I dream'd last night of that clear sum mer noon, When seated on a rock, and foot to foot With your own shadow in the placid lake, You claspt our infant daughter, heart to heart. I had been among the hills, and brought you down A length of staghorn-moss, and this you twined About her cap. I see the picture yet, Mary, my crayons! if I can, I will. You should have been-I might have made you once, Had I but known you as I know you now you. 'Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! Less profile! turn to me Stampt into dust-tremulous, all awry, Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled pool, Not one stroke firm. This Art, that harlotlike Seduced me from you, leaves me harlotlike, Who love her still, and whimper, impotent To win her back before I die and then Then, in the loud world's bastard judgment-day, One truth will damn me with the mindless mob, Who feel no touch of my temptation, more Than all the myriad lies that blacken round The corpse of every man that gains a name; This model husband, this fine artist!' Fool, What matters? Six foot deep of burial mould Will dull their comments! Ay, but wher the shout Of His descending peals from heaven, and throbs Thro' earth and all her graves, if He should ask, Why left you wife and children? for my sake, According to my word?' and I replied, Nay, Lord, for Art,' why, that would sound so mean That all the dead, who wait the doom of hell - three-quarter | For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, Wife-murders, nay, the ruthless Mussul 'Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss! Too early blinded by the kiss of death You watch'd, not I; she did not grow, she died. 'Father and Mother will watch you grow, And gather the roses whenever they blow, And find the white heather wherever you go, My sweet.' Ah, my white heather only blooms in hea man Who flings his bowstrung harem in the sea, Would turn, and glare at me, and point and jeer, And gibber at the worm who, living, made The wife of wives a widow-bride, and lost Salvation for a sketch. I am wild again! The coals of fire you heap upon my head Have crazed me. Some one knocking there without? No! Will my Indian brother come? to find Me or my coffin? Should I know the man ? This worn-out Reason dying in her house May leave the windows blinded, and if so, Bid him farewell for me, and tell him Hope! I hear a death-bed angel whisper,' Hope.' WHAT be those crown'd forms high over the sacred fountain? Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain, And over the flight of the Ages! O Goddesses, help me up thither! Lightning may shrivel the laurel of Cæsar, but mine would not wither. Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it, And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from the summit, Sounding for ever and ever thro' Earth and her listening nations, And mixt with the great sphere-music of stars and of constellations. II What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain, Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain? On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and heightening; Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted by more than lightning! BY AN EVOLUTIONIST THE Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, Am I your debtor ?' And the Lord-Not yet; but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.' I If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable, Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines, I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable, Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines? II What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack ? Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar ! OLD AGE Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back. Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a star. This poem, which had been printed in this country in the New York World,' was first published in England, to secure copyright, in an edition ultimately reduced to two copies, ... a mere leaflet, consisting of a title and one page of text' (Waugh). It was subsequently printed in the 'New Review' for October, 1889, and was included in the Demeter ' volume, published in December of the same year. 'SUMMER is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again!' Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. 'New, new, new, new!' Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? 'Love again, song again, nest again, young again,' Never a prophet so crazy! 'Here again, here, here, here, happy year !' William George Ward (1812-82) was prominent in the Tractarian' movement in the English Church during the second quarter of the present century. The London 'Times' of June 21, 1887, in its jubilee retrospect of the events of Queen Victoria's reign, referring to the ecclesiastical aspect of the period, says: "The Catholic-or, as it is named from the accident of its method, the Tractarian · -move ment in the Church of England, is the first to arrest the attention of the observer;' and, after discussing its influence on the religion of England, adds that its originators 'found themselves stranded in an eddy of the stream they had set in motion, and while the Catholic revival vivified and transformed the English Church, itself being modified and transformed in the process, its distinguished pioneers, with Newman and Ward at their head, joined the Church of Rome.' The life of Ward, with special reference to his connection with this religious movement, has been written by his son, Mr. Wilfrid Ward, in the two volumes entitled 'William George Ward and the Oxford Movement' (London, 1889), which was reviewed by QUEEN MARY A DRAMA This play, though the last in the chronological order of the 'historical trilogy' ('Harold,' 'Becket,' and 'Queen Mary'), was the first in the order of composition. It was published in 1875. The next year it was produced, with some necessary abridgment (it is much the longest of the three plays) at the Lyceum Theatre in London, Mr. Irving taking the part of Philip II. "This trilogy of plays,' as the poet notes ('Memoir,' vol. ii. p. 173), portrays the making of England.' In' Harold' we have the great conflict between Danes, Saxons, and Normans for supremacy, the awakening of the English people and clergy from the slumber into which they had for the most part fallen, and the forecast of the greatness of our composite race. "Becket" the struggle is between the Crown and the Church for predominance, a struggle which continued for many centuries. In "Mary" are described the final downfall of Roman Catholicism in England, and the dawning of a new age; for after the era of priestly domination comes the era of the freedom of the individual.' See also the 'Memoir,' vol. ii. pp. 176-185. QUEEN MARY. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ PHILIP, King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain. THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. REGINALD POLE, Cardinal and Papal Legate. SIMON RENARD, Spanish Ambassador. LE SIEUR DE NOAILLES, French Ambassador. THOMAS CRANMER, Archbishop of Canterbury. SIR NICHOLAS HEATH, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral. In |