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WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

collected edition of Landor's works, including a number of new productions, was published. It was followed in 1847 by the Latin writings, printed separately. His last volume, “Heroic Idylls," appeared in 1863, and on September 17th in the following year he died. Landor is perhaps less known than any other English man of letters of equal calibre. He was remarkable both as a poet and as a prose writer, but neither his matter nor his manner appeals to a wide public. L. C. S.

IPHIGENIA.

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uary 30th, 1775, and died September 17th, 1864. He belonged to a good Warwickshire family, whose dignity and importance he was prone to magnify. From his first school at Knowle, he was sent at the age of ten to Rugby, where he remained for five years, distinguishing himself equally for the excellence of his Latin verse and the unruliness of his conduct. A quarrel with the head-master occasioned his removal. After an interval of three years spent under a private tutor he entered Trinity College, Oxford, in 1793. At the end of a year and a half he was rusticated for firing a gun through the windows of a room inhabited by a fellow obnoxious for his Toryism. This escapade caused a breach between Walter and his father which threatened to end in the exile of the former; but a partial reconcilliation took place, and Walter retired into Wales on an allowance of 150 pounds a year. There he lived for the next three years, during which he composed and published his first important work, "Gebir," a poem founded on an Arabian tale. “Poems from the Arabic and Persian” came next, in 1800. In 1806 a volume entitled “Simonidia," incongruously mixed with elegiacs on the death of friends. In 1805 Landor's father died; and two years later he sold his hereditary estates to invest the proceeds, and more, in the purchase of Llanthony Priory on the Welsh border. There he set on foot wild schemes of agricultural and social improvement, squandering his money and involving himself in quarrels with all around him. In 1811 he met a young lady at a ball, determined on the instant to marry her, and did it. It is not surprising that the pair lived an unhappy life. In the same year Landor wrote “Count Julian.” After some family bickerings and a temporary separation, he settled with his wise for a short time at Tours, and afterwards, in 1815, set out for Italy. There they lived, for the greater part of the time, at Florence and Fiesole, till 1835. In 1820 Landor published the “Idyllia Heroica,” a volume of Latin verses, part of which had already been printed under the same name. During the Florentine period he struck out a new line of literary production. He abandoned poetry almost entirely, and began his “Imaginary Conversations." The first two volumes appeared in 1824, and additions were made from time to time in subsequent years. These "Conversations" won an audience, not indeed wide, but more considerable than any Landor had yet addressed; henceforth he was recognised by all literary men as a man of genius. In 1846 Forster's

IPHIGENIA, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand and said:
“O father! I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake;-old age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
While I was resting on her knee both arms,
And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head,
And tears dropt down it; but the king of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more:
“O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the nest?"
He moved her gently from him, silent still;
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs:
"I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artomis, and not dimmed
Her polished altar with my blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,
Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;
And (after these who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,
But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!”
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away,--not far, but silent still.

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WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

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She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,
So long a silence seemed the approach of death,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
“O father! if the ships are now detained,
And all your vows move not the gods above,
When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer
The less to them, and purer can there be
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer
For her dear father's safety and success ?"
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried:
“O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.”

Who lately lived for me, and when he found

'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,

And this lone bosom burns
With stilling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!
“Merciful God!” such was his latest prayer,

These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daises in the mould, Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O, pray, too, for me!

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A RETROSPECT.

And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.

I STROVE WITH NONE.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;

Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;

It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

THERE are some wishes that may start,
Nor cloud the brow, nor sting the heart.
Gladly then would I see how smiled
One who now fondles with her child;
How smiled she but six years ago,
Herself a child, or nearly so.
Yes, let me bring before my sight
The silken tresses chained up tight,
The tiny fingers tipt with red
By tossing up the strawberry-bed;
Half-open lips, long violet eyes,
A little rounder with surprise,
And then (her chin against her knee)
“Mamma! who can that stranger be?
How grave the smile he smiles on me!”

TO ONE IN GRIEF.

Ah! do not drive off grief, but place your hand

Upon it gently, it will then subside. A wish is often more than a command,

Either of yours would do; let one be tried.

CASUISTRY.

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