And striding with a step that seemed designed To represent the mighty March of Mind,

Instead of that slow waddle

Of thought, to which our ancestors inclinedNo wonder, then, that he should quickly find He stood in front of that intrusive pile Where Cross keeps many a kind

Of bird confined,

And free-born animal, in durance vile

A thought that stirred up all the monkey-bile!

The window stood ajar

It was not far,

Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb

The hour was verging on the supper-time,

And many a growl was sent through many a bar.
Meanwhile, Pug scrambled upward like a tar,
And soon crept in,

Unnoticed in the din

Of tuneless throats that made the attics ring With all the harshest notes that they could bring;

For, like the Jews,

Wild beasts refuse

In midst of their captivity-to sing.

Lord! how it made him chafe,
Full of his new emancipating zeal,
To look around upon this brute-bastile,
And see the king of creatures in--a safe!
The desert's denizen in one small den,
Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills-
A bear in bars unbearable! And then
The fretful porcupine, with all its quills,
Imprisoned in a pen!

A tiger limited to four feet ten;
And still worse lot,

A leopard to one spot,

An elephant enlarged,
But not discharged

(It was before the elephant was shot);
A doleful wanderow, that wandered not;
An ounce much disproportioned to his pound.
Png's wrath waxed hot,

To gaze upon these captive creatures round;
Whose claws-all scratching-gave him full assur-

ance

They found their durance vile of vile endurance.

He went above-a solitary mounter

Up gloomy stairs-and saw a pensive group Of hapless fowls

Cranes, vultures, owls;

In fact, it was a sort of poultry-compter,

Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop:

Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop,
Not from the skies, but his impending roof;
And there aloof,

A pining ostrich, moping in a coop;
With other samples of the bird creation,
All caged against their powers and their wills,
And cramped in such a space, the longest bills
Were plainly bills of least accommodation.

In truth, it was a very ugly scene

To fall to any liberator's share,

To see those wingéd fowls, that once had been
Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air.

His temper little mended,

Pug from this bird-cage walk at last descended Unto the lion and the elephant,

His bosom in a pant

To see all nature's free list thus suspended, And beasts deprived of what she had intended. They could not even prey

In their own way;

A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. Thus he revolved

And soon resolved

To give them freedom, civil and religious.

That night there were no country cousins, raw
From Wales, to view the lion and his kin:
The keeper's eyes were fixed upon a saw——
The saw was fixed upon a bullock's shin;
Meanwhile, with stealthy paw,

Pug hastened to withdraw

The bolt that kept the king of brutes within.
Now, monarch of the forest! thou shalt win
Precious enfranchisement-thy bolts are undone;
Thou art no longer a degraded creature,
But loose to roam with liberty and nature;
And free of all the jungles about Loudon-
All Hampstead's heathy desert lies before thee!
Methinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark,
Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee,
And turn a ranger

In harmless sport and mirth, (The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, my elfin Johu!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

THE IMPUDENCE OF STEAM. Over the billows and over the brine, Over the water to Palestine! Am I awake, or do I dream? Over the ocean to Syria by steam! My say is sooth, by this right hand; A steamer brave

Is on the wave, Bound positively for the Holy Land! Godfrey of Bulogine, and thou Richard, lion-hearted king, Candidly inform us, now,

66

Did you ever?

No, you never

Could have fancied such a thing. Never such vociferations Entered your imaginations

As the ensuing—

"Ease her, stop her!"

Any gentleman for Joppa?"
"'Mascus, 'Mascus ?" "Ticket, please, sir!"
"Tyre or Sidon?" "Stop her, ease her!"
"Jerusalem, 'lem! 'lem !"-"Shur! Shur!"
"Do you go on to Egypt, sir?"

"Captain, is this the land of Pharaoh ?"
"Now look alive there! Who's for Cairo ?"
"Back her!" "Stand clear, I say, old file!”
"What gent or lady's for the Nile,

Or Pyramids ?" "Thebes! Thebes, sir!" "Steady!" "Now where's that party for Engedi ?"

Pilgrims holy, Red Cross Knights,
Had ye e'er the least idea,
Even in your wildest flights,

Of a steam trip to Judea?
What next marvel Time will show,
It is difficult to say:
"'Buss," perchance, to Jericho ;
"Only sixpence all the way."
Cabs in Solyma may ply,

'Tis a not unlikely tale-
And from Dan the tourist hie
Unto Beersheba by "rail."

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes beliedWe thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

515

John Moultrie.

Moultrie (1799-1874) was associated with Praed, Henry Nelson Coleridge, and others in the Etonian and in Knight's Quarterly Magazine. He studied for the Church, and became Rector of Rugby. A complete edition of his poems, with a memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, was published in 1876. Moultrie edited an edition of Gray's poetical works. He was the author of "My Brother's Grave, and other Poems," published in 1837; "Lays of the English Church, 1843," etc. He also edited the "Poetical Remains" of his friend, William Sidney Walker.

"FORGET THEE?"

