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P.. P. Milnes, Esq., of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. Ir 1831, in his twenty-second year, he took his degree of M. A. at Trinity College, Cainbridge. 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, bis efforts in support of national education, and generally his support of all questions of social amelioration and reform. In 1848 be 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.

St. Mark's at Venice,
Walk in St. Mark's the time the ample space

Lies in the freshness of the evening shade,
When, on each side with gravely darkened face

The masses rise above the light arcade ;
Walk down the midst with slowly tuned pace,

But gay withal, for there is high parade
Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass
Like varying groups on a magician's glass. .
Walk in St. Mark's again some few hours after,

When a bright sleep is on each storied pile
When fitful music and inconstant laughter

Give place to Nature's silent moonlight smile:
Now Fancy wants no faery gale to waft her

To Magian haut, or charm-engirded isle;
All too content, in passive bliss, to see
This show divine of visible poetry.
On such a night as this impassionedly

The old Venetian sung those verses rare:
• That Venice most of needs eternal be,

For Heaven had looked throngh the pellachd air,
And cast its reflex on the crystal sea,

And Venice was the image pictured there;'
I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem
As treading on an unsubstantial dream.
That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange-

That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye
Rests as of gems-those arches whose high range

Gives its ricb-broider d border to the sky-
Those ever-prancing steeds! My friend, whom change

Of restless will has led to lands that lie
Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set
Above those domes an airy minaret ?

The Men of Old.
I know not that the men of old

I heed pot those who pine for force Were better than men now,

A ghost of time to raise. Of heart more kind. of hand more bold, As if they thus could check the course Of more ingenious brow:

Of these appointed days.

Still is it true, aud over-true,

Blending their souls' snblimest needs That I delight to clos:

With tasks of every day,
This book of life self-wise ard new, They went about their gravest deeds
And let iny thoughts repose

Aš noble boys at play.
On all that bumb e happiuess

The world has since foregone- And what if Nature's fearful wound The daylight of contentedness

They did not probe and bare, That on those faces shone!

For that their spirits never swooned

To watch the misery thereWith rights, though not too closely For that their love but flowed more fast, scanned

Their cbarities more free, Enjoyed, as far as known

Not conscious what mere drops they cast With will, by no reverse unmanned- Into the evil sea.

With pulse of even toue-
They from to-day and from to-night A man's best things are nearest him,
Expected nothing more

Lie close about his feet,
Than yesterday and yesternight"

It is the distant and the dim Had proffered them before.

That we are sick to greet:

For flowers that grow our hands beneath To them was life a simple art

We struggle and aspireOf duties to be done,

Our hearts must die, except they breathe A game where each man took his part, The air of fresh desire.

A race wher, all inust run ;
A battle whose great scheme and scope But, brothers, who up Reason's hill
They little cared to know,

Advance with hopeful cheer-
Content, as men-at-arms, to cope

Oh ! loiter not; those heights are chill, Each with his fronting foe.

As chill as they are clear; Man row his virtne's diadem

And still restrain your haughty gaze, Puts on, and proudly wears

The loftier that ye go, Great thoug its great feelings, came to Remembering distance leaves a haze them,

On all that lies below. Like instincts, unawares :

From the . Long-ago.' On that deep-retiring shore

Death. to those who trust in good, Frequent pearls of beauty lie,

Vindicates his hardest blow :
Wher the passion-waves of yore Oh! we would not, if we could,
Fiercely beat and mounted high:

Wake the sleep of Long-ago!
Sorrows that a e sorrows still
Love the bitter taste of woe;

Though the door of swift decay
Nothing's altogether ill

Shocks the soul where life is strong, In the griefs of Long-ago.

Though for frailer hearts the day

Lingers sad and overlongTombs where lonely love repines,

Still the weight will find a leaven, Ghastly tenements of tears.

Still the spoiler's band is slow, Wear the look of happy shrines

While the future has its heaven, Through the golden mist of years : And the past its Long-ago.

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 volume are some fine verses on Burns, on Alnwick Castle, &c., and it includes the most elevated of his strains, the martial lyric, Marco Bozzıris.' Our poet-laureate, Mr. Tennyson, has described the poetical character:

The poet in a go'den clime was born,

will guidcu clars above;
Duwered with the bate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The lure ou love.
He saw through life and death, throngh good and ill,

He saw through his own soul-
The marvel of the everlasting will

An open scroll. 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 fceling passions strong,

A hate of tyrant and of knave,
A love of right, a scorn of wrong,

Of coward and of slave;
A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear, and would not bow
Were written in bis manly eye,

