three days, and when Dr. Wishart, his chaplain, and the elegant historian of his wars, was admitted to him, he found these verses, which probably were intended as a sort of vow, on his table. We all know how that vow was redeemed. Great, good, and just! could I but rate My grief to thy too rigid fate, I'd weep the world to such a strain As it should deluge once again; But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds, And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds. LOVE VERSES, BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. Sometimes the jargon of the different governments of the day, and sometimes the technical phrases of warfare, are made strange use of in these verses; yet some of the lines are so noble, and many so original, that we forgive this soldierly mode of wooing in favor of its frankness. It is to be presumed the lady did the same. My dear and only love, I pray Like Alexander I will reign, My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, That puts it not unto the touch To win or lose it all. But I must rule and govern still, And have each subject at my will, But 'gainst my battery if I find Or in the empire of thy heart, But if thou wilt be constant then, I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before, I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore. Could it be in woman to resist such promises from such a man? PART SECOND. My dear and only love, take heed And let all longing lovers feed A marble wall, then, build about, But, if thou let thy heart fly out, I'll never love thee more. Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, Nor smoothness of their language plot Nor balls of wildfire love consume For if such smoke about thee fume, I think thy virtues be too strong Which victual'd by my love so long, But if by fraud or by consent And bitterly will sigh and weep, I'll do with thee as Nero did But to a hill retire; And scorn to shed a tear to see Yet for the love I bare thee once, That every pilgrim passing by May pity and deplore My case, and read the reason why I can love thee no more. The golden laws of love shall be A simple heart, a single eye, A true and constant tongue. * My heart shall with the sun be fix'd In constancy most strange; And thine shall with the moon be mix'd, Delighting still in change. Thy beauty shined at first most bright, And woe is me therefore! That ever I found thy love so light, Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with the point of a diamond upon the glass window of his prison, after receiving his sentence: Let them bestow on every airth a limb; And confident Thou'lt raise me with the Just. They who would follow the great Marquis to the last should read the fine ballad called "The Execution of Montrose," in Professor Aytoun's charming volume, "The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." XXIV. POETRY THAT POETS LOVE. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR-LEIGH HUNT-PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -JOHN KEATS. To no one can the words that I have placed at the head of this paper apply more perfectly than to Mr. Landor. No poetry was ever dearer to poets than his. Nearly fifty years ago, we find Southey writing of and to the author of "Gebir," with a respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man for another; and, from that hour to the present, all whom he would himself most wish to please have showered upon him praises that can not die. The difficulty in selecting from his works is the abundance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming volume, because few, very few, have given such present life to classical subjects. I begin with the Preface, so full of grace and modesty. "It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gentlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily promenade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated on an old wall, high up and sadly weak in coloring. As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there should be one) will remember that Sculpture and Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the scenes and figures which we venture once more to introduce in poetry, it being our belief that what is becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbecoming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth to them." And now comes the very first story; with its conclusion that goes straight to the heart. THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE. Who will away to Athens with me? Who Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers |