The midnight brought the signal sound of strife-
The morn, the marshalling to arms-the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder clouds close o'er it. And when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pentRider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent.

BYRON.

The Grave.

2 LOVE to muse when none are nigh,

Where yew-tree branches

wave,

And hear the winds, with softest sigh,

Sweep o'er the grassy

grave.

It seems a mournful music,

meet

To soothe a lonely hour;

Sad though it be, it is more sweet

Than that from Pleasure's bower.

THE GRAVE.

I know not why it should be sad,
Or seem a mournful tone,
Unless by man the spot be clad
With terrors not its own.

To nature it seems just as dear
As earth's most cheerful site;
The dew-drops glitter there as clear,
The sunbeams shine as bright.

The showers descend as softly there
As on the loveliest flowers;

Nor does the moonlight seem more fair
On Beauty's sweetest bowers.

"Ay! but within—within, there sleeps
One, o'er whose mouldering clay

The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps, And wastes that form away."

And what of that? The frame that feeds

The reptile tribe below,

As little of their banquet heeds,

As of the winds that blow.

129

BERNARD BARTON.

R

On a certain Lady at Court.

KNOW the thing that's most un

common;

(Envy, be silent, and attend!) I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend:

Not warped by Passion, awed by
Rumour;

Not grave through Pride, nor gay
through Folly;

An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible, soft melancholy.

"Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?" "Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear."

РОРЕ.

[ALEXANDER POPE. For more than a century it has been in many circles a disputed point whether Pope was a poet, or merely a polished and elegant versifier; and the controversy seems likely to continue so long as tastes differ so completely as to what elements constitute poetic entity. If Miltonic grandeur, the humour of a Chaucer, or the inventive powers of Shakespeare, are indispensable, then Pope was no poet, for these he had not; but wit and fancy, elegance of diction, and power of satire, were his in no small degree; indeed, in satiric power he is unsurpassed, save by Dryden, the great model upon whom he formed his style. How marvellously he has expressed in the portraiture of Addison the stifled jealousy in the courtly critic, who is "so obliging

Marlborough.

BUT now the trumpet,

terrible from far,

In shriller clangours animates the war;

Confederate drums in ful

ler concert beat, And echoing hills the loud

alarm repeat: Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's join'd, Unfurl their gilded lilies

in the wind.

But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle join'd! Methinks I hear the drums' tumultuous sound, The victors' shouts and

dying groans confound; The dreadful burst of

cannon rend the skies,

And all the thunder of the battle rise.

that he ne'er obliged "--who can "just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike"-who, unable or loth openly to condemn, can "damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and without sneering teach the rest to sneer." The genius which produces such lines as these may not be of the highest order-but it is true genius still.]

132 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

'Twas then
great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:

In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel, by Divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ;
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

ADDISON. [From "The Campaign."]

T

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;—
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;