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What's that which Heaven to man endears,
And that which eyes no sooner see
Than the heart says, with floods of tears,
'Ah! that's the thing which I would be?'
Not childhood, full of fears and fret;

Not youth, impatient to disown
Those visions high, which to forget

Were worse than never to have known. * * Not these; but souls found here and there, Oases in our waste of sin, When everything is well and fair, And God remits his discipline, Whose sweet subdual of the world The worldling scarce can recognise; And ridicule, against it hurled,

Drops with a broken sting and dies. They live by law, not like the fool,

But like the bard who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,

And finds in them not bonds but wings.

The son of Mr P. G. Patmore, a well-known littérateur-author of Literary Reminiscences, and the friend of Hazlitt and Lamb-Mr Coventry Patmore was born at Woodford, in Essex, in 1823. In his twentieth year he published a small volume of Poems, some of which he has-like Tennysoncorrected or re-written. He now worthily fills the office of assistant-librarian to the British Museum, to which he was appointed in 1846.

MR BULWER LYTTON, under the name of 'Owen Meredith,' has published two volumes of poetryClytemnestra, 1855, and The Wanderer, 1859. There are traces of sentimentalism and morbid feeling in the poems, but also fine fancy and graceful musical language. The poet is the only son of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, (and was born November 8, 1831. The paternal taste in the selection of subjects from high life, with a certain voluptuous colouring, and a pseudo-melancholy, cynical air, has been reproduced in Owen Meredith,' though Tennyson was perhaps the favourite model. The young poet, however, has original merit enough to redeem such faults, and soon, we hope, to shake them off entirely.

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The Chess-board.

My little love, do you remember,

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er queen and knight; Brave pawns in valiant battle stand; The double castles guard the wings; The bishop, bent on distant things,

Moves sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch, our glances meet,

And falter, falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving; down the field, your queen
Rides slow her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle's done,
Dispersed is all its chivalry;
Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid life's perplexing chequers made,
And many a game with fortune played-
What is it we have won?

This, this, at least-if this alone-
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore-

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Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear:
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all! who need, indeed, His care,
And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves his sheep.

My little boy begins to babble now

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. He has his father's eager eyes, I know;

And, they say too, his mother's sunny hair.

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,

And I can feel his light breath come and go, I think of one-Heaven help and pity me!Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.

Who might have been-ah, what I dare not think!
We all are changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

But blame us women not, if some appear

Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are, too apt to fall!
My little child-he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all!

Among the recent volumes of verse, we may mention The Lays of Middle Age, and other Poems, 1859, by JAMES HEDDERWICK, Glasgow. These Lays are the fruit of a thoughtful poetic mind, loving nature and 'whatsoever things are pure and lovely and of good report.'

[Middle Age.]

Fair time of calm resolve-of sober thought!
Quiet half-way hostelry on life's long road,
In which to rest and re-adjust our load!
High table-land, to which we have been brought
By stumbling steps of ill-directed toil!
Season when not to achieve is to despair!
Last field for us of a full fruitful soil!
Only spring-tide our freighted aims to bear
Onward to all our yearning dreams have sought!

How art thou changed! Once to our youthful eyes
Thin silvering locks and thought's imprinted lines
Of sloping age gave weird and wintry signs;
But now these trophies ours, we recognise
Only a voice faint-rippling to its shore,
And a weak tottering step as marks of eld.
None are so far but some are on before;
Thus still at distance is the goal beheld,
And to improve the way is truly wise.

Farewell, ye blossomed hedges! and the deep
Thick green of summer on the matted bough!
The languid autumn mellows round us now:
Yet fancy may its vernal beauties keep,

Like holly leaves for a December wreath.
To take this gift of life with trusting hands,
And star with heavenly hopes the night of death,
Is all that poor humanity demands
To lull its meaner fears in easy sleep.

The following beautiful lines are from a small collection of poems by MR JOHN RAMSAY, Aberdeen:

My Grave.

Far from the city's ceaseless hum,
Hither let my relics come;
Lowly and lonely be my grave
Fast by this streamlet's oozing wave,
Still to the gentle angler dear,

And heaven's fair face reflecting clear!
No rank luxuriance from the dead
Draw the green turf above my head;
But cowslips here and there be found
Sweet natives of the hallowed ground,
Diffusing Nature's incense round!
Kindly sloping to the sun
When his course is nearly run,
Let it catch his farewell beams,
Brief and pale as best beseems;
But let the melancholy yew-
Still to the cemetery true-
Defend it from his noonday ray,
Debarring visitant so gay!

