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Thomas Carlyle in the "Great Writers" series, a masterpiece of lucid narrative and well-balanced judgment, guided by a sensitive taste and penetrated by that keen but good-natured irony, which is one of his finest endowments. In these latter years "The Twilight of the Gods" (1887, second edition, with additions, 1903) has also come to prove that the dramatic force, the passion and the humour, which marked respectively such pieces as the "Pope's Daughter," the "Eve of the Guillotine," and "Our Crocodile have not been dead, but sleeping. In this book, however, though beneath the surface lie depths of serious thought and sentiment, touching the profoundest problems of humanity, it is humour that is uppermost. This humour is of a singular quality, the sport of a highly cultivated imagination, of a man who though a scholar is no pedant to allow his knowledge to congest, but ever keeps his literary soul alive by the circulation of his wit and fancy.

Among the more important of his other publications in prose may be enumerated "The Age of Dryden " (1895), "A Short History of Italian Literature" (1898),

Essays of an Ex-librarian" (1900), and, in conjunction with Mr. Edmund Gosse, a comprehensive history of English Literature, Mr. Garnett's share extending from the commencement to Shakespeare.

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

(Revised.)

K

POEMS.

RICHARD GARNETT.

I.-A NOCTURN.

EEN winds of cloud and vaporous drift
Disrobe yon star, as ghosts that lift

A snowy curtain from its place,

To scan a pillow'd beauty's face.

They see her slumbering splendours lie
Bedded on blue unfathom'd sky.
And swoon for love and deep delight,
And stillness falls on all the night.

II.-FADING-LEAF AND FALLEN-LEAF.

AID Fading-leaf to Fallen-leaf:

SAID

"I toss alone on a forsaken tree,

It rocks and cracks with every gust that racks Its straining bulk; say, how is it with thee?"

Said Fallen-leaf to Fading-leaf:

"A heavy foot went by, an hour ago; Crushed into clay I stain the way;

The loud wind calls me, and I cannot go." 6*

Said Fading-leaf to Fallen-leaf :—

"Death lessons Life, a ghost is ever wise; Teach me a way to live till May

Laughs fair with fragrant lips and loving eyes.”

Said Fallen-leaf to Fading-leaf:

"Hast loved fair eyes and lips of gentle breath? Fade then and fall-thou hast had all

That Life can give, ask somewhat now of Death."

III.-THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT.

"Arise

THE and let's away;"

HE stream was smooth as glass, we said: "

The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes

lay,

And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily

took our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattledotted plains,

The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains,

The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed

away.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,

Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths

on our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more

we see

The spreading river's either bank, and surging

distantly

There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far

away.

Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!

The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our

sight

The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,

When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?

What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?

Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every

oar away.

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?

IV. THE VIOLET TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Ο

No longer fair, no longer sweet,

I parch and pine with noonday heat; Another day, perhaps an hour,

And I shall be no more a flower.

Thou, happy bird, when flowers decay,
But spread'st thy pinions, and away,
And India's palmy groves, ere long,
Are loud with thy immortal song.

When with her soundless silver chain
The moon has fetter'd mount and plain,
And not a cloud her splendour mars,
For she has kissed them all to stars:

When lissom fawn, and antelope
In covert dell and cedar'd slope
Couch, or with bounding feet disturb
The dew asleep on every herb:

When thousand lines of light invest
The lotus trembling on the breast
Of the great stream that seeks the sea:
Then wilt thou sing, O, sing of me!

So shall the gorgeous flowers that swoon
All languid 'neath that lavish moon
Know, in thy sweet enchanted strain,
Their sister of the English lane.

How, lured by Spring's soft falling feet,
She stole forth from her deep retreat,
Her nurse wild March of boisterous breath,
April her spouse, and May her death.

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