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poems-a sort of literary twins-without wishing again and again, and again, that we had actors and a stage. Besides "The Blot on the Scutcheon" which has been successfully produced at two metropolitan theaters, "Colombe's Birthday" and "Lucia" show not only what he has done, but what with the hope of a great triumph before him he might yet do as a dramatist. I could show what I mean by transcribing the last act of “ Colombe's Birthday." I could make my meaning clearer still by transcribing the whole play. But as these huge borrowings are out of the question, I must limit myself to a couple of dramatic lyrics, each of which tells its own story:
MY LAST DUCHESS.-FERRARA.
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall
A heart-how shall I say?--too soon made glad,
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
My gift of a nine-hundred years old name
Poor dead Duchess! and poor living one too! for that complaisant embassador who listened so silently would hardly give warning, even if the father were likely to take it; and we feel as they walk down the palace stairs that another victim comes. The pathos of the next lyric is of a different order.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Ioris and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew,
Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Not a word to each other: we kept the great pace
'Twas moonset at starting, but while we drew near
So Ioris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Ioris, "Stay spur!
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Ioris and I,
Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
"How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the ground,
As I poured down his throat one last measure of wine,
Although we have cause to hope that the good steed recovered, yet his trial of speed and strength is too painful to conclude with. I add a few lines from the "Englishman in Italy," a long poem so pulpy, so juicy, so full of bright color and of rich detail, that it is just like a picture by Rubens. Selection is difficult-but I choose the passage in question because its exceeding truth was first pointed out to me by Mr. Ruskin,
But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,
Came our friends with whose help in the vineyards
In the vat half-way up on our house-side
While your brother all bare-legged is dancing
effort on effort
To keep the grapes under,
From girls who keep coming and going
and so on.
Meanwhile see the grape-bunch they've brought you,-
O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe,
This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball,
And end with the prickly pear's red flesh,
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY'S ARCADIA-ISAAC WALTON'S COMPLETE ANGLER.
DURING this warm summer, and above all during this dry burning harvest weather, which makes my poor little roadside cottage (the cottage which for that reason among others I am about to leave) so insupportable from glare, and heat, and dust in the fine season, I have the frequent, almost daily habit of sallying forth into the charming green lane, the grassy, turfy, shady lane of which I have before made mention, and of which I share
the use and the enjoyment with the gipsys. Last summer I was able to walk thither, but in the winter I was visited by rheumatism, and can not walk so far without much heat and fatigue; so my old poney-phaeton conveys me and my little maid, and my pet-dog Fanchon, and my little maid's needle-work of flounces and fineries, and my books and writing-case, as far as the road leads, and sometimes a little farther; and we proceed to a certain green hillock under down-hanging elms, close shut in between a bend in the lane on our own side, and an amphitheater of oak and ash and beech trees opposite; where we have partly found and partly scooped out for ourselves a turfy seat and turfy table redolent of wild-thyme and a thousand fairy-flowers, delicious in its coolness, its fragrance, and its repose.
Behind the thick hedge on the one hand stretch fresh watermeadows, where the clear brook wanders in strange meanders between clumps of alder-bushes and willow-pollards; fringed by the blue forget-me-not, the yellow loosestrife, the purple willowherb, and the creamy tufts of the queen of the meadow; on the other hand we catch a glimpse over gates of large tracts of arable land, wheat, oat, clover, and bean fields, sloping upward