same in the private circle. Our tones are grave and our words are measured when we wish to be impressive or are labouring with weighty thoughts. When a person of sensibility is detailing his sorrows and misfortunes, how soft and slow is his utterance, how smooth and rythmical are his sentences! His voice is subdued into a gentle though querulous murmur, like that of the complaining brooks." How musical are a lover's words! Shakespeare attends to these matters with "a learned spirit." In his comic scenes he often allows the verse to run into ordinary and irregular prose. His clowns speak like clowns; but when a king speaks it is with that majestic measurement of his words which we look for in the representative of dignity and power. Thus there is nothing out of nature or that serves to destroy the dramatic illusion in the blank verse of Shakespeare, but there is no authority or precedent in real life for the conjunction of music and action in the Lyric drama. STANZAS. OH! sweet the sad heart's pensive night! Dim as the pale moon's misty light, Or, rainbow half enshrouded! Oh! sweet and sad, when dark and lone, In life's most wintry hour, To think of early pleasures flown, There is a charm 'tis sweet to borrow There is a thrill of tender sorrow, Dear to the mournful hearted! SONNET-RESIGNATION. OH! come not, Passion, with the fiends of care, Soon hope's cheerful beams The trusting spirit from the strife shall free, And gild the shadows of the mourner's dreams! BATTLE SONG. ADDRESSED TO THE BRITISH SEPOYS. I. OH! Warriors of India! whose hearts are with ours, But the glory of England still gleameth afar, And the darker the tempest, the brighter her star! II. Oh! Warriors of India! o'er mountain and plain III. Remember, remember, the deeds we have done, The hosts we have vanquished, the name we have won, IV. Hurrah-then-hurrah! To the bright field of fame The Persian we'll startle, the Muscovite tame, The braggarts of Birmah, the hordes of Nepaul, Once more shall be driven from mountain and wall! July, 1838. VOL. II. STANZAS, WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. I. You know not, gentle Lady, what you ask Nor what I have to give, or you would never Or thought me (strange delusion!) half so clever : I blush, and almost on distraction border, At calls like thine for verses "made to order." II. And yet 'tis strange that scarce a week elapses III. 'Tis not so much that I dislike the trouble, IV. But as I positively want the power Even to please myself, and hate to prove it, I pass what seems a very ill-spent hour When my tried temper fails, and fair ones move it To something like a state of mad vexation, By urging me to such severe probation. V. I find that several persons have a notion That I can write, as ancient maidens chatter, Or lawyers make a bill, or scolds a clatter: They question both my will and my veracity. VI. It is not till with suicidal kindness I grant their wishes (to my shame and sorrow), VII. Though at the risk of changing the opinion That from Don Quixotes down to Sancha Panzas, VIII. Who can refuse the fair? Oh! I for one Feel it impossible; you now must know it, To your cost and to mine. The deed is done- To all who own an Album-all who ever Have thought your rhyming friend unkind or clever. |