And when the robin's boding song
Is hushed the darkling boughs among,
There may the spirit of the wind
A heaven-reared tabernacle find,
To warble wild a vesper hymn,

To soothe my shade at twilight dim!
Seldom let feet of man be there

Save bending towards the house of prayer:
Few human sounds disturb the calm,
Save words of grace and solemn psalm!
Yet would I not my humble tomb
Should wear an uninviting gloom,
As though there ever hovered near
In fancy's ken a thing of fear;
And, viewed with superstitious awe,
Be duly shunned, and scarcely draw
The sidelong glance of passer-by,
As haunt of sprites with blasting eye!
Or noted be by some bad token,
Bearing a name in whispers spoken.
No! let some thoughtful school-boy stray
Far from his giddy mates at play,
My secret place of rest explore,.
There pore on page of classic lore:
Thither let hoary men of age
Perform a pensive pilgrimage,
And think as o'er my turf they bend,
It woos them to their welcome end:
And let the woe-worn wandering one,
Blind to the rays of reason's sun,
Thither his weary way incline,
There catch a gleam of light divine:
But chiefly let the friend sincere
There drop a tributary tear;
There pause in musing mood, and all
Our bygone hours of bliss recall-
Delightful hours, too fleetly flown!
By the heart's pulses only known!

MISS PARKES-MISS HUME-MISS PROOTERMISS CRAIG.

In poetry, as in prose fiction, ladies crowd the arena, and contend for the highest prizes. We can barely enumerate some of the fair competitors.

BESSIE RAYNER PARKES-daughter of Joseph Parkes, Esq., of the Court of Chancery-is author of Poems, 1855; Gabriel, 1856; The History of our Cat Aspasia, 1856; &c. The latter is a prose story, told with considerable humour, and well illustrated. As a poetess Miss Parkes is of the romantic and imaginative school of Shelley-to whose memory her poem of Gabriel is dedicated. She has been an assiduous labourer, though still young, in the cause of social amelioration and female improvement. MISS MARY C. HUME -daughter of the late Mr Joseph Hume, M.P.in 1858 published Normiton, a Dramatic Poem, with other Miscellaneous. Pieces. MISS ADELAIDE ANNE. PROCTER is author of Legends and Lyrics, a Book of Verse, 1858. This lady is the daughter of 'Barry Cornwall,' and her poetry has, without imitation, much of the paternal grace and manner. MISS ISA CRAIG, author of Poems, 1856, is a native of Edinburgh. While working as a sempstress this young lady contributed poems, reviews, and essays to the Scotsman newspaper, and was warmly befriended by Mr Ritchie, the proprietor of that journal. She afterwards removed to London, and now officiates as assistant-secretary of the Association for the Promotion of Social Science. Miss Craig was the fortunate poetess who carried off the prize (£50) for the best poem at the Crystal Palace celebration of the Burns Centenary, January 25, 1859.

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[A Dream of Love.]

[By Miss Hume.]

I dreamt that love

Should steal upon the heart, like summer dawn
On the awakening world, soft, gradual;
First hailed and welcomed by the mountain-peaks,
The loftiest aspirations of the soul;

Then, slowly spreading downward o'er the slopes
Of intellectual intercourse, to flood

At length the very plains and vales of sense
With beauties of its sunshine; one by one
Kissing awake all spirit buds and flowers,
To pour their fragrance forth in gratitude.
I had forgot that perfect love like this
Could be the portion but of perfect souls!
I had forgot to estimate how far

My own heart fell below the standard raised
By my presumption, when I deemed its pulse
Should never quicken, save to one whose touch
First waked the highest, holiest chords that thrill
In heart of mortal; deemed I must be wooed
As angels woo, won as might angel be.

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[Prize Poem in Honour of Burns.] [By Miss Craig.]

We hail, this morn,

A century's noblest birth;

A poet peasant-born,

Who more of Fame's immortal dower

Unto his country brings

Than all her kings!

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His country fain would prove,

By grateful honours lavished on his grave;
Would fain redeem her blame

That he so little at her hands can claim,

Who unrewarded gave

To her his life-bought gift of song and fame.

The land he trod

Hath now become a place of pilgrimage;
Where dearer are the daisies of the sod
That could his song engage.

The hoary hawthorn, wreathed
Above the bank on which his limbs he flung
While some sweet plaint he breathed;
The streams he wandered near;

and in 1850 translated the lyrical dramas of Æschylus, two volumes. Both of these versions were well received, and Mr Blackie has aided greatly in exciting a more general study of Greek in Scotland. In 1853 an excellent translation of some of the Spanish dramas of Calderon was published by Mr D. F. M'CARTHY. The translations of Bulwer Lytton, Mr Lockhart, Professor Aytoun, Theodore Martin, and others have been already mentioned, and additions have been made to this branch of our literature in the admirable cheap serial libraries of Mr H. G. Bohn. Various works in the prose literature of Germany have been correctly and ably rendered by Mrs Austin (Fragments from German Prose Writers, with Biographical Notes, and Ranke's History of the Popes), by Lady Duff Gordon (The Amber Witch), Mr Henry Taylor (The Fairy Ring), &c.

SCOTTISH POETS.

WILLIAM THOM.