"Forget thee?" If to dream by night, And muse on thee by day,

If all the worship deep and wild
A poet's heart can pay,

If prayers in absence breathed for thee
To Heaven's protecting power,
If winged thoughts that fit to thee,-
A thousand in an hour,
If busy Fancy blending thee
With all my future lot,-
If this thou call'st "forgetting,"
Thou, indeed, shalt be forgot!

"Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds

Forget their sweetest tune; "Forget thee?" Bid the sea forget To swell beneath the moon Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink The eve's refreshing dew;

Thyself forget thine own "dear land," And its "mountains wild and blue." Forget each old familiar face,

Each long-remembered spot,When these things are forgot by thee, Then thou shalt be forgot!

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace,
Still calm and fancy-free,
For God forbid thy gladsome heart

Should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon,
Oh! bid not mine to rove,
But let it nurse its humble faith,

And uncomplaining love;—

If these, preserved for patient years,
At last avail me not,
Forget me then;-but ne'er believe
That thou canst be forgot!

HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie,

Here's a hearty health to thee!

For thine eye so bright, thy form so light,
And thy step so firm and free;
For all thine artless elegance,

And all thy native grace,

For the music of thy mirthful voice,
And the sunshine of thy face;
For thy guileless look and speech sincere,
Yet sweet as speech can be,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie,
Here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!-
Though my glow of youth is o'er,
And I, as once I felt and dreamed,

Must feel and dream no more,—
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms,
Has chilled my soul at last,

And genius, with the foodful looks

Of youthful friendship, passed,—
Though my path is dark and lonely now
O'er this world's dreary sea-
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie,-
Here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!-
Though I know that not for me

Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light,
And thy step so firm and free;
Though thou, with cold and careless looks
Wilt often pass me by,

Unconscious of my swelling heart,

And of my wistful eye,

Though thou wilt wed some Highland love,
Nor waste one thought on me-
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie,
Here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!

When I meet thee in the throng
Of merry youths and maidens

Dancing lightsomely along,
I'll dream away an hour or twain,
Still gazing on thy form,

As it flashes through the baser crowd
Like lightning through a storm;
Aud I perhaps shall touch thy hand,
And share thy looks of glee,
And for once, my Scottish lassie,
Dance a giddy dance with thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!

I shall think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star

Come smiling up through heaven:

I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice In every wind that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandoned oak

Its withered autumn leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest,
In the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie,
I shall often think of thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!-
In my sad and lonely hours,
The thought of thee comes over me

Like the breath of distant flowers;-
Like the music that enchants mine ear,
The sights that bless mine eye,
Like the verdure of the meadow,
Like the azure of the sky :-
Like the rainbow in the evening,
Like the blossoms on the tree,-
Is the thought, my Scottish lassic,-
Is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!—

Though my muse must soon be dumb,

(For graver thoughts and duties

With my graver years are come),—

Though my soul must burst the bouds of earth, And learn to soar on high,

And to look on this world's follies

With a calm and sober eye,—

Though the merry wine must seldom flow,
The revel cease for me-

Still to thee, my Scottish lassie,

Still I'll drink a health to thee!

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie,
Here's a parting health to thee!

May thine be still a cloudless lot,
Though it be far from me!
May still thy laughing eye be bright,
And open still thy brow,

Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free,

Thy heart as light as now!

And whatsoe'er my after fate,
My dearest toast shall be,-
Still a health, my Scottish lassie,
Still a hearty health to thee !!

1 Moultrie was one of the most graceful and meditative of England's minor poets; but he was not of the "modern school."

Robert Pollok.

Pollok (1799-1827) was a native of Eaglesham, Scotland. He studied at the Glasgow University, and was five years in the divinity hall under Dr. Dick. His application to study brought on a pulmonary disease, and shortly after he began to preach (1827) he had to seek a milder air in the South of England. It effected no improvement. The "Course of Time," his principal poem, had a prodigious success, passing through a vast number of editions both in Great Britain and America. It is a strange mixture of prosaic utterances with brief bursts of poetic fervor: a long disquisition in verse, extending to ten books. John Wilson said of it: "Though not a poem, it overflows with poetry." The praise is overstrained. The oases in this desert of words are few and far between. At times we see in the style the influence of Milton, Blair, and Young. It bears all the marks of mental immaturity, and, as Chambers says, "is often harsh, turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety, which repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages." The same year witnessed Pollok's advent as a preacher, and his untimely death.

INVOCATION: OPENING OF BOOK I.
FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME."

Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom
All things seem as they are; Thou who of old
The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw,
While heavy sleep fell down on other men,
In holy vision tranced, the future pass
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned
Burdens which made the pagan mountains shake
And Zion's cedars bow-inspire my song;
My eye unscale; me what is substance teach,
And shadow what, while I of things to come,
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time,
The second Birth, and final Doom of man.
The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the car
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not; such
A strain befits not argument so high.

Me thought, and phrase, severely sifting out
The whole idea, grant-uttering as 'tis

The essential truth: Time gone, the righteous saved,
The wicked damned, and Providence approved.

PRIDE THE CAUSE OF SIN.
FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME," BOOK II.

Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause
Of all sin past, all pain, all woe to come.
Unconquerable pride! first, eldest sin;