R. P. Milnes, Esq., of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1881, 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, which he continued to represent till his elevation to the peerage. In parliament, Lord Houghton has been distinguished by his philanthropic labours, his efforts in support of national education, and generally his support of all questions of social amelioration and reform. In 1848 he edited the Life and Remains of John Keats; and in 1873-76 published two volumes of biographical sketches, entitled Monographs, Personal and Social,' abounding in anecdote and in interesting illustrations of English social life and literature. In 1876 the collected Poetical Works of Lord Houghton were published in two volumes. Walk in St. Mark's again some few hours after, On such a night as this impassionedly For Heaven had looked through the pellucid air, And cast its reflex on the crystal sea, And Venice was the image pictured there;' As treading on an unsubstantial dream. That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange- Those ever-prancing steeds! My friend, whom change Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set J know not that the men of old Were better than men now, The Men of Old. Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine for force As if they thus could check the course Still is it true, and over-true, Blending their souls' sublimest needs And what if Nature's fearful wound With rights, though not too closely For that their love but flowed more fast, scanned. Enjoyed, as far as known With will, by no reverse unmanned- They from to-day and from to-night Than yesterday and yesternightTM To them was life a simple art A game where each man took his part, A race where all inust run; A battle whose great scheme and scope Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on, and proudly wears Their charities more free, Not conscious what mere drops they cast A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distaut and the dim For flowers that grow our hands beneath Our hearts must die, except they breathe But, brothers, who up Reason's hill And still restrain your haughty gaze, Great thong its, great feelings, came to Remembering distance leaves a haze them, Like instincts, unawares : On all that lies below. From the Long-ago.' On that deep-retiring shore Lose the bitter taste of woe; In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Through the golden mist of years: Death. to those who trust in good, Oh! we would not, if we could, Though the doom of swift decay Still the weight will find a leaven, FITZGREENE HALLECK. Without attempting, in our confined limits, to range over the fields of American literature, now rapidly extending, and cultivated with ardour and success, we have pleasure in including some eminent transatlantic names in our list of popular authors. MR. HALLECK became generally known in this country in 1827 by the publication of a volume of Poems,' the result partly of a visit to England. In this vo lume are some fine verses on Burns, on Alnwick Castle, &c., and it includes the most elevated of his strains, the martial lyric, 'Marco Bozz ris.' Our poet-laureate, Mr. Tennyson, has described the poetical character: Mr. Halleck, in his beautiful verses, ‘On viewing the Remains of a Rose brought from Alloway Kirk in Autumn, 1822,' had previously identified, as it were, this conception of the laureate's with the history of the Scottish poet : Strong sense, deep feeling passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear, and would not bow And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard !—his words are driven, The birds of Fame are flown! Mr. Halleck was a native of Guildford, Connecticut, born in 1790. He resided some time in New York, following mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he published Fanny,' a satirical poem in the ottava rima stanza. Next appeared his volume of 'Poems,' as already stated, to which additions were made in subsequent republications. His works are comprised in one volume, and it is to be regretted that his muse was not more prolific. He died November 19, 1867. His 'Life and Letters' were published in one volume in 1869 by James Grant Wilson of New York, who has also edited the poetical works of Halleck (1871), and written a short Memoir of Bryant, in the Western Monthly,' November, 1870. Marco Bozzaris. The Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a night-attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1 23, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: .o die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.' At midnight, in his guarded tent. The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, At midnight. in the forest shades, In dreams, through camp and court, he True as the steel of their tried blades, bore The trophies of a conqueror: In dreams his song of triumph heard, Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne-a King; Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there An hour passed on, the Turk awoke; He woke to die, 'midst flame and smoke, Or lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: 'Strike, till the last armed foe expires; 'Strike, for your altars and your fires; 'Strike, for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land!' They fought, like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem They conquered-but Bozzaris fell, His few surviving comrades BAW His smile when rang their proud hurrah, Then saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its honow tones are heard The tuanks of minons yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men; To the world-seeking Genoese, Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, She wore no funeral weeds for thee, plume, Like toru branch from Death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remem ers thee as one Long loved, and for a reason gone. For thee her oet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys; And even she who gave thee birth, Will. by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die! EDGAR ALLAN POE. This singular and unfortunately degraded man of genius-the Richard Savage of American literature was born at Boston, January 19, 1809. 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 hi respectably in life failed. He was reckless, debauched, and unmanageable. He was expelled from college and from a military ademy in which he was placed by Mr. Ailan; he enlisted in the arny, 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. A complete edition of the works of Poe, with Memoir by John H. Ingram, was published in 1875, in four volumes-three of them prose, and one poetry. The editor clears the memory of the unfortunate poet from certain charges brought against him by Griswold, the American editor. Some of the criticisms by Poe collected in this edition of his works are marked by a fine critical taste and acuteness. The Raven. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Only this, and nothing more.' Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, |