Its merry, laughing gush among the reeds,
And how its ripplings lipp'd the blossomy weeds
In shallow passages; its songful strife
Swift bounding o`er the rocks of active life;
And see again the glorious forms whose worth
Its sometime deeper water imaged forth.
No idle image was reflected there:
Not in the stream, but on the rock, I bear
The impress of the gods who stood by me.

Nor was I all unmeriting to be

Their chosen companion. Arrows may hang loose: The bowman yet be staunch and mind their use.

My England! never one of all thy brave
Whose love o'erpass'd my love. I could be grave,
Whene'er thy need required a solem brow.
What was my task? To give thee room to grow:
To give thee sober freedom, godly growth,-
Freedom and sanctifying worship, both.
Milton and Vane and Scot and I, at one,
Were in this work. And I am here, alone.
And Milton in his darkness-if he lives.

O English hearts! are ye but Danaid sieves,
Where-through, like water, noblest blood is pour'd?
O English sense! what is this word Restored?
Restore Heroic Virtue, Holy Strength,
Now, Agonistes-like, through all the length

Of this great England prostrate! Gyved you lie,
Mock'd at by Dalila, your Royalty.

I set this dungeon-gloom against the May
Of all your Restoration. I will say,
Against it. I, a pleasure-loving man,
Place every pleasure under honor's ban,
And bid you give your country life, and death,
Rather than foul the land with slavish breath.
Am I a prisoner? Difference between
Chepstow and England is not much, I ween.
"T is but a cell a few more paces wide.

Year after year; and under Chepstow's side
The muddied Wye still flows. My hair is grey;
My old bones cramp'd; my heart, this many a day,
O'er-moss'd with sorrow, like an ancient tomb.
Now the old man is harmless, he may roam
So far as falls the shadow of his jail.
Jail'd for his life. I have not learn'd to quail.

Thou askest me--"Were it to do again?"
I tell thee-Yes! the tyrant should be slain.
Scot's word is mine: "Not only was my hand
But my heart in it." Here I take my stand;
Nor twenty years of solitude can move

My conscience from its keep. And so this love,

Your pity proffer'd me, must be withdrawn?
Well, Harry Marten never cared to fawn.
I am alone again, on my grave's edge.
And my long-suffering shall be as a wedge
To rive this tyranny. I climb thy height,
Old feudal fastness! with my feeble might;
And see from thee, for all my age is dim,
The beautiful rich woods beyond the rim
Of Wye and Severn, and the meadows fair
Stretching into the distance; and the air

Is charged with fragrance; and the uncaged birds
Say blithely in the sun their liberal words,
Which yet shall wake the tillers of the ground.
And, lo! the harvestmen are gathering round
The banner of God. They put their sickles in;
The day of a new trial doth begin.
Thou saidst aright, my Vane! it had to be.
Nor jail nor scaffold stays futurity.

The twenty years have pass'd even as a mist;
And now the dying prisoner's brow is kiss'd
By his old comrades: Hampden, Pym, and Vane,
Fairfax, and Scot, and Ludlow, Cromwell fain
To hide old scars and holding Milton's hand,
Bradshaw and Ireton. At my side they stand,
And the old cheerful smile illumes my cell.
"There is no death nor bondage: we, who dwell
In higher realms of faith, assure thee this."-
Friends! ye say sooth; this cell no longer is
A prison; England only is my bound,
This coward England all unworthy found.
Still you can smile.-"The resurrection morn
Riseth o'er England's grave; and we, forlorn,
Shall be triumphant. Look thou forth and see
Our merry England, kingless, bold and free.
We have not lived, we have not died, for nought.
The victory we have lost shall yet be wrought:
We have not sown high deeds and hopes in vain.”

Bright lightning-flash of death! speed through my brain,

And sink into the grave my sacrifice:
A grave unhonor'd until England rise
To avenge the Regicide-

O Martyr Tomb!
Thou bear'st the seed of Triumph in thy womb.

A HOMILY.

WHY hath God led thy noble beauty hither?
To lay upon my heart a gather'd flower,
Through the brief time of passion; then to wither,
And drop away upon my coffin'd hour?

Two were sitting in Sorrow's shadow;
Dead in the cradle their love's fruit lay:
Did they think of the sunny meadow
And the honey of yesterday?

Two are there in the graveyard lying
Under the roots of the blossoming trees;
Love with love, but no replying:

Naught is heard but the honey-bees.

YOUNG LOVE.

So young were we that when we kiss'd
We had no other thought:
The joy that first love brought
Naught farther miss'd.

To watch the dawning of a maiden smile
Was worth one's while.

In those young days, what though we kiss'd,
We kiss'd without a thought:
That tender of love sought

Did hope assist,

'T was but as hope helps in a morning dream, When things scarce seem.

But now, O Love! when'er we kiss

(Be dumb, my thought!)

The joy by her kiss brought

Yet more doth miss.

O love! thou wast sufficient in young days For innocent praise.

O Love-Desire! renew the kiss That had no farther thought; Or lead to the Besought

Whom now we miss:

Thee, Hymen,—Love no more enough for us Grown curious.

ADONIS.

In vain! in vain! I must refuse
The love so freely proffer'd me:
I may not love but where I choose,
Though Venus' self the wooer be.
Hadst thou but waited, who can tell
What happy gatherer might pass?
The fruit that of its own weight fell
Is left to wither on the grass.

In vain thy love-ripe lips, thy arms
Twined round me to compel my stay:
Were but reserve among thy charms,
Perhaps I had not turn'd away.

THEODORE WATTS.

S ONE who has "influenced those who have influenced the world," Mr. Theodore Watts's place in contemporary letters is admittedly unique. Within the space of a few weeks, the second and most important volume of Dante Rossetti's poems (Ballads and Sonnets) and one of the most notable volumes of Mr. Swinburne's ("Tristram of Lyonesse") were dedicated to him in terms of affectionate admiration such as are not often surpassed, and about the same time his own birthday sonnet to Lord Tennyson showed how intimate was his friendship with the venerable poet of whom we are all proud-Englishmen and Americans alike. Mr. Hall Caine, in his "Recollections of Rossetti," says, "Throughout the period of my acquaintance with Rossetti he seemed to me to be always peculiarly, and, if I may be permitted to say so without offence, strangely liable to Mr. Watts's influence in his critical estimates." And then he goes on to tell how Rossetti shrank from printing an additional stanza to his poem "Cloud Confines" which he himself approved and Mr. Watts did not; because "in a question of gain or loss to a poem I feel that Watts must be right." Mr. Joseph Knight, also, in his pleasant monograph on the same poet, quotes a letter from him in which he defends a certain addition to "Sister Helen" on the ground that it “has quite secured Watts's suffrage." The widespread curiosity | about Mr. Watts and his work is therefore quite inevitable. But all those who read the following extracts will, I think, agree with Mr. Stedman, | that profoundly as he has influenced others his own individuality has remained inviolable. As a critic he has no doubt shown himself to be familiar enough with the work of his contemporaries; and yet, as far as his own verses show, he might never have read a line of any living poet except Ten

nyson.

Ac

Though moving now at the very center of art and poetry, Mr. Watts's early surroundings seem to have been scientific rather than literary. cording to the biography of his father in Mr. Norris's "History of St. Ives," that gentleman was a lawyer who had a passion for natural science, and who, down to his death in his 76th year, was writing papers on scientific subjects. In pre-Darwinian days and afterwards, a well known figure in the scientific circles of London, Mr. Watts, senior, was an active member of many learned societies, and among the founders of several. Therefore the people who in his boyhood were known to the subject of this notice were not