WILLIAM THOM, the 'Inverury poet' (1789-1848), was author of some sweet, fanciful, and pathetic strains. He had wrought for several years as a weaver, and, when out of employment, traversed the country as a pedler, accompanied by his wife and children. This precarious, unsettled life induced irregular and careless habits, and every effort to place the poor poet in a situation of permanent comfort and respectability failed. He first attracted notice by a poem inserted in the Aberdeen Herald, entitled The Blind Boy's Pranks; in 1844 he pub

The maidens whom he loved; the songs he sung; lished a volume of Rhymes and Recollections of a
All, all are dear!

The arch blue eyes

Arch but for love's disguise

Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain;
Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main

To drive the ploughshare through earth's virgin soils,
Lighten with it their toils;

And sister-lands have learned to love the tongue
In which such songs are sung.

For doth not song

To the whole world belong!

Is it not given wherever tears can fall,
Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow,
Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow,
A heritage to all?

The poet-translators of this period are numerous. The most remarkable for knowledge of foreign tongues and dialects is JoHN BOWRING (now Sir John), who commenced in 1821 a large series of translations-Specimens of the Russian Poets, Batavian Anthology, Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain, Specimens of the Polish Poets, Servian Popular Poetry, Poetry of the Magyars, Cheskian Anthology, or the Poetical Literature of Bohemia, &c. The last of these works appeared in 1832. In 1825 Dr Bowring became editor of the Westminster Review; he sat some time in parliament, and in 1854 was knighted and made governor of Hong Kong. He was the literary executor of Jeremy Bentham, and author of political treatises, original poetry, and various other contributions to literature. The original bias of Sir John Bowring seems to have been towards literature, but his connection with Bentham, and his public appointments, have chiefly distinguished his career. He is a native of Exeter, born in 1792. MR JOHN STUART BLACKIE (born in Aberdeen in 1809, and professor of Greek in the university of Edinburgh) in 1834 gave an English version of Goethe's Faust,

Hand-loom Weaver. He visited London, and was warmly patronised by his countrymen and others; but returning to Scotland, he died at Dundee after a period of distress and penury. A sum of about £300 was collected for his widow and family.

The Mitherless Bairn.

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie-the mitherless bairn.
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' litheless the lair o' the motherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless and stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools where her mammy is laid;
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh! speak na him harshly-he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

DAVID VEDDER.

A native of Burness, Orkney, born in 1790, MR VEDDER obtained some reputation by a volume

of Orcadian Sketches, published in 1832. In 1842 he collected his poems, scattered through various periodicals, and published them in one volume. Mr Vedder filled the office of tide-surveyor, and died in Edinburgh in 1854. His Scottish songs and Norse ballads were popular in Scotland. The following piece, which Dr Chalmers was fond of quoting to his students in his theological prelections, is in a more elevated strain of poetry:

The Temple of Nature.

Talk not of temples-there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,

And all the stars of heaven;
Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity

All nature worships there!

The Alps arrayed in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,
At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.

A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,

As if with hallowed victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praiseAll nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly,

And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves the priesthood of the seaKneel on the shell-gemmed earth, And there emit a hollow sound,

As if they murmured praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy groundAll nature worships there!

*

The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain's brim,
The tulip and the eglantine

In reverence bend to Him;
The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
From tower and tree and middle air;
The rushing river murmurs praise-

All nature worships there!

Some of the living contributors to Scottish song may be here enumerated. ALEXANDER MACLAGAN (born at Bridgend, Perth, in 1811) published in 1841 a volume of poems; in 1849, Sketches from Nature, and other Poems; and in 1854, Ragged and Industrial School Rhymes. In one of the last letters written by Jeffrey, he praised the homely and tender verses of Maclagan for their 'pervading joyousness and kindliness of feeling, as well as their vein of grateful devotion, which must recommend them to all good minds.' JAMES BALLANTINE (born in Edinburgh in 1808) is known equally for his Scottish songs and his proficiency in the revived art of glass-painting; of the latter, the palace at Westminster and many church-windows bear testimony, while his native muse is seen in The Gaberlunzie's Wallet, 1843; The Miller of Deanhaugh; and a collected edition of his lyrics, published in 1856. ANDREW PARK (born at Renfrew in 1811) is author of several volumes of songs and poems, and of a volume of travels entitled Egypt and the East, 1857. A collected edition of his poetical works appeared in 1854. JOHN CRAWFORD (born at Greenock in 1816) published in 1850 a volume of Doric Lays, which received the commendation of Lord Jeffrey and Miss Mitford. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL (born at

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Sorbie, Wigtonshire, in 1798) is author of Songs of the Ark, 1831; Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces, 1847; &c. Mr Riddell passed many of his years as a shepherd in Ettrick, but afterwards studied for the church. FRANCIS BENNOCH (born at Drumcrool, parish of Durrisdeer, Dumfriesshire, in 1812) settled early in London, and carried on business extensively as a merchant. He has written various songs and short poems, and otherwise evinced his attachment to literature and art by his services on behalf of Miss Mitford, Haydon the painter, and others.

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