And on his manly brow.
Praise to the bard !-his words are driven,

Like flower-seeds by the far winds sowo,
Where'er beneath the sky of heaven

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 Epaminor das of Modern Greece. He fell in a n'ght-attack upon the Turkish camp at Luspi, the site of the ancient Platæu, Augnst 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. As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour As Eden's garden bird.
When Greece, her knee in suppliance

At midnight. in the forest shades,
Should tremble at his power;

Bozzaris ranged bis Suliote band. In dreams, through camp and court, he True as the steel of their tried blades, bore

Heroes in heart and hand. The trophies of a conqueror :

There had the Persian's thousands stood, Iu dreams his song of triuinph heard, There had the glad earth drunk their Then wore his monarch's signet-ring,

blood Then pressed that monarch's throne-a On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air


The sons of sfres who conquered there Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
With arm to strike and soul to dare, Anu au its holow coues arc Heard
As quick, as far as they.

fue tuauks ut mi.uns yet .o le.

Come, wuen nis lutki ut tulne is w.ought; An hour passed on, the Turk awoke'; Come with her luurel- tai boud-bought; That bright dream was his last ;

Come lu her Couluy hour and then He woke 10 near his Beutries shriek : Thy suuken eyes' umuru.ly light *To arms! they comel the Grvek! the To nim is welcome as the sight Givek!'

Of sky and rurs to prisoned med; He woke to die, 'midst dame and smoke, Thy grasp 18 "e.come as the band Aud shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, Of brother in a fori'ign lavd; Aud death-shots taling thick and fast Thy summone Welcome as the cry Like forest-pines betore the blast, Which toid the Indiau jele- wire nigh Or lightnings from the mountain cloud; To the world-seeking Genoese, And heard with voice as trumpet loud, Wben the land-wind froin woods of palm Bozzaris cheer his band :

Aud orange groves, and the.d- of balm, * Strike, till the last armed foe expires; Biew v'er the Haytien seas. Strike, for your altars and your fres; Strike, for the green graves of your sires, Bozzaris! with the storied brave God, and your native laud !'

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,

Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, They fought, like brave men, long and Eveu in her owy proud clime; well,

She wore no funeral weeds for ihee, They, piled that ground with Moslem Nor bade the dark harte wave its slain,

plume, They conquered-hat Bozzaris fell, Like toru branch from Death's leafless Bleeding at every veill.

tree His few surviving comrades Baw

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, His smile when rang their proud burrah,

The heartless luxury of the tomb; And the red field was won;

But she rememi ers thee as one Then saw in death his eyelids close Long loved, and for a reason gone, Calmly as to a night's repose,

For thee her 1 oet's lyre is a reathed, Like flowers at set of suu.

Her marble wronght her music breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells; Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Of thee her babe's firrt ljeping tells;

Come to the mother's when she feels For thine her evening prayer is said For the first time her first-born's breath; At palace couch and cottage bed. Come when the blessed seals

Her soldier closing with the foe, Wbich close the pestilence are broke, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; And crowded cities wail its stroke; His plighted maiden. when she fears Come in Consumption's ghastly forin, For him, the joy of her rondg years, The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm; Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; Come when the heart beats high and And she, the mother of thy bore, warm,

Thongh in her eve and fader cheek With banquet-song, and dance, and is read the grief she will not fpeak, wine

The memory of her buried jors; And thou art terrible; the tear,

And even she who gave thee birth, The groan. the knell, the pall, the bier, Will. by their pilgrim-circled hearth, And all we know. or dream, or fear,

Talk of thy doom without a righ: Of agony or thine.

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;

One of the few, the immortal pames, But to the hero, when his sword

That were not born to die ! Has won the battle for the free

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 å benevolent Virginian planter, Mr. Allan. All attempts to settle weary,

hi-a respectably in life failed. He was reckless, debauched, and unmidageable. He was expelled from college and from a military au"demy in which he was placed by Mr. Allan; he enlisted in the ar:ny, but soon deserted; and after various scenes of wretchedness, he became a contributor to, and occasional editor of, several Ameri. can 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
Over many a quaint and curious volmine of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly vapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of som: one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door:
" Tis some visitor,' I inuttered, 'tapping at my chamber-door-

Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying einber wrought its ghost npop the floor.
Eagerly I wished th: morrow; vainly I had songht to borrow
From my books surceasy of sorrow --sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled ine with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating :
• 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door;

This it is, and nothing more.'
Presantly my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
• Sir,' said I. or madam, truly your for, iveness I implore:
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you '-here I opened wide the door-

Darkness there, aud nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering. fearing,
Dreaming, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dured to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no toker,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore!'-
This I whispered, and an echo murmured bark ihe word. Lenore! -

Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something londer than before.
Surely,' said I - nrely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-

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