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accurate-but that seems to be its recomendation. The notes are valuable, displaying much research; and an intimate acquaintance with ancient literature not easily maintained by a person pursuing the wandering life, which physical weakness compels Mr. Hughes to follow. following extract is but a fair specimen of many pages:

could pierce not alone the night of his dark cell, but even
the masonry of its vaulted arch, with more clearness than
a sun-ray struggles through the mist. The figures dim,
the muffled sounds, the thoughts confused, of men-from
whom walls of stone d.vided him-dawned to his eyes and
ears and apprehension, and then again one fault-in the
manipulation his untutored hand practised too daringly-The
left him a wholesome warning of the destruction he had
narrowly escaped, as he lay stunned and prostrate in the


"But Tempest was desperate, if not utterly fearless. He could but perish: starvation and oblivion were within, the world and its renown beyond, those walls.

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"The Greeks called Italy 'Hesperia,' because it was situated to the west of them, and the Romans called Italy, but the Latin poets, imitating the Greeks, very freSpain Hesperia' equally, because it was to the west of quently called Italy Hesperia' also. Thus Virgil

'Est locus, Hesperiam Graii cognomine dicunt.'

"With the convulsive energy which his overwrought nerves permitted, he once more gathered the subtle fluids round him. Like a child disporting with the lightenings En. i. 534. of the thundering Jupiter. he made them flash and play Macrobius prefers deriving the origin of the name, as aparound his frail frame, which one error in their manage-plied to Italy, from its western situation, to the fact of ment would have reduced to ashes; until, at lengthits being chosen by Hesperus for his residence, when taking leave of life like one who attempts a desperate Hesperia, because it lies to the west.' (Macrob. Saturn. he was expelled by his brother Atlas: Italy is called hazard, and recommending his soul to God-he concentrated all his power, and made a final effort. lib. 1., cap. 3,) Horace, when he applies the name to the word ultima,' thus:Spain, distinguishes the latter country by the addition of

"A shock was felt-an explosion heard-the walls were shaken the building rocked-the lead poured in a cascade from the roof-the molten iron of bolts and gates and bars ran in a glowing stream-but Tempest was unharmed. His prison doors were no longer. He walked out. The millionth part of a hair's breadth had made the difference for him between annihilation and freedom!" It was at this juncture that his coadjutor rose ultimately against John Cash, who was murdered by his son. That son seeks to reign. The insect-killer opposes him. There is a battle-defeats to the monopolists-freedom to the people-the utter destruction of all galvanistic corn insects-the composition made useless-the Avis Vastator being a past curse-and finished like wolves in Yorkshire-while the insect-killer; the tyrant's foe marries as he deserves-very much to his advantage; and the world, as we understand the story, begins to rise out of its ruins again in the year one thousand nine hundred and eight.

Such is "Sixty Years Hence;" indescribably the most horrible and mysterious work of 1847, as yet published; and if any custodier of a circulating library wants excitement for his customers, in summer or autumn quarters, this is his book; and he is safe to order twelve copies, it is so crammed with mystery, money, insects, potato-disease, famine, pestilence, crime, lunacy, murder, madness, love, and eccentricity. For its moral tendencies we give no warranty.


London: Thomas Longman & Co.

The recent experience of the Athenæum warns critics from taking liberties with Mr. Hughes, unless from a desire to be rendered famous in bitter verses, with very black and most fantastic engravings. Upon the whole, however, it is a good plan for authors to defend themselves from the attacks of the press. It conduces to caution, because there are few living men who wish to be tomahawked and tatooed in the manner adopted by this poet and satirist.

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Iberia Won," is an account, in verse, of some leading incidents in the Peninsular War-an Anglo-Spanish Iliad in Spenserian stanza. It does not seem to us that the poetry is more than respectable. It is faultless-the

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Qui nunc Hesperiâ sospes ab ultimâ
Caris multa sodalibus,' &c.

