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into confidence, his confidence into pertness, and his pertness raised considerably above “temperate heat,” he was left to be cooled down by the cross-examination of Sir Charles. He had not been long under this discipline before his self-conceit fell to zero. Sir Charles “questioned him on the story of his life," and "his story being done” the Attorney-General looked as though " 'twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful, he wished he had not heard it.” The industry of the friends of the prisoners had provided a copious account of the past life of this specimen of the breed of wretches, without whom Lord Liverpool declared his government could not stand ; and from their information he was enabled to stretch him at large on the rack of his recollections.

We must do Sir Charles the justice to admit, that, in one respect at least, his resistance to the just claims of his fellow-countrymen on the question of Reform has not been so severe as that of some others, and for this his moderation he has entitled himself to their milder censure. Some have by their zeal been prompted to sacrifice on the “ conservative” altar large sums of “good and lawful' money; some, as we have been told, to the extent of 20,0001. and 10,0001., and engaged themselves to sacrifice yet more : but Sir Charles's antipathy has not been of this malignant character,-he has been content to stand at a pious distance, gaze on the goodly pile, and listen to the chinking victims. A lavish contributor of subsidiary speeches he has been, but has tastefully foreborne to profane the cause with more vulgar largesses. Gratius est fictis adscribere verbis quam largire manu: it is, at any time, more pleasant to “tip blarney” than one's cash—seems to have been the delicate sentiment by which he bas been judiciously actuated.

Sir Charles is, in person, neither bulky nor meagre, and rather tall; his age about sixty. His mien and aspect are those of a student, and, we confess it, we think that any one choosing to suppose them to be those of a gentleman commits no serious sin against taste. Sir Charles has the reputation, and we think it hardly possible to be erroneous, of being master of a handsome fortune ; neither do we deem him undeserving the reputation of a well-informed lawyer. His highest praise is, that no temptation has been sufficient to render even doubtful his independence and integrity, no station ever exhibited him insolent or affected.



DAUGHTER of Athens ! in my boyhood day

Thy whisper bath been with me faintly sweet,
Cheering me onwards on my careless way;

Thy hand hath led me through the festive street,

Scattering flowers before my dancing feet:
And I have stood beside the cittern-dance,

The music through the wreathed roses streaming,
Mid faces gazing upward in a trance

Of radiant memories, like Venus gleaming

Through the dim mists of sleep upon the lover's dreaming !
Muse of all nations! to have seen thee stand,

Creature of light and music, in thy fane,
With the proud thousands of thy poet land

Hanging about thee like an angel-chain,-
0! how the heart doth leap up at the strain!

The dark light purpling o'er each bended face

Of minstrel, warrior, painter, sculptor, blentNought but the sighing of the bosom's grace

Through the deep sanctuary twilight sent;

Chieftain and priest alone in worship--prayer their element ! Lyre of Colonos!' is thy music shaking

The laurell’d tresses of the Gredian girl, When the dove among the myrtles waking,

Its odour-breathing pipions doth unfurl,

The blue light trembling on it like a pearl? Is the soft heaving of thy dreamy rest

Fanning the leaf that hides the flower-bird's sleeping, While the fair moonlight curtaineth its nest,

And the sweet voices come of maidens keeping

Their holyday among the vines, before the morning's reaping? My song is of a day-Thy sunny cheek,

Daughter of Greece ! was wet with many tears, Thy children gathering round thee pale and weak,

And they who wander'd by the lamp of years ;

The mother's face was darken’d by her fears,
And like a weeper's low-breathed melody,

Their wailing came up to thine ear, and thou,
Drawing the veil upon thy gentle glee,
Didst take the festal garland from thy brow,

Bowing thy head upon thy breast-as thou dost now!
It was a summer-day; the birds were leaping

Along the darkling pathways of the vine ; Balmily the silver winds were creeping ;

The galley shone upon the waves divine,

And ever as it pass'd a holy shrine,
Or hamlet green, or dryad-haunted spot,

They threw out flowers upon the paving foam ;
They look'd unto the land, but there was not

The echo of a footstep on their home,

The wings of Solitude were cov'ring it like a dome! But hark! a funeral cry! a band was walking

With cypress crowns along the grass-grown street, And, like the wind-brought sounds of far-off talking, Was heard the solemn falling of their feet;

The wild flowers on the bier were smelling sweet. They met no one except an aged man,

Whose cheek was dried up like the potter's clay, Leading a child whose face was deeply wan ;

He saw the dark pall shining in the day,

And turn'd his head aside, and walk'd another way.
The mourners rested ; they put down the bier

Beside the dwelling of an antique rill ;
Its path was flower-hid, but you well might hear

The quiet singing of its waters still,
Like one who thinketh not of good or ill.



They stood around the corpse; but there was one

In kingly loneliness, who linger'd by, His mantle to his face, as if the sun

Were on it scorchingly ; his half-closed eye

Seem'd gazing through all time on Immortality! He came nigh to the corpse, and gently drew

The perfumed garment from the young man's eyes ; His brow of beauty took a darker hue,

When his ear caught the mourners' troubled sighs;

His lifted arm did seem to say—“ Arise!” He took the wreath-the garland of the land

Close to the head with lingering feet he stepped,Why doth he press his forehead with his hand,

Bending down on the face of him who slept?

