"BE MAN'S HARD VIRTUES HIGHLY WROUGHT, BUT LET MY GENTLE MISTRESS BE-(PATMORE)

SUCH PERFECT FRIENDS ARE TRUTH AND LOVE-(PATMORE)

For many an end; and others, wise,
Explore the grass and read the skies."
"Can the stars' motions give me peace,
Or the herbs' virtues mine increase?
Of all this shell of use," said I,

"Would that I might the kernel spy!"
"Go further in," he said, "and see,
Secure and fair, Society."

And so within that busy round

I brake and came to calmer ground.
Here men and women, great and small,
Were ever talking, idly all.

66

The lip of scorn might well be curled
At such excuse for such a world!"
Sighed I. But guided through the loud
Elated and unfruitful crowd,

An inner circle still I reached,
Where sang a few and many preached
Of life immortal. "But," I said,
"The riddle yet I have not read.
Life I must know, that care I may
For life in me to last for aye."
Then he: "Those voices are a charm
To keep yon dove-cot out of harm."
In the centre, then, he showed a tent
Where laughing safe a woman bent
Over her babe, and, her above,
Leaned in his turn a graver love.
"Behold the two idolatries,

By which," cried he, "the world defies
Chaos and death, and for whose sake
All else must war, and work, and wake."

[From "Tamerton Church Tower, and Other Studies."]

THAT NEITHER LOVES WHERE BOTH ARE NOT."-PATMORE.

IN EVERY LOOK, WORD, DEED, AND THOUGHT, NOTHING BUT SWEET AND WOMANLY!"-PATMORE.

338

SWEET ARE THE LINKS THAT BIND US TO OUR KIND,

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

[PRAED's poetry, or Vers de Société, is brilliant, fluent, and vigorous, with many happy touches, and a fascinating air of easy grace; but the poet never soars into any very lofty region, or strings his lyre to any very passionate strains. The gems are carefully polished and richly set; but they are not "orient pearls," much less diamonds or rubies. A writer in the Quarterly Review very justly says of Praed's poetical effusions, that 'throughout they exhibit a remarkable fluency of language and quickness in verse, with many strokes of truthful observation; yet the effect of his longer poems is wearisome. Even the bright and abundant fancy with which he has been properly credited does not conceal from us that, when attempting to deal with chivalrous themes, or stories of medieval romance and passion, Praed rarely rises above an ingenious but mechanical reproduction of the thoughts of stronger men. The materials are put together neatly enough; but there is no poetical fusion into a whole, no sign of creative fire,-much glitter, but little warmth."

Winthrop Mackworth Praed was born in 1802, and died in 1839. He enjoyed for some years a seat in Parliament; and in 1835 was Secretary to the Board of Control. His premature death cut short a career of great promise.]

"I THINK THAT LOVE IS LIKE A PLAY, WHERE TEARS AND SMILES ARE BLENDED;

OR LIKE A FAITHLESS APRIL

DAY, WHOSE SHINE WITH SHOWER IS ENDED."-PRAED.

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD.

IN

Y pretty, budding, breathing flower,

Methinks, if I to-morrow

Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,

I might immortalize a few
Of all the myriad graces

Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,

The fringe of long dark lashes;

MEEK, BUT UNYIELDING,-felt, but undefined.”—PRAED.

66 SWEET IS THE LOVE OF BRETHREN, SWEET THE JOY

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD. 339

I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other;
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,-

The forehead of your mother.

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek

Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;

"I THINK POOR BEGGARS COURT ST. GILES, RICH BEGGARS COURT ST. STEPHEN,-(PRAED)

["I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes."]
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger;

Nor less upon the rosy charms

Of every tiny finger;

OF A YOUNG MOTHER IN HER CRADLED TOY."-PRAED

AND DEATH LOOKS DOWN WITH NODS AND SMILES, AND MAKES THE ODDS ALL EVEN."-PRAED.

"HOW SILENTLY THE BREEZE MOVES ON, FLUTTERS, AND WHISPERS, AND IS GONE!

340

"SWEET IS CHILDHOOD'S DEEP AND EARNEST GLOW-(PRAED)

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever

That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they'd jump for ever.
But then your odd, endearing ways—
What study e'er could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, aimless plays-
What canvas e'er could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,

Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations!-
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,

To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years

Have made you tall and twenty,

And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,

May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,

Feel all her virtues hard to paint,

As we now deem her beauties.

["If this very graceful child's portrait be not equal to Reynolds in his tender intensity, or Gainsborough in his exquisite naturalness, it is worthy to rank with the best of those charmingly-coquettish infants whom Lawrence once painted. The last lines especially exhibit what is very rare in Praed-an epigrammatic point in which humour is united with beauty."— Quarterly Review, No. ccxxxvi.]

OF REVERENCE FOR A FATHER'S HEAD OF SNOW."-PRAED.

HOW CALMLY DOES THE QUIET SKY SLEEP IN ITS COLD SERENITY!"-w. M. PRAED.

"OH! SWEET WERE THOSE UNTUTORED YEARS, THEIR JOYS AND PAINS, THEIR HOPES AND FEARS;

"HE OPENS WIDE THE EVERLASTING WORD,-(WINTHROP M. PRAED)

QUINCE.

341

N

QUINCE.

EAR a small village in the West,

Where many very worthy people

Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best
To guard from evil Church and steeple,
There, stood-alas, it stands no more!—

A tenement of brick and plaster,
Of which, for forty years and four,

My good friend Quince was lord and master.

Welcome was he in hut and hall,

To maids and matrons, peers and peasants;
He won the sympathies of all

By making puns; and making presents.
Though all the parish was at strife,

He kept his counsel, and his carriage,
And laughed, and loved a quiet life,

And shrunk from Chancery suits-and marriage.

Sound was his claret-and his head;
Warm was his double ale-and feelings;
His partners at the whist-club said

That he was faultless in his dealings:
He went to church but once a week;
Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him
An upright man, who studied Greek,
And liked to see his friends around him.

Asylums, hospitals and schools,

He used to swear, were made to cozen;
All who subscribed to them were fools,-
And he subscribed to half-a-dozen.

AND BIDS THE SOUL DRINK DEEP OF WISDOM THERE!"-PRAED.

THERE WAS A PLEASURE IN THEM ALL, WHICH WE MAY TASTE, BUT NOT RECALL."-W. M. PRAED.