[The Bridge falls, and IIoratius is alone.]

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning

Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river

That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!' So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank;

But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

[How Horatius was rewarded.]
They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn till night:
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee :
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home:

And wives still pray to Juno

For boys with hearts as bold

As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage

Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for
France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war,

Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

W. E. AYTOUN-THEODORE MARTIN.

The same style of ballad poetry, applied to incidents and characters in Scottish history, has been adopted with distinguished success by PROFESSOR WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN, author of Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, 1849, and Bothwell, a tale of |

the days of Mary Queen of Scots, 1856. The Lays range from the field of Flodden to the extinction of the Jacobite cause at Culloden, and are animated by a fine martial spirit, intermingled with scenes of pathos and mournful regret. The work has gone through eleven editions. In a similar spirit of nationality, Mr Aytoun has published a collected and collated edition of the old Scottish Ballads, two volumes, 1858. In satirical and humorous composition, both in poetry and prose, Mr Aytoun has also attained celebrity. His tales and sketches in Blackwood's Magazine are marked by a free, bold, and vigorous hand, somewhat prone to caricature; and he is author of a clever satire-Firmilian, a Spasmodic Tragedy, by Percy T. Jones, 1854. In conjunction with his friend, ME THEODORE MARTIN, the professor has written The Book of Ballads, by Bon Gaultier-a series of burlesque poems and parodies contributed to different periodicals, and collected into one volume; and to the same poetical partnership we owe a happy translation of the ballads of

Goethe. Mr Aytoun is a native of Edinburgh, born in 1813. Having studied at the university of Edinburgh, and afterwards in Germany, he was admitted to the Scottish bar in 1840. In 1845 he was appointed to the chair of Rhetoric and BellesLettres in Edinburgh University, and in 1852 he was made sheriff of Orkney. His poetical talents were first displayed in a prize poem, Judith, which was eulogised by Professor Wilson, afterwards the father-in-law of the young poet. Mr Martin is also a native of Edinburgh, born in 1814. He is now a parliamentary solicitor in London. Besides his poetical labours with Mr Aytoun, Mr Martin has translated the Correggio and Aladdin of the Danish poet Oehlenschläger, and King Rene's Daughter, a Danish lyrical drama by Henrik Hertz.

The Burial-march of Dundee.

[From the Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers.] I.

Sound the fife, and cry the slogan

Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphant music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland

Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys

As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat,

Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried

Than we bring with us to-day; Never since the valiant Douglas

On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart-the priceless— To our dear Redeemer's shore ! Lo! we bring with us the hero

Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame; Fresh and bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, 'Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, And the thunder of the fight! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for ScotlandLet none dare to mourn for him!

See! above his glorious body

Lies the royal banner's foldSee! his valiant blood is mingled

With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning

Breaks along the battle-field! See-Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning,

As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for king and country, Bade us win the field, or fall!

II.

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns

From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapped in gloom, When the clansmen rose together

From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew,
As we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us,

On his war-horse black as night-
Well the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight!And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se,

And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence'Soldiers! I have sworn a vow; Ere the evening-star shall glisten

On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness

For his country and King James! Think upon the royal martyr

Think of what his race endure-
Think on him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir:
By his sacred blood I charge ye,

By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine-
Strike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they Covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honour Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest

Search for him that was Dundee !'

III.

Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath;
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe:
Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the field beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert.

Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armed men!
Like a tempest down the ridges

Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald--
Flashed the broadsword of Locheil!
Vainly sped the withering volley

Amongst the foremost of our band-
On we poured until we met them
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us-
Living foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie,

When that stubborn fight was done!

IV.

And the evening-star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,
Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.

And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
So, amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

V.

Open wide the vaults of Athol,
Where the bones of heroes rest-
Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!

O Britain! O my country! words like these
Have made thy name a terror and a fear
To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks,
Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,

Where the grim despot muttered Sauve qui peut!
And Ney fled darkling-silence in the ranks;
Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash

Of armies, in the centre of his troop

The soldier stands-unmovable, not rash-
Until the forces of the foeman droop;
Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,
Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

FRANCES BROWN.

