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Each lookt into the other's face,
Anticipating an embrace,-
I markt those two when they were men,

I watcht them meet one day,
They toucht each other's hands, and then

Each went on his own way;
There did not seem a tie

Of love, the lightest chain,
To make them turn a lingering eye

Or press the hand again.
“ This is a page in our life's book

We all of us turn over ;
The web is rent,
The hour-glass spent,
And oh ! the path we once forsook

How seldom we recover!
“Our days are broken into parts,

And every fragment has a tale
Of the abandonment of hearts,

May make our freshest hopes turn pale ;
Even in the plighting of our troth,
Even in the passion of our oath,
A cold hard voice may seem to mutter

We know not what it is we utter.'” A rich vein of thought runs through the following lines, which are also well fitted to exemplify Mr. Milnes' metrical skill.

“Look at the leaves I gather up in trembling,

Little to see and sere and time bewasted,
But they are other than the tree can bear now,

For they are mine!
Deep as the tumult in an arched sea-cave,
Out of the past these antiquated voices

heart's ear; I must listen to them

For they are mine!
“ Whose is this hand that wheresoe'er it wanders,

Traces in light words thoughts that come as lightly?
Who was the king of all this soul-dominion ?

I? was it mine?
“ With what a healthful appetite of spirit,

Sits he at life's inevitable banquet,
Tasting delight in every thing before him!

Could this be mine?

Fall on my

“ See! how he twists his coronals of fancy,

Out of all blossoms, knowing not the poison,-
How his young eye is mesht in the enchantment!

And it was mine!
“ What, is this I? this miserable complex,

Losing and gaining, only knit together
By the ever-bursting fibres of remembrance,

What, is this mine?
“ Surely we are by feeling as by knowing,
Changing our hearts, our being changes with them ;
Take them away,—these spectres of my boyhood,

They are not mine!”

From many sonnets we select a well-conceived and eloquent tribute to Mr. Tennyson.


At Beauty's altar fervent acolyte,

And favored candidate for priestly name,
In object as in force adore aright,
Nor waste one breath of thy rare gift of flame;
Nature, artistic form, Music,-all these
Are shapes where partial beauty deigns to lie,
And mediate, as with types and images,
Between frail hearts and perfect Deity.
From thee a purer faith is due,-to find
The beauty of life,—the melody of mind, -
Which the true poet's guest never eludes:
Speed thou Philosophy's straight onward flight,
Aiming thy wings at that serenest height,
Where Wordsworth stands, feeding the multitude.”

Here are two very sweet specimens of “ Memorials of a Residence on the Continent."


“ The maiden moon is resting,

The maiden mount above,
They gaze upon each other

With cold majestic love.
“ So I and thou, sweet sister,

Upon each other gaze,
Our love was warm, but sorrow
Has shorn it of its rays.

As in the hazy heav'n

That gentle orb appears,
Thou lookest in my face

Tearful, not shedding tears.
“ Like thine, her face is pale,

But from within a light,
Mild, gleaming, as thy spirit,

Comes out upon the night,
“ And casts a tender sheen

On that pale hill beneath,
Pale! as my heart, which wears
The dull, white hue of Death.”


“ This was a fortress, firm and stout,

When there was battling round about.-
It has been deckt in gala plight,
In days of ladie-love and knight,-
It has known carouse and Provençal song,
And the dance right featly tript along,
While the red guhl-log and wassail bowl
Cheered the pilgrim's thirsty soul.
The swoop of time has been to it
A bounty and a benefit,-
It has gained glory from those wings,
Which have annihilated kings;
And now it stands in its massiveness,
Wi' the scars of many an age,
Like a lore-encumbered prophetess,
Who has worn away her youthfulness,

In studies deep and sage."
We conclude our extracts from Mr. Milnes' earlier volumes,
with a poem which shows him to be a master of pathos.
The following lines are on the death of a friend.

“ I'm not where I was yesterday,

home be still the same, For I have lost the veriest friend

Whom ever a friend could name; I'm not what I was yesterday,

Tho' change there be little to see, For a part of myself has lapsed away

From time to Eternity. “I have lost a thought that many a year

Was most familiar food,

To my inmost mind, by night or day,

In merry or plaintive mood :
I have lost a hope, that many a year

Lookt far on a gleaming ray,
When the walls of life were closing round,

And the sky was sombre grey.
“For long, too long, in distant climes

My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse

Was all I had with men;
But lonelily in distant climes

I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full

O’ the friend it had left at home.
“And now I was close to my native shores,

And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,

His voice in that homeward tide ;
For what were to me my native shores,

But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,

And affection's root had been?
“ I thought, how should I see him first,

How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,-upon the stair,-

At the corner of the street ?
I thought, where should I hear him first,

How catch his greeting tone,-
And thus I went up to his door,

And they told me he was gone !
Oh! what is life but a sum of love,

And death but to lose it all ?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,

And not for those that fall !
And now how mighty a sum of love

Is lost for ever to me
... No, I'm not what I was yesterday,

Though change there be little to see."

The “ Poetry for the People,” which gives its name to Mr. Milnes' new volume, occupies but a small portion of it. It is a series of what may be called sermons in verse, which, though the doctrines are not always unexceptionable, come creditably from a conservative legislator.

We quote one, entitled “ Almsgiving," which strikes us as the best of the series. Its sentiments are just and gentle : and Mr. Milnes has expended more care on the language than is generally the case in this volume.

“When poverty, with mien of shame,

The sense of pity seeks to touch,
Or, bolder, makes the simple claim

That I have nothing, you have much,
Believe not either man or book

That bids you close the opening hand,
And with reproving speech and look

Your first and free intent withstand.
“ It may be that the tale you hear

Of pressing wants and losses borne,
Is heapt or coloured for your ear,

And tatters for the purpose worn ;
But surely poverty has not

A sadder need than this, to wear
A mask still meaner than her lot,

Compassion's scanty food to share.
“ It may be that you err to give

What will but tempt to further spoil
Those who in low content would live

On theft of others' time and toil ;
Yet sickness may have broke or bent

The active frame or vigourous will, --
Or hard occasion may prevent

Their exercise of humble skill.
“ It may be that the suppliant's life

Has lain on many an evil way
Of foul delight and brutal strife,

And lawless deeds that shun the day ;
But how can any guage of yours

The depth of that temptation try?
What man resists-what endures-

Is open to one only eye.
Why not believe the homely letter

That all you give will God restore ?
The poor man may deserve it better,

And surely, surely, wants it more:
Let but the rich man do his part,

And whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart

Will gain and grow in sympathy.
Suppose that each from nature got

Bare quittance of his labour's worth,


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