

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

Unenvious? Mount the pinnace; hoist the sail.
I promise ye, as many as are here,

Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard, or a plant ill-pruned.
But such as anciently the Ægean isles
Poured in libation at their solemn feasts;
And the same goblets shall ye grasp, emboss'd
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have lived with and have led.

The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail Plays yonder? What pursues it? Like two hawks Away they fly. Let us away in time

To overtake them. Are they menaces

We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak,
Enraged at her defender? Hippias!

Art thou the man? 'Twas Hippias. He had found
His sister borne from the Cecropion port
By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly?
Ask, ask the maiden; I have no reply.

"Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love,
If pity ever touched thy breast, forbear!
Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved,
My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone,
Protecting his own head and mine from harm."
"Didst thou not once before," cried Hippias,
Regardless of his sister, hoarse with wrath
At Thrasymedes, "didst thou not, dog-eyed,
Dare as she walked up to the Parthenon,
On the most holy of all holy days,
In sight of all the city, dare to kiss
Her maiden cheek?"

"Ay, before all the gods,

Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis,

Ay, before Aphrodite, before Herè,

I dared; and dare again. Arise, my spouse !
Arise! and let my lips quaff purity

From thy fair open brow."

The sword was up,

And yet he kissed her twice. Some god withheld

The arm of Hippias; his proud blood seethed slower

And smote his breast less angrily; he laid

His hand on the white shoulder, and spoke thus: "Ye must return with me. A second time Offended, will our sire Peisistratos

Pardon the affront? Thou shouldst have asked thyself
That question ere the sail first flapp'd the mast."
Already thou hast taken life from me;
Put up thy sword," said the sad youth, his eyes
Sparkling; but whether love, or rage, or grief
They sparkled with, the gods alone could see.
Peirceus they re-entered, and their ship
Drove up the little waves against the quay,
Whence was thrown out a rope from one above,
And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's waist
Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed to think
He had retained it there, in sight of rude
Irreverent men; he led her forth nor spake.
Hippias walked silent too, until they reached
The mansion of Peisistratos, her sire.
Serenely in his sternness did the prince
Look on them both awhile: they saw not him,
For both had cast their eyes upon the ground.
"Are these the pirates thou hast taken, son?"
Said he. 'Worse, father! worse than pirates they
Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse

Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites

Twice over."

"Well hast thou performed thy duty,"

Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos.

"Nothing, then, rash young man! could turn thy heart From Eunöe, my daughter?"

And love but once. O, Eunöe! farewell!"

"Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her."
"O father! Shut me in my chamber, shut me
In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive,
But never let me see what he can bear;

I know how much that is when borne for me."

"Not yet: come on. And lag not thou behind,
Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts!
Before the people, and before the goddess,
Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion,

And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness

To poverty and exile, this, my child."

Then shuddered Thrasymedes, and exclaimed,

"I see my crime, I saw it not before.

The daughter of Peisistratos was born

Neither for exile nor for poverty,

Ah! not for me!" He would have wept, but one
Might see him, and weep worse. The prince, unmoved,