This lady, blind from infancy, is a more remarkable instance of the poetical faculty existing apart, as it were, from the outer world than that of Blacklock. FRANCES BROWN, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar, a village in the county Donegal, Ireland, was born in 1816. When only eighteen months old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox, yet she soon became distinguished for her thirst for knowledge. She learned something from hearing her brothers and sisters reading over their tasks: her friends and relatives read to her such books as the remote village afforded, and at length she became acquainted with Scott's novels, Pope's Homer, and Byron's Childe Harold. She wrote some verses which appeared in the Irish Penny Journal, and in 1841 sent a number of small poems to the Athenæum. The editor, Mr T. K. Hervey, introduced her to public notice: her pieces were greatly admired, and in 1844 she ventured on the publication of a volume, The Star of Atteghei, the Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems. Shortly afterwards, a small pension of £20 a year was settled on the poetess, and the Marquis of Lansdowne is said to have presented her with a sum of £100. In 1847 she issued a second volume, Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, and she has contributed largely to periodical works. The poetry of Miss Brown, especially her lyrical pieces, is remarkable for clear poetic feeling and diction, and a peculiar melody, not perhaps sufficiently varied, but always sweet and flowing; while the energy displayed, from her childhood, by this almost friendless girl, raises,' as the editor of her first volume remarked, 'at once the interest and the character of her muse.'

Four volumes of graceful meditative poetry and records of foreign travel have been published (1840-44) by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, M.P. for Pontefract. These are-Poems, Legendary and Historical; Palm Leaves; Poems of Many Years; and Memorials of Many Scenes. Mr Milnes was born in that enviable rank of society, the English country-gentleman. He is eldest son of the late R. P. Milnes, Esq. of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1831, in his twenty-second year, he took his degree of M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1837, he was returned to the House of Commons as representative of the borough of Pontefract; and

though not taking an active part in public business, he has lent his support to questions of social amelioration and reform.

The Men of Old.

I know not that the men of old

Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force

A ghost of time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days.

Still is it true, and over true,
That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone-
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone !

With rights, though not too closely scanned,
Enjoyed, as far as known--

With will, by no reverse unmanned-
With pulse of even tone-

They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more,

Than yesterday and yesternight

Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art

Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;

A battle whose great scheme and scope
They little cared to know,
Content, as men at arms, to copo
Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his virtue's diadem

Puts on, and proudly wears-
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,
Like instincts, unawares:
Blending their souls' sublimest needs

With tasks of every day,
They went about their gravest deeds,
As noble boys at play.

And what if nature's fearful wound
They did not probe and bare,
For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there-

For that their love but flowed more fast,
Their charities more free,

Not conscious what mere drops they cast Into the evil sca.

A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,

It is the distant and the dim

That we are sick to greet:

For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire

Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire.

But, brothers, who up reason's hill

Advance with hopeful cheer

Oh! loiter not, those heights are chill, As chill as they are clear;

And still restrain your haughty gaze,

The loftier that ye go,

Remembering distance leaves a haze On all that lies below.

The Long-ago.

On that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still

Lose the bitter taste of woe; Nothing's altogether ill

In the griefs of Long-ago.

Tombs where lonely love repines,
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines

Through the golden mist of years:
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not, if we could,

Wake the sleep of Long-ago!

Though the doom of swift decay

Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlongStill the weight will find a leaven, Still the spoiler's hand is slow, While the future has its heaven, And the past its Long-ago.

EDGAR POE.

This singular and unfortunately degraded man of genius-the Richard Savage of American literature was a native of Baltimore, born about the year 1811, or earlier. He was left destitute when a child by the death of his parents (strolling players), but was adopted and liberally educated by a benevolent Virginian planter, Mr Allan. All attempts to settle him respectably in life failed. He was reckless, debauched, and unmanageable. He was expelled from college and from a military academy in which he was placed by Mr Allan; he enlisted in the army, but soon deserted; and after various scenes of wretchedness, he became a contributor to, and occasional editor of, several American periodicals. His prose tales attracted notice from their ingenuity and powerful, though morbid and gloomy painting; and his poem of The Raven, coloured by the same diseased imagination, but with bright gleams of fancy, was hailed as the most original and striking poem that America had ever produced. Poe died in a hospital at Baltimore, the victim of intemperance, October 7, 1849.