[From "Poems of W. M. Praed," 2 vols., Moxon and Co.]

"MAN'S WORLD IS BLEAK AND BITTER; WHEREVER HE HAS TROD-(ADELAIDE A. PROCTER)

Adelaide Anne Procter.

[ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, was born in 1825. Her first poetical effusions were published anonymously in Mr. Charles Dickens's Household Words, and revealed so delicate a fancy and so much tenderness of sentiment as at once to attract the public attention, and justify their appearance in a collected form. "Legends and Lyrics: A Book of Verse," was published in 1858. A second series has since appeared, and much was hoped from the high promise of Miss Procter's genius, when an illness, induced by her indefatigable exertions in the cause of charity, abruptly terminated her career in February 1864.]

HE SPOILS THE TENDER BEAUTY THAT BLOSSOMS ON THE SOD."-ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

"ABOVE GOD'S WORLD BENDS HEAVEN, WITH DAY'S KISS PURE AND BRIGHT,-(PROCTER)

"NO STAR IS EVER LOST WE ONCE HAVE SEEN,-(A. A. PROCTER)

SENT TO HEAVEN.

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To rest in the far bright Heaven-
Oh, so far away from here!

It was vain to speak to my darling,
For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,

So tender, and true, and sweet,
I longed for an Angel to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it, one summer evening,
On a cloudlet o' fleecy breast;
But it faded in golden splendour,
And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,
And I watched it soar and soar;
But its pinions grew faint and weary,
And it fluttered to earth once more......
I cried, in my passionate longing:--
"Has the heart no Angel-friend
Who will carry my Love the message
My heart desires to send?"

Then I heard a strain of music,
So mighty, so pure, so clear,
That my very sorrow was silent,
And my heart stood still to hear......
It rose in harmonious rushing,

Of mingled voices and strings,
And I tenderly laid my message

On the Music's outspread wings.

And I heard it float farther and farther,
In sound more perfect than speech;
Farther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.

WE ALWAYS MAY BE WHAT WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN."-PROCTER.

OR FOLDS HER STILL MORE FONDLY IN THE TENDER SHADE OF NIGHT."-A. A. PROCTER.

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TO HELP AND TO HEAL A SOrrow--(Procter)

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate:
So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

[From A. A. Procter's "Legends and Lyrics," second volume.]

"MANY, IF GOD SHOULD MAKE THEM KINGS, MIGHT NOT DISGRACE THE THRONE HE GAVE;

A DOUBTING HEART.

HERE are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain,

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid his rays
These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky,

That soon (for spring is nigh)

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

LOVE AND SILENCE ARE ALWAYS BEST."-PROCTER.

HOW FEW WHO COULD AS WELL FULFIL THE HOLIER OFFICE OF A SLAVE!"-A. A. PROCTER.

"I BOW BEFORE THE NOBLE MIND THAT FREELY SOME GREAT WRONG FORGIVES ;-(PROCTER)

THERE ARE MORE THINGS IN HEAVEN AND EARTH THAN WE

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

[From A. A. Proctor's "Legends and Lyrics," 1859.]

Bryan Waller Procter.

[IN the literary world this agreeable writer is best known by his favourite nom de plume of "Barry Cornwall;" under which he has won no small meed of critical approval as lyrist and dramatist. He has written some of the most vigorous songs in the English language; and not a few which -in terseness of expression, closeness of thought, and happy imagery— remind us of the best lyrics of the Elizabethan writers. His larger poems are written with much animation; but perhaps his genius is seen to its highest advantage in his "Dramatic Scenes," where he sometimes copes with Ford, and sometimes rivals Beaumont and Fletcher. His tragedy of "Mirandola" was brought out in 1821. His principal works are: "Marcian Colonna," 'A Sicilian Story," and "The Flood of Thessaly." He has also written "Memorials of Charles Lamb."

347

YET NOBLER IS THE ONE FORGIVEN, WHO BEARS THAT BURDEN WELL, AND LIVES."-PROCTER.

Mr. Procter was born in 1790, and educated at Harrow School.
many years he practised at the bar, with considerable success.
he was one of the Commissioners of Lunacy.]

For

Until

1861

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

SWEET south wind!

Long hast thou lingered 'midst those islands fair,
Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep,
Like sea-maids all asleep,

CAN DREAM OF, OR THAN NATURE UNDERSTANDS."—PROCTER.

"TIS NIGHT! THE MOON IS ON THE STREAM; BRIGHT SPELLS ARE ON THE SOOTHED SEA-(CORNWALL

HE WHO DOTH CLIMB THE DIFFICULT MOUNTAIN'S TOP-(CORNWALL)

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BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.

Charmed by the cloudless sun and azure air!
O sweetest southern wind!

Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind
Thy dark rose-crowned hair!

Wilt thou not unloose now,

In this, the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-coloured flowers?—

Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow,
On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes,

And on her cheeks which crimson like the skies;
And slumber on her bosom, white as snow,
Whilst starry midnight flies.

We, whom the northern blast

Blows on, from night till morn, from morn till eve,
Hearing thee, sometimes grieve

That our poor summer's-day not long may last :
And yet, perhaps, 'twere well
We should not ever dwell

With thee, sweet spirit of the sunny south;
But touch thy odorous mouth

Once, and be gone into our blasts again,
And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow;
And arm us (by enduring) for that pain
Which the bad world sends forth, and all its woe!

[From Barry Cornwall's "English Songs."]

THE SEA.

HE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;

WILL, THE NEXT DAY, OUTSTRIP AN IDLER MAN!"-BARRY CORNWALL.

AND HOPE, THE CHILD, IS GONE TO DREAM OF PLEASURES WHICH MAY NEVER BE."-BARRY CORNWALL.