WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

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TO ROBERT BROWNING.

There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer: and there is delight

In praising, though the praiser sit alone

And see the praised far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walkt along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue

So varied in discourse. But warmer climes

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze

Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on

Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

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IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom

At Aulis, and when all beside the king

Had gone away, took his right hand, and said:
"O father! I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
While I was resting on her knee both arms,

And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head,

And tears dropt down it; but the king of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more:

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"O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,

And the down deadened it within the nest?"

He moved her gently from him, silent still;
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs:
"I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed

Her polished altar with my virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers

To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,

Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;
And (after these who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,

But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;

And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away, — not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,
So long a silence seemed the approach of death,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
"O father! if the ships are now detained,
And all your yows move not the gods above,

When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer
The less to them: and purer can there be

Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer
For her dear father's safety and success?"
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes.
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried:
“O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.”

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LINES FROM PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

(Imaginary Conversations.)

We mind not how the sun in the mid-sky
Is hastening on: but when the golden orb
Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the gulfs
Of air and ocean open to receive him,
Dampness and gloom invade us; then we think,
Ah! thus it is with Youth. Too fast his feet
Run on for sight; hour follows hour; fair maid
Succeeds fair maid; bright eyes bestar his couch;
The cheerful horn awakens him; the feast,
The revel, the entangling dance, allure,
And voices mellower than the Muse's own
Heave up his buoyant bosom on their wave.
A little while, and then:
Listen not to my words
When thou art gone, Life may go too; the sigh
That follows is for thee, and not for Life.

Ah Youth! dear Youth! but stay with me!

The thorns that pierce most deep are prest

Only the closer to the breast:

To dwell on them is now relief,

And tears alone are balm to grief!

CHARLES LAMB.

66

THE TWO RACES OF MEN.

(Essays of Elia.)

The human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon 5 earth, Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, and ⚫do naturally fall in with one or other of these primary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born de- 10 graded. "He shall serve his brethren." There is something in the air of one of this caste, lean and conspicuous; contrasting with the open, trusting, generous manners of the other.

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages Alcibiades-Falstaff Sir Richard Steele - our late incompar- 15 able Brinsley-what a family likeness in all four!

What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower! what a rosy gill! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manifest, - taking no more thought than lilies! What contempt for money, accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better 20 than dross! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of meum and teum! or rather what a noble simplification of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! What near approaches doth he make to the primitive community, to the 25 extent of one-half of the principle at least.

He is the true taxer who "calleth all the world up to be taxed;" and the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as subsisted between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest 30 obolary Jew that paid his tribute-pittance at Jerusalem! - His exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air! So far removed from your sour parochial or state-gatherers, — those inkhorn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in their faces! He cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no 35 receipt; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his feast of Holy Michael. He applieth the lene tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, - which to that

gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which the sun and wind contended! 40 He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth! The sea which taketh handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighted to honor, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend — that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, the reversion 45 promised. Combine not preposterously in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives! — but, when thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice! See how light he makes of it. Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy.

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Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., who parted this life on Wednesday evening; dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in 55 this realm. In his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample revenues; which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring 60 to nothing; for there is something revolting in the idea of a king holding a private purse, and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal.