V.

Ye abbotte looked milde, and ye abbotte looked wilde,
And in angere he mutterynge saide;

"Ye crypte we must pass, for they're synging a masse
For ye sowle of a knyght that is deade,

And ye curse of ye deade wolde be on myne heade,

Ye curse of Sir Dyche Vanterblume."

"So they're prayinge for me, which needs must'nt bee."

Quathe qe Kuyghte of qe Emeralde Plume.

VI.

Downe ye corridore wyde, he dide stepp in a stryde,
And oped ye crypt doore with a swynge,

Where passynge ye glass, 'stead of singynge a mass,
All were making the cloisters ringe;

With "Judica Domine," "Bacche fac salvum me,"
All rollinge amid the gloome.

"So its prayinge for me that ye're makynge thys glee."

Quothe ye Kunghte of qe Emeralde Plume.

VII.

Then ye abbote looked milde and ye abbote looked wilde,

And in terror he mutterynge saide:

'By ye oft rysinge sunne thy wyfe is a nunne,

And we thoughte that thou waste deade;

And all that thou haste to the Churche hathe longe past,

Sir Rycharde of Vanterblume."

"So ye're drynkynge my wine, Evangelical swyne."

Crqes që Kuqghte of qe Emeralde Plume.

VIII.

Then ye champyon's sworde was out in a worde;

And he cutte thro their doubletts and hose:

"My wyfe ye may keepe, but ye holde not my steepe."

And he runge all ye Fryars by ye nose:

"Now by Peter and Paul, I will murther ye all, And burie your souls 'neath ye gloom,

If ye do notte restore all my goodes treble score.

While I'm Kuqghte of ye Emeralde Plume.

F. S. DAY,

The Guinea.

SOFTLY slid by others' fingers,
There it lay, in seeming slumber,
Mine own palm upon.

Yellow, all undimned by commerce,
Fairly stamped, of right good coinage,
Looking harm to none!

While I gazed in mute affection,
(As an ass her foal beholdeth,)
On the wizard thing,

Suddenly a voice there seeméd,
Full of sweet unhuman accents,
From its lips to spring.

Love me not! yet not despise me,
For the ills that are my children!
'Twas not ever so.

As the mud, on soles plebeian,
By their rugged nails empaléd,
Spots the fallen snow,

So my nature's innate beauty,
Sordid man has violated,

With the die's hard brand. Like a second Cain, condemned me O'er the tear-worn earth to wander, Toss't from hand to hand.

Near the Gambia's narrow sources,
I was once a band of grainlets,
Basking in the beam.

Tiny ringlets quaintly wreathing,
Like the hair of maiden, sleeping
Coldly 'neath the stream,

Lightsome then, my heart was truly,

Then I ranked among the lovers
Of the quickening sun.

But alas! one fatal daydawn,

Prying mortals changed my nature;

List what they have done!

Reviews.

BIRMINGHAM: A POEM. By H. H. HORTON. Birmingham: Printed by M. Billing.

WE received a copy of the above mentioned Poem, and with much difficulty waded through the puling ideas of Mr. Horton's vocabulary. We do not willingly, and for the sake of quarrel, contend against its author. We will not criticise the so-called poetry—although for the sake of non-prejudice, we will cull a few flowers and leave them for the discretion of the reader to comment upon as to their colour. We do not differ about the title. The rhythm of the whole poem is a drag; the similes, when there are any, technically called "a collection of other men's stuff;" the sense, if any, is motley; the ideas are exuberant as snowfalls in August. Though pardonnez nous, into all this, Mr. Horton is a Poet. No hedge or haystack, no pond or ditch, no pitchfork or wheelbarrow, no finger-post, or old lady, but attracts his gaze, to be for ever immortalized (though we fear he has rather too much water in his ink) by the adamantine stroke of his magic pen. Without doubt he is the greatest satirist of the age. Let us in fancy picture Mr. Horton on the eve of penning this immortal poem. Suppose him to have read the satires of Pope and Byron, or at least, if not all, a part of their productions. Mr. Horton, instigated by a love of brotherhood and peace, justice and equality, liberty and money-making, wishes to attract a certain party, and all ministers belonging to that party. Suppose him to have read,

and placed down as his motto:

"Fools are my theme, let satire be my song:"

He accordingly sets to work; but, perfidious gods! in attempting to act the ghost of Byron or Pope-like the boy in the fable, he has frightened himself so much, by his own visage, that sense seems totally to depart from him,—and hence we can account for the singular manner in which he classes babies, Shakspeare, and the arrows of misfortune together, (although we can say with many a poor man, that the former have some connection with the latter), youths adapted to theft among temple rarities-makes distinction between clergyman and priest-and leaps in one step from Soho Factory to Aston Hall - besides many other predilections and predictions too numerous to mention!

We would have passed Mr. Horton's volume by, had he not, under a cloak of rhyme, made it a vehicle of spite. Mr. H. is no doubt a learned man, a very learned man, and the more SO because he is a poet. He is a man of sounder doctrines than all the divines that have ever flourished in the pale of the Established Church. But let that be, there is a wide difference between their works and his—they are simply preachers and teachers—he a prophet and a poet-although, nota bene, there is as great a mist over his evangelical predictions, as there is over his poetry in general. But sooner or later, we have no doubt Mr. Horton's sun will arise and drive it away; showing his true poetical beauties in a clear and sunny light. As Mr. H. is a poet and a prophet-a crown (which we are sure would buy, even at the dearest auction, his whole ideas, and their habitation, though not his copying of other bards) would make him equal to David, and as his works anticipate, even wiser than Solomon. Prophet and Poet, Harry Howells Horton thus addresses his flock:

O! that mankind could once be taught to know,
That love, not creeds, makes happiness below.

If He who made us could but see us share
Our neighbour's joy, contentment, sorrow, care,
He could dispense with other forms of prayer!

Speaking of St. Martin's Church, he says:

For ages 'twas the edifice alone

Our Saxon forefathers eould call their own.
To pompous forms, religion was confined,
And priestly dominance usurped the mind;
For by the church the soul was claimed from birth,
Till death resigned the body to its earth.

Thus did it gain o'er thought and worth a power,
Which time has ne'er subverted to this hour.
Tho' innovators may have seized their lands,
The cards have only passed to other hands;
For, if we're plundered of our rights, at least
It matters not, by clergyman or priest.

To proceed, we go to church, in Mr. Horton's words:

And there profess our happiness to seek,
By muttering certain phrases once a week.
What need of all this false prtended zeal?
Why lay a claim to faith we do not feel?
When even now, while we for mercy pray,