Extracts from Horatius.' The following are extracts from the first of the Lays of Ancient Rome, founded on the legend of Horatius Cocles. The Lays or ballads must, however, be read continuously to be properly appreciated, for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid movement and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole. [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] And for the tender mother Who feed the eternal flame, That wrought the deed of shame! 'Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, May well be stopped by three. 'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so let it be.' Then none was for a party; Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the tribunes beard the high, And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. [The bridge is hewn down; Lartius and Herminius escape, and Horatius is left alone.] Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; To whom the Romans pray, Was heard from either bank; They saw his crest appear, [How Horatius was rewarded.] They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, Roar louder yet within; When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armour, How well Horatius kept the bridge Ivry. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war; Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish But out spake gentle Henry: 'No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. W. E. AYTOUN-THEODORE MARTIN. The same style of ballad poetry, applied to incidents and characters in Scottish history, was adopted with distinguished success by PROFESSOR WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN, author of Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, 1849, and Bothwell, a tale of the days of Mary, Queen of Scots, 1856. The Lays range from the field of Flodden to the extinction of the Jacobite cause at Culloden, and are animated by a fine martial spirit, intermingled with scenes of pathos and mournful regret. The work has gone through a great number of editions. In a similar spirit of nationality, Mr Aytoun published a collected and collated edition of the old Scottish Ballads, two volumes, 1858. In satirical and humorous composition, 431 both in poetry and prose, Mr Aytoun also attained celebrity. His tales and sketches in Blackwood's Magazine are marked by a vigorous hand, prone to caricature; and he is author of a clever satire -Firmilian, a Spasmodic Tragedy, by Percy T. Fones, 1854. In conjunction with his friend, MR THEODORE MARTIN, Mr Aytoun wrote The Book of Ballads, by Bon Gaultier-a series of burlesque poems and parodies contributed to different periodicals, and collected into one volume; and to the same poetical partnership we owe a happy translation of the ballads of Goethe. Mr Aytoun was a native of Edinburgh, born in 1813. Having studied at the university of Edinburgh, and afterwards in Germany, he was admitted to the Scottish bar in 1840. In 1845 he was appointed to the chair of Rhetoric and Belles-lettres in Edinburgh University, and in 1852 he was made sheriff of Orkney. His poetical talents were first displayed in a prize poem, Judith, which was eulogised by Professor Wilson, afterwards the father-in-law of the young poet. He died at Blackhills, near Elgin, August 4, 1865.-Mr Martin is a native of Edinburgh, born in 1816. He is now a parliamentary solicitor in London. Besides his poetical labours with Mr Aytoun, Mr Martin has translated Horace, Catullus, and Goethe's Faust; also the Vita Nuova of Dante; the Corregio and Aladdin of the Danish poet Ehlenschläger, and King Rene's Daughter, a Danish lyrical drama by Henrik Herts. Mr Martin was selected by Her Majesty to write the Life of the Prince Consort, the first volume of which appeared in 1874, and was highly creditable to the taste and judgment of the author. In 1851 Mr Martin was married to Miss Helen Faucit, an accomplished and popular actress. The Burial-march of Dundee. From the Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. I. Sound the fife, and cry the slogan- Than we bring with us to-day; On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart-the priceless- Lo! we bring the conquering Græme, To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for ScotlandLet none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's foldSee! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See-Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for king and country, Bade us win the field, or fall! II. On the heights of Killiecrankie And our bonnets down we drew, On his war-horse black as nightWell the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight !And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose ; And we thought of good Montrose. For his country and King James ! Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they Covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honour Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee !' III. Loudly then the hills re-echoed And they harder drew their breath; And the voices of the foe: Next we saw the squadrons come, Till they gained the field beneath; Swept the hurricane of steel, Amongst the foremost of our band- Horse and man went down like drift-wood IV. And the evening-star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph, And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst the battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Passed the spirit of the Græme! V. Open wide the vaults of Athol, Open wide the hallowed portals Last of Scots, and last of freemen- 80 Who would rather die unsullied, Reck not of the after-time : Sonnet to Britain, by the D― of W—. From Bon Gaultier. Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands-unmovable, not rash- Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash, FRANCES BROWN. This lady, blind from infancy, is a more remarkable instance of the poetical faculty existing apart, as it were, from the outer world than that of Dr Blacklock. FRANCES BROWN, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar, a village in the county Donegal, Ireland, was born in 1816. When only eighteen months old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox. She learned something from hearing her brothers and sisters reading over their tasks; her friends and relatives read to her such books as the remote village afforded, and at length she became acquainted with Scott's novels, Pope's Homer, and Byron's Childe Harold. She wrote some verses which appeared in the Irish Penny Journal, and in 1841 sent a number of small poems to the Athenæum. The editor introduced her to public notice: her pieces were greatly admired; and in 1844 she ventured on the publication of a volume, The Star of Atteghei, the Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems. Shortly afterwards, a small pension of £20 a year was settled on the poetess; and the Marquis of Lansdowne is said to have presented her with a sum of £100. In 1847 she issued a second volume, Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, and she has contributed largely to periodical works. The poetry of Miss Brown, especially her lyrical pieces, is remarkable for clear poetic feeling and diction; while 'the energy displayed, from her childhood, by this almost friendless girl, raises,' as the editor of her first volume remarked, 'at once the interest and the character of her muse.' The Last Friends. One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his country, after many years of exile, being asked what had induced him to revisit Ireland when all his friends were gone, answered: 'I came back to see the mountains.' I come to my country, but not with the hope That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow, 433 For the vigour of soul, that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune, hath fled from me now; And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore, The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track; From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins, that fill The lands of old story, they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West, They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved bestBut I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet! The dust of my kindred is scattered afar They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave; For serving the strangers through wandering and war, The isle of their memory could grant them no grave. And I, I return with the memory of years, Whose hope rose so high, though in sorrow it set; They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears— But our mountains remember their promises yet! Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old? And where are the faces my childhood hath seen? For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold, But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still green; Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth, When brothers in heart in their shadows we met; And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet! Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow, For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand: Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle Efface the dark seal that oppression hath set; LORD HOUGHTON. Several volumes of graceful, meditative poetry, and records of foreign travel, were published between 1833 and 1844 by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, called to the House of Peers in 1863 as BARON HOUGHTON. These are: Memorials of a Tour in Greece, 1833; Memorials of a Residence on the Continent, 1838; Poetry for the People, 1840; Poems, Legendary and Historical, 1844; Palm Leaves, 1844. Lord Houghton was born in that enviable rank of society, the English country-gentleman. He is eldest son of the late R. P. Milnes, Esq., of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1831, in his twenty-second year, he took his degree of M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1837, he was returned to the House of Commons as representative of the borough of Pontefract, which he continued to represent till his elevation to the peerage. In parliament, Lord Houghton has been distinguished by his philanthropic labours, his efforts in support of national education, and generally his support of all questions of social amelioration and reform. In 1848 he edited the Life and Remains of John Keats; and in 1873-76 published two volumes of biographical sketches, entitled Monographs, Personal and Social, abounding in anecdote and in interesting illustrations of English social life and literature. In 1876 the collected Poetical Works of Lord Houghton were published in two volumes. St Mark's at Venice. Walk in St Mark's the time the ample space To Magian haunt, or charm-engirded isle; On such a night as this impassionedly The old Venetian sung those verses rare: 'That Venice must of needs eternal be, For Heaven had looked through the pellucid air, And cast its reflex on the crystal sea, And Venice was the image pictured there;' I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem As treading on an unsubstantial dream. That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye Rests as of gems-those arches whose high range Gives its rich-broidered border to the skyThose ever-prancing steeds! My friend, whom change Of restless will has led to lands that lie Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set Above those domes an airy minaret? The Men of Old. I know not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine for force As if they thus could check the course Still is it true, and over-true, The world has since foregone- That on those faces shone ! With rights, though not too closely scanned, With will, by no reverse unmanned- Than yesterday and yesternight To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done, A game where each man took his part, |