THE ENGLISH BOY.

"Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down entire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born."

Look from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!

Thy country's fields around thee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll'd since foeman's march
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie,
Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly
They stand, 'midst oak and yew!
Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.

AKENSIDE

THE ENGLISH BOY.

And round their walls the good swords hang
Whose faith knew no alloy,

And shields of knighthood, pure from stain-
Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,

Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have shower'd their free hearts' blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,
Unfetter'd, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on-gaze farther, farther yet—
My gallant English boy!

Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,

The billows' pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead;

That red-cross flag victoriously

Hath floated o'er their bed.

They perish'd-this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstain'd;
These knightly halls inviolate,
Those churches unprofaned.

307

insulting pity of Antonio, his strength of heart is utterly subdued; he passionately bewails his weakness, and even casts down his spirit almost in wondering admiration before the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who himself seems at last almost melted by the extremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured forth:

"Can I then image no high-hearted man
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass'd mine own,
That my vex'd soul might win sustaining power
From thoughts of him?-I cannot!-all is lost!
One thing alone remains-one mournful boon
Nature on us, her suffering children, showers
The gift of tears—the impassion'd cry of grief,
When man can bear no more;-and with my woe,
With mine above all others, hath been link'd
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour

All, all its fulness forth! To me a God

Hath given strong utterance for mine agony,
When others, in their deep despair, are mute!

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man!
I seem before thee as the troubled wave:
But oh! be thoughtful!—in thy lofty strength
Exult thou not! By nature's might alike
That rock was fix'd, that quivering wave was made
The sensitive of storm! She sends her blasts,—
The living water flies-it quakes and swells,
And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam;
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back
In calm transparence-once the gentle stars
Lay still upon its undulating breast!

SCENES, ETC., FROM GOETHE'S "TASSO." 299

Now the sweet peace is gone-the glory now
Departed from the wave! I know myself

No more in these dark perils, and no more
I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark
Is wrench'd the rudder, and through all its frame
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet
The rocking earth gives way-to thee I cling-
I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair

So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock
Whereon he perishes!"

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from outward circumstances and change. The majestic lines in which Byron has embodied the thoughts of the captive Tasso, I will form a fine contrast and relief to the music of despair with which Goethe's work is closed;

"All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair,
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall;
And freed the holy sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honour of the sacred war for Him,

The God who was on earth and is in heaven;
For He hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored."

ON THE "IPHIGENIA" OF GOETHE.

AN UNFINISHED FRAGMENT.

THERE is a charm of antique grace, of the majestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, about the whole of this composition, which inclines us to rank it as among the most consummate works of art ever achieved by the master-mind of its author. The perfection of its design and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian temple, seen as the crown of some old classic height, with all its pure outlines-all the delicate proportions of its airy pillars-brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also to the mind and eye of the beholder; they are filled, and desire no more they even feel that more would be but incumbrance upon the fine adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to wander through infinity, such as are excited by a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles striving upward, like the free but still baffled thought of the architect-the clustering pillars and high arches imitating the bold combinations of mysterious forests -the many-branching cells, and long visionary aisles, of which waving torchlight or uncertain glimpses of the noon seem the fittest illumination. ever suggest ideas of some conception in the originally moulding mind, far more vast than the means allotted to human accomplishment-of struggling endeavour, and pain