The wreath hath fallen from his hand-the Olympian' wept! Pericles and Paralus !: 0, what a throng

Of hallow'd symphonies that bright name bringeth, And faces gleaming with the dew of song,

While Memory from her dream of music springeth,

And by her lyre sitting softly singeth! The carnival of Joy! the feet of Glory

Throwing their shadow upon bower and glen, And Sculpture kneeling in some temple hoary,

And Painting speaking poetry to men;

The rapt soul gazing from its shrine with an immortal ken ! The mourning had gone by—but on a stone

In the still night the orphan child was weeping, Looking up sadly, with a stifled moan,

Upon the hurrying passer-by, and keeping

With weary hand its swollen eyes from sleeping. It was a time of singing, but the cry

Of joy from many a house went forth no more,No face look'd out upon the purple sky,

No feet were heard upon the mouldering foor:

The servant slept, and moved not, beside the grassy door !
There is a hush of voices by the gate

That leadeth to a marble palace fair,
And listening crowds in silence round it wait,

And some are kneeling on the sunny stair :

One girl hath bound the cypress in her hair, She hath gone forth among them, and the place

Doth echo now with many a hasty tread ; There is a quivering paleness on each face,

And each is bowing down his weary head, Father and mother in their tears, as if their only one were dead. The palace-hall is silent, save a sound

Of gleamy music wandering sweet and dim,
Like a night air that through an old lute wound,

Waking among the moss its ancient hymn,
While the eve-light doth glimmer round its rim.

1 The appellation bestowed on Pericles by the Athenians. ? His youngest son Paralus, who died of the pestilence, was his favourite.

It was a lay of sorrow, and it came

From one—the song of Greece—the soul's adored-
0! how the thoughts do linger round that name,
With memories of lute and painting stored,

The spirit's queen-Aspasia, singing to her Lord !
The voice was shrouded of her lyre, and she

Had turn'd her sad face from the sick man's eyes;
Her jewell'd arm about his neck, but he

Was garlanding his heart with spring-time dyes,

The greenness of his boyhood memories.
His life was falling from him, like a fold

Of a rich garment; yet his wandering hand
Seem'd seeking for the wild wood-flowers of old-

The rose-twined tresses on his brow were fann'd
With song-like winds from the Spirit's radiant land!
It was a glorious place,—the trembling

Of spicy branches in the summer breeze,
The silver voices of sweet birds resembling

The sounds of gladness on the Grecian seas,
When the bark winds its way in harmonies.
The walls were beaming with proud thoughts, the flush

Of sunset making them more richly fair,
And statues breathing forth a dreamy hush,

Like twilight floating on an angel's hair;

And one—the loveliestma boy—the Olympian's eye was there! It was the last watch of the night, the room

Was startled by a soft and lingering tread; Muffling the pale light of the lamp to gloom,

She kneeleth breathlessly beside the bed,

With one arm pillowing his feeble head :
Veiling the flame behind her hand, she leaneth

Over his breast, and breatheth on his brow,
Baptized in poetry ; her sorrow gleaneth
No thought of comfort from her early vow,

The visions of her childhood days by tears are hidden now!
The lamp is burning thickly, and the gleam

Around the flowers and statuary doth fall,
Like Grief upon the young heart's bridal dream ;

There is a quivering of the limbs--a call

Of one whom Death is stifling with the pall !
Again, and yet again !-her ear is bent

In agony unto his lips,-of yore
The muse-taught mind's enchanted instrument.

She feels no breathing on her-it is o'er!
Last of the Number'd-tbou art of living men no more!!

R. A. W.

1 The plague did not attack Pericles with its usual violence and rapidity, but in the form of a lingering distemper.



BY AN OFFICER. We resumed our march with altered cheer,--silent, sad, and rather hungry. But “ sorrow is no remedy for mishap," as I heard one fellow say to his neighbour; and the motley crowd bad not proceeded far ere they chatted and jostled themselves into merriment again, urging each other to push on for their supper, and driving the said supper before them in a variety of shapes; meal, hams, bacon, butter, on horseback,-and mountain mutton on its own wild legs. The dogs were useless now. They followed the rude hearse like mutes. They had seen their old master bleeding and breathless, and no threats or chastisement could rouse them to action, or induce them to assist the new shepherd. When beaten off, they would crouch and howl plaintively; and the moment they were permitted, would follow as before. Their spirits seemed quite broken.

My two body-guards still kept close to me. My right-hand man had the shepherd's churn-dash tied to his fork, and thrown musket-like on his shoulder, while he carried the salt-box tucked under the opposite arm. The carbineer bore Biddy's spinning-wheel, and I was entrusted with the conveyance of the old-fashioned table made out of black bog oak, and unnecessarily heavy. I carried it on my head, (having made a sort of pillion for it by stuffing gloves and handkerchief into my travelling cap,) and held fast by the legs cross-cornerwise.

'Twas not the first time I had been on a forced night-march dinnerless and supperless, with more than one dead man in my neighbourhood, so these things did not affect me much ; but I could not help thinking what a laughing-stock Major Mac G would be to the regiment, if it were to see him doing suttler'sscullion duty! How the thirty lazy Hindoo rascals that I left behind, doing one man's business for somebody else, would open their white eyes and tawny mouths, could they behold my diminished head hidden beneath the family shambles of a cracked shepherd, and my feet alternately slipping and sinking in my boggy path under the tiresome joggle of this uncouth heir-loom! But my natural elasticity of spirit soon got the better of this feeling of false shame; and, at last, as I stood still after a stumble that tried all the muscles in my back and loins, I laid down my load, and laughed heartily.

My two companions were delighted to find that I had some fun in me-guessed that I was an Irishman, I “ laughed with such an honest brogue,” and were “ happy to find the mountains agreed so well wid me.”

I made the best of my sorry plight, returned their compliments in their own style, and declared that “ though I had heard much of the hard-drinking hospitality of the mountaineers, I never expected to find myself sent staggering under their table before we had time to say grace.”

Continued from Vol. II. page 298.

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