reader judge from the two subjoined specimens how far the one writer could ever, without a presumption equalled only by a want of self-knowledge, set himself in judgment on the other.

"Out went the taper as she hurried in;

Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died :
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air and visions wide :
No utter'd syllable, or woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her heart in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

“ A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and

kings.

“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

U

And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven :-Porphyro grew faint:

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. “ Anon his heart revives : her vespers done,

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

“ Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day:
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again."

EVE OF St. AGNES.

With the rich beauties and the dim obscurities of lines like these, let us contrast the Verses addressed To a Tuft of early Violets by the fastidious, author of the Baviad and Mæviad,

“ Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds

Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads

To cold Aquarius' watery skies.

“ Retire, retire! These tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun with light malignant glares,

And flatters only to betray.
“ Stern Winter's reign is not yet past

Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.
“ Alas, for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you; and supply
A kindlier soil on which to bloom,

A nobler bed on which to die.
“ Come then-'ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;

O come and grace my Anna's breast.
“ Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know

What worth, what goodness there reside,
Your

cups with liveliest tints would glow;
And spread their leaves with conscious pride.
“ For there has liberal Nature joined

Her riches to the stores of Art,
And added to the vigorous mind

The soft, the sympathising heart.
“ Come, then--'ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;

O come and grace my Anna's breast.
“O! I should think-that fragrant bed

Might I but hope with you to share-*
Years of anxiety repaid

By one short hour of transport there,

* What an awkward bed-fellow for a tuft of violets !

U 2

“ More blest than me, thus shall ye

live
Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful Muse shall give

A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

• While I alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came,
Without a friend to weep my fate,

Without a stone to tell my name.”

We subjoin one more specimen of these “ wild strains”* said to be “ Written two years after the preceding.” ECCE ITERUM Crispinus.

“ And who, with pious hand, shall bring

The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?
“ And who, while Memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And

pour the bitter, bitter tear ?

While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,
And with her finger-point the tenderest line !"

Mæviad, pp. 194, 202. Yet the author assures us just before, that in these “ wild strains" “ all was plain.”

“ Even then (admire, John Bell ! my simple ways)

No heaven and hell danced madly through my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain ;
Yet trust me, while thy ever jingling train
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason and revolt the heart;
My hopes and fears, in nature's language drest,
Awakened love in many a gentle breast.”

[bid v. 185-92. If any one else had composed these “wild strains," in which “ all is plain," Mr. Gifford would have accused them of three things, “1. Downright nonsense. 2. Downright frigidity. 3. Downright doggrel;" and proceeded to anatomise them very cordially in his way. As it is, he is thrilled with a very pleasing horror at his former scenes of tenderness, and

gasps at the recollection” of watery Aqua rius!” he ! jam satis est ! “ Why rack a grub-a butterfly upon a wheel ?”