Carm. 1. 36.

Strabo, lib. 1, seems to derive the name from situation, where he describes the Spaniards as the most western nation "malista hesperioi.' And both he and Pliny state that Hispania was likewise called Iberia, either from a king of that name, or from the river Iberius (Ebro).

Iberia, though the name by which, after Hispania, Spain was most commonly known to the Latins, was, by a confusion not very complimentary to their geographical It was a tract in Pontus separated from Colchis by the accuracy, likewise the name of a region in Asia Minor. Moschic mountains, and corresponds with the modern Georgia.

'Herbasque quas Iolcos atque Iberia
Mittit venenorum ferax.'

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Horat. Epod. 5.

The names Hesperia' and 'Iberia' are found together in the same stanza of Camóens, as applied to the Peninsula, yet with some vague attempt to confine the latter name to the Spanish portion exclusively :

'Nome em armas ditoso, em noss' Hesperia,


Serrao quizera ir ver terra Iberia.'

Lus. 4. 54.

sula, including Spain and Portugal, the second epithet,
Both names are properly applicable to the entire Penin-
modified by the prefix Celto into Celtiberia,' being the
ancient name of Aragon and Catalonia, and Iliberia that
found in Virgil Æn. 9. 582 :—
of Granada. The name Iberia, as applied to Spain, is

'Pictus acu chlamydem, et ferrugine clarus Iberia,'
And under this name the country is described elaborately
by Avienus (P. C. 380)—

'Quamque suis opibus cumulavit Iberia dives,' &c. Ausonius (also P. C. 380) makes use of both the names Hispania' and Iberia' :


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Sat. 8. 116.
Here is classical authority for a happy variety of names
in describing Spain, Hesperia,' 'Iberia,'' Hispania :—
Tum sibi Callaico Brutus cognomen in hoste
Fecit, et Hispanam Sanguine tinxit humum.'
Ov. Fast. 4. 401.
Herculis ritu, modò dictus O plebs,
Morte venalem petüsse laurum
Caesar, Hispana repetit Penates
Victor ab orâ.'

composition, and all the artistical departments, are quite Horat. Carm. 3. 14.

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The poet is an Irisman, and the amor patriæ seems so strongly developed as to lead him to appropriate honours for Ireland in which she has no part.

"The concluding incident is from the combat of Maya, which took place in the same neighbourhood a few days previously, and is thus described by Captain Norton, of the 34th regiment:- The ninety-second met the advancing French column first with its right wing drawn up in line; and after a most destructive fire and heavy loss on both sides, the remnant of the right wing retired, leaving a line of killed and wounded that appeared to have no interval. The French column advanced up to this line and then halted, the killed and wounded of the ninetysecond forming a sort of rampart; the left wing then opened its fire on the column, and, as I was but a little to the right of the ninety-second, I could not help reflecting painfully how many of the wounded of the right wing must have unavoidably suffered from the fire of their comrades.' This frightful butchery appears to excite the enthusiasm of some of its military historians. 'So dreadful was the slaughter,' says Napier, that it is said the advancing enemy was actually stopped by the heaped mass of dead and dying; and then the left wing of that noble regiment coming down from the higher ground, smote wounded friends and exulting foes alike, as mingled together they stood or crawled before its fire. The stern valour of the ninety-second, principally composed of Irishmen, would have graced Thermopyla.'-Hist. War Penins., book xxi., chap. 5."

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The Ninety-second regiment has always been eminently and exclusively a Scottish regiment, with, perhaps, scarcely a dozen Irishmen in the corps. The Ninety-second is the Gordon Highlanders, formed and recruited from Aberdeen and Banffshires principally, but always from Scotland.

Mr. Hughes' feelings, however, are more accurately exercised in the next paragraph.

"This epithet was well deserved by General Ross, and is assigned to him by Napier, That gallant officer.' Book XXI., c. 5. I am proud to record the exploits of my countryman, whose name and achievements are endeared to me by early recollections. A lofty column is erected in his honour at the beautiful village of Rosstrevor, within seven miles of which, at Newry, my early years from infancy, to the period of my going to college, were passed. All my summers were spent in and near Rosstrevor, one of the most charming sea-bathing spots in the British dominions. The noble Bay of Carlingford stretches before it, girt by an amphitheatre of lofty hills, and Killowen Point, the Woodhouse, Greencastle, the light-house, and Grenore, with the ancient and picturesque town of Carlingford, the stupendous mountain overhanging it, and the bleak tract extending along to Omeath, contrasted with the sunny and wooded slopes beyond, have left impressions indelible even during much travel in foreign lands. I rejoice to perceive that a railway is about to open up this magnificent region, and trust that this new means of intercourse will be eminently beneficial to the warm hearted inhabitants of all the surrounding district."

There was not a more gallant soldier than General Ross in the British service there is not a more lovely spot than Rosetrevor-not, we believe, Rosstrevor-in the British dominions; and we rejoice to think that the splendour of its scenery, and of many more Irish scenes, will be soon better known in England and Scotland than has been hitherto the case.

Mr Hughes hates Napoleon like a patriot, and-just as we do hates his memory cordially, as may be gathered from our next extract :

"Of the love which the French people bore to Napoleon, let his march to Cannes be a witness; where the inhabi tants, as he passed, surrounded him in hundreds of thousands, with unmistakeable demonstrations of blind enthusiasm and delight. Not even the terrible conscription could raze his impression from their hearts. The general equity of his internal administration, the exact system of his public accounts, the effectual discharge of duty which

he required of the state servants, the abolition of idle
privileged classes, and the cessation of fraud in the
management of the revenue, or its punishment when de-
tected, caused the people to love him, as they everywhere
love justice. Napoleon, with all his other splendid facul-
ties, was a skilful financier. He was opposed to public
loans, and left no debt. He had no private views, and his
active energies were unimpaired in Lis vassals' service.
The utility of his public works was commensurate with
their grandeur; providing at once employment for the
poor and embellishment for the country. His code was a
monument of legislative wisdom, and his cadastre an in-
valuable equalizer and register of taxation and the liability
of property. But, withal, he was a detestable tyrant."
"He was opposed to public loans and left no debt.
But withal he was a detestable tyrant!"

The French people would gladly have such another tyrant. The Napoleon of peace seems to be less chary of public loans, and will assuredly leave debt.

We must quote a specimen, be it ever so short, of the poetry, which is the staple of the book.

Ths following stanzas relate a singular anecdote in military history, and they are only falr specimens of the work :

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'Upon the chofre stood the dauntless Graham,

And marked the slaughter with determined eye,
Sad, yet unshrinking-poured then forth of flame
A torrent, hissing red athwart the sky;
Close o'er the stormers' heads the missiles fly;
The stone-ribbed curtain into fragments hurled-
Full fifty cannon streaming death on high.

Unmoved they stand-no flag of fear unfurled-
A scene unmatched before since dawning of the world.

"Even as at Niagara's thundering fall,

Where leaps the torrent with gigantic stride:
Beneath the watery volume, Cyclop wall,

Of rocks huge piled, spans the river wide,
Where dares the venturous voyager abide;
And while his ears terrific clamour stuns,
Flies free o'erhead the cataract's foaming tide,

And scarce crystalline globule o'er him runs:
Thus stand 'neath Death o'erarched, Britannia's dauntless


"Retire!" was first the cry. "A traitorous foe!

Our batteries' fire is 'gainst the stormers turned;"
And struck a straggling shot the ranks below;
But Nial and his men the counsel spurned-
To win, whate'er the cost, their bosoms burned
And 'mid the fiercest of the cannonade,
While San Sebastian for his bulwarks mourned,
Within the rampart solid ground they made-
First step in victory's march, whose laurels ne'er will fade.

But we like the next verses infinitely better.
have real poetry in them :—


"Forbid the linnet from its nest,
And crush its homeward aspirations-
As vain to chide the heaving breast,
And woo repose in foreign nations!
No, England, no! beyond the foam
Around thy beauteous shore that circles,
I would not fix my lasting home
For every gem that brightest sparkles!


"More cloudless bend Italian skies;
Burgundian fruit more richly cluster;
Iberia's slopes more gently rise,

And shine her stars with purer lustre.
O'er Adria's coast, o'er fair Stamboul,
O'er soft Maeonia show'rs more splendour,
Out sunk 'neath Slavery's abject rule!

'Tis thou art Freedom's grand defender!


"Far sunnier isles the south make glad,
From Palma's gulf to the Aegean,
Idalia rose and myrtle clad,

Sicilian shores and bowers Dictaean;

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1 Vol. Edinburgh: Blackwood and Sons.

WE are to allow this poet to introduce himself in that capacity, with no other preface than this short statement of his life. It has been passed mainly in making entries in day-books, and out of day-books into ledgers from noon to even for many years. The dull monotony of the desk fortunately does not obliterate genius, or we should not have experienced the pleasure that we have derived from many pages in this volume.

We are to make two or three extracts from the principal poem. The first is patriotic :

"O Scotland! though across thy heathery moors
And rocky mountains keen the north wind sweeps;
Although thou boasted not of genial skies
And seasons temperate, though oftentimes
The snow-shower falls, and weeping rains deform
The cheerless day, yet thou hast charms to him,
Who, with an eye intent on marking out
The beauties of thy scenery, surveys,
From some high cliff, upon a summer's eve,
The variegated landscape-hill and dale,
The forest brown, the river glittering 'neath
The sun's bright ray, the silver lake wherein
He sees his face reflected, towering high

Thy mountains, where throughout the changeful year
The snow unmelted lies. Full oft, I ween,
In days long since gone by, at evening fall,
Have I, from ancient Stirling's rocky seat,
Gazed westward, and beheld Benlomond glow
Like furnace flamed beneath the setting sun-
A glorious scene surpassing far the most
Elaborate attempts of art, and leaving
Her most successful efforts far behind.
But thou hast beauties of a nobler kind,
My country! and it is thine honest boast
That here religion is not deem'd a pest
And nuisance; she has now for many a year
Found refuge on thy soil, thy sons, throughout
The wide earth's bounds (where'er a fellow man
Is found far wandering from the path that leads
To happiness, or sitting in the dark
And dreary prison-house of moral gloom,
Hopeless and sad,) are foremost in the task
Of leading back the wanderer, and restoring
The captive to the sweets of liberty,

And boldly lifting up the arm against
The enemies of man's salvation; round
The altar they have rallied long ago,
And with their blood have purchased for us
The liberty of walking in the path

That heavenward leads; the poor unletter'd hind
Is free in conscience as his lord; unknown
Are pains and penalties; the days in which
The engines of coercion were employ'd
Have happily now gone past, and in our day
The church bell's chime upon the Sabbath morn
Comes peacefully upon the ear, when borne
Upon the breeze far o'er the lonely wild
Where piety and meek contentment dwell,
Each as his conscience bids directs his steps
To worship God, unshackled by the chains
Of bigotry-the work of former days.
And these are blessings highly to be prized
By high or low, as God's good gift, but chiefly
By him who toils throughout the week, and braves
The winter's blast, and hardly fares through all
The various seasons of the changeful year.

Oh, with what happiness his bosom glows,

When first the sun's rays through his window gleam
On Sabbath morn, the morning of that day
Sacred to rest from all his anxious cares

And worldly thoughts, the morning of that day
Commemorative of the wonderful

Event foretold by holy seers, and sung

To David's harp in ancient time, what now
Long since has been accomplish'd, and on which
The christian builds a lively hope-I mean
The resurrection of the Holy One.

"Yes, to the Child of Poverty the dawn

Of Sabbath yields a soothing sweet delight,

'Tis a green spot with fragrant flowers bestrewn Amid this howling wilderness, a spring

Of living water in the sandy desert,
The shadow of a rock to screen the heat
That beats upon the weary traveller,

A foretaste of the joys of heaven, the pledge
Of rest beyond the grave. Nor lives the man
Except his soul is dead to all the hopes
Immortal that the sacred page inspires,
Who does not feel a glow of thankfulness
To Him, who ever mindful of the poor
And woe-worn pilgrim, hath in mercy given
A day of rest from worldly toil, a day
Whereon he may forget his cares, and hold
Communion with his Maker, and prepare
His soul for Heaven where sorrow has no place.

"Thus, I, the meanest of the muse's train
Have sung, 'midst sad privations, of the poor;
Painting in simple style their hopes and fears,
Their joys and sorrows, and essaying too
To soothe the mourner-point the weary soul
To heaven, where rest is found. Should only one
Acknowledge that my simple song affords

A ray of consolation to his spirit

As he is journeying heaven-ward, I shall crave
No other meed. The world's applause I know

I do not merit, and shall never court."

The second is sabbatical :

"But not to him alone who, on the bed

Of sickness tossed, sees death prepared to lift
The veil which hides eternity, and place
The wonders of the world unseen before
The startled eye, does the deep solemn peal
From the tall Gothic spire at midnight hour,
Or watchman's voice, announcing Time's departure,
Read an important lecture. No, they speak
Most solemnly to all, and warn the young
And gay, no less than he whose silvery hairs,
Thinn'd now by time, have fluttered in the winds
Of fourscore winters, that, with eagle's speed,
Time hurries on, although with noiseless wing,
And though unmarked his flight by such as look
Forward through folly's glass, and think they see
Long years awaiting them. But, Oh! be warned,
Ye sons of pleasure! for each circling hour
That passes o'er your heads, unnoticed and
Unthought of, sees its hundreds droop and die.
Often at dead of night, when all is hush'd,
The voice of mirth and song astounds the ear,
From scenes where folly loves to pass the time;
And link'd with thoughtlessness, hour after hour,



O'er the deep bowl, where foul intemperance lurks,
Sit, a fair mark to the attacks of all
The varied passions which destroy the peace
And happiness of man. The tongue, when loos'd,
Pours forth a stream of genuine nonsense; and
The imagination, heated by excess,
Breaks down the barrier which uprears itself
'Twixt sober language and the wild profane,
And reckless jest, hail'd with loud laughter by
The idiot band. The light and frothy song-
Obscene, and fitted only for the ears

Of such as have discarded hope, and look
Forward with careless eye, and, with the view
Of quieting the voice within, have fled
For shelter to the dark and dreary den
Of infidelity-is madly cheer'd

With long applause, and loud the board resounds
Beneath a peal of mimic thunder, till
The round is run of what is foolishly
Termed pleasure, ending, much 'tis to be fear'd,
In everlasting sorrow and remorse.

"The road that leads to misery is smooth

And sloping; and the hapless wretch, when first
He leaves the track that upward winds, surveys,
Well-pleas'd, the slippery and forbidden path,
And ventures cautiously; but soon he finds
Retreat impossible, and rushes on,
Heedless and unrepentant, till he lands

In utter misery, beyond the reach

Of human aid; and, from the hopes that cheer

The weary wanderer going home to Heaven,

Cut off for ever, till his day of grace

Sets in the darkness of unending night."

The third is moral:

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Thy wide extended moors, and mountains hoar,
My country, many a beauteous flower beneath
The eye of morning smiles in gracefulness
And beauty; but, the chief o'er all the rest,
Old Scotland's "symbol dear," which he, the Bard
Of Coila, hath immortalised, and spared
The inspiring emblem waving in the breeze,

I love to mark; nor less the heather flower,

Of scent delicious, and inviting still
The eye to rest upon its beauty, spread

For miles athwart the moor, where wild fowl haunt,
And where the industrious bee collects her sweets
Medicinal, and ministers alike

To luxury's claims, and to the comforts which Sometimes descend to cheer the poor man's heart." The fourth is of the faith that sweet flowers, and all fading lovely things help to teach :

"But gentle flowers! ye soon must pass away
And die, like all carth's blessings; soon again
The storms of Autumn's boisterous day shall strew
The wither'd leaves around, and leave the gay
Parterre without a single ornament

On which the eye might dwell with pleasure, and
Divest the hill, and dale, the meadows, moors,
Of their most beauteous gems, whose hues laid on
By Heaven's own pencil, met the admiring eye
Of Nature's student, when at morning's sweet
And balmy hour he wander'd forth; and sure
The heart alive to beauty's claims must love,
Fleeting and evanescent though they be,
And emblematical of early death,

The wild flowers waving in the breeze of morn;
For man comes forth as flowerets on the heath,
And blooms awhile like them, then fades and dies,
And passes from the land of living men,
Forgotten like the withered leaves which on
The breeze are borne throughout the troubled air
When all the winds are out, and winter looks
With threatening aspect from the stormy north."

The extracts we have given convince us that Mr. Crease has powers of composition, that, under such influences as helped our greater poets, might have place him high upon their roll, and which will never allow him to sink to mediocrity, or any point approaching that tepid state.

There is a vein of dry sarcastic wit in his mind, that

has not been much wrought, though by the following lines, the last we are to quote from his volume, it appears to be deep and rich :

"Go fetch my staff, for I, per force, must take
My journey. Though the roads are deep, and keen
The north wind blows, I'd rather face the blast,
And push my way for many a weary mile,
Than within doors remain when I observe
The steaming pot, swinging above the fire,
And tubs and buckets huddled on the floor
Confusedly-plainly indicating that
The hated washing-day has come again.
Oh, 'tis a day of sorrow! Vain the hope
On such a day to taste the sweets of life!
Comfort, affrighted from her home, retires
Disgusted; and domestic pleasure yields
Her place to disappointment; joy flies far;
And brooding care, on this important day,
Assumes supremacy. The red-arm'd maid
Sweats o'er her task, and 'mid the wreathing steam
Toils eagerly; the busy housewife, famed,
Mayhap, for amiability, is now

Changed to a very shrew. Oh, the sad stir
Which now takes place of quiet! e'en the calm
Pure stream of life is suddenly transform'd
Into a raging torrent."

Why cannot washing and dressing, like shoemaking and tailoring, succeed as a distinct branch of business, to the It is, relief of all quiet home-loving domesticated men. we believe, a fact that it never succeeds, and makes no way in the world.



1 vol. Edinburgh: Fraser & Co. LORD ROBERTSON'S "Gleams of Thought" are wonderfully unlike his gleams of eloquence. The last were full of flash and brightness. They were dazzling. The wit of his Lordship ere ever he was a lord, was proverbial. Occasionally it was coarse, but it had reality, and was good sterling wit. We venture to think that the ermine and the wig have driven it all away. The "Gleams of Thought" are done in stiff, and stately, and solemn verses. The subjects are generally of a serious character, and for that reason they take his Lordship considerably out of his old element; and we scarcely think that he has yet found firm footing as a worthy follower of Pollock, Cowper, Crabbe, and Henry Kirk White-but he is a dangerous rival of Montgomery-the reader will please to remember of Robert, not of James-of the pulpit, not of the press. There is no fear, in this case, of the bench treading on the skirts of the press.

Lord Robertson has assumed a great veneration for Milton, and these "Gleams of Thought" are illustrative of Milton's writings. There is no reason for that wild look of surprise at this statement. It is not the "Paradise Lost," or even the "Paradise Regained," but the prose writings of John Milton that Lord Robertson illustrates. Anybody, even our friend Mr. De Quincey, will admit that it may be tolerated in Lord Robertson to approach the prose writings of John Milton for the purpose of illustration.

In loving Milton, however, Lord Robertson compensates fully to the Church-we mean the Church of Charles I.— by hating Cromwell, whose memory good and great men are ei deavouring to extricate and cleanse from the mire of bad historians.

The sonnets are the best writing in the volume; and thus the learned Lord meditates on the Protector who, we believe, was a great law reformer:

"Light of the past, oft o'er the fleeting course

With rainbow's changeful hue, vet more intense,
Beameth a ray 'mid sad coincidence;
Time not vet come, the stern Protector's force
Of armed legions gather'd foot and horse
Fair England to enthrall; but proff'ring free,
His earnest suit in mild academy,
Learning he courteth at her honour'd source.
Lo! at such hour, Poet of heav'n-born fire
His country saw too soon, alas! expire-
Nature seems darken'd as his wondrous torch
Flicker'd in dying ray at lowly porch;

Fame-hov'ring nigh-her trump doth londly sound,
Her Shakspeare lost, her daring Cromwell found."
"Portentous clouds o'er breathing England lour,
A moral darkness gath'reth o'er her skies,
The fated hour her matchless Poet dies;
All nature mourneth on that joyless day,
Genins doth droop-Love hieth far away-
As gentle Avon sadly murmuring by
For her lost son makes softest lullaby-
Amid such whelming storm the bravest cow'r
And see a lurid rav o'er Cam doth rise,
Prophetic gleam of darksome enterprise;
Through the wild mist a mailed form appears
Trampling yon Crown to dust, 'mid blood and tears;
With sword uplifted, Oliver would seem
O'er freedom swaying in a feverish dream."
"And yet the world moves on, as if no tide
Fierce billows ro'l'd, amid perturbed flow,
In mystic terror heaving to and fro,
Dark in the deep abyss the doom'd to hide:
While new-sprung honours o'er her bosom glide,
Till all are lost within the whelming wave-
And Fame herself yearneth for peaceful grave;
Alas! no earthly grandeur may abide.
Proud story dwelleth on these vaunted years,
When meteor spirit cometh-disappears;
And if in contrast might'st Genius rise,
How fond she chronicles the good and wise-
The bold, the learned, sons of peace or war,
On deathless pages of her calendar."

It is useless to quarrel with men's tastes, and worse to quarrel with their poetry; but our creed on this subject of Cromwell is, that the man who has read his history and esteems not his memory very highly has no love for liberty dwelling in his mind.

The following is a favourable specimen of the book :-
"A famous man,' 'tis sung, was Robin Hood,'
As through the Forest rang his echoing horn
The deer to wake as ere the
peen of morn;

And Scotland chronicles "a thief as good"
As ever shriv'd upon the Holy Rood;"
Intent his "rosy shoon," with boastful glee,
In scorn to fling athwart the gallows-tree,
Meeting his doom with song, in daring mood:
Is this a truthful picture of the race,
Or idle ballad of the greenwood chase,
Or wayward tale of northern minstrelsy,
Scatt'ring a ray of fancied chivalry

O'er reckless rover of the wood and wild-
Outlaw! in semblance of fond Nature's child."
The musings that follow on a more artificial state of
society than aught that Robin Hood or Rob Roy ever
dreamed of are pleasing and true; but they would be
more poetical if his Lordship's style were a little more
rounded, and not so sharp cornered. The words sound
as if the ends were bitten off. The learned judge commits
petty larceny on her Majesty's English.

"From western swamp, or from the torrid east,
The tufted treasure sedulously sped,
Owns in this stiffling clime another birth,

In fibre fine as lightsome gossamer.

Around the rapid spindle deft'y whirls
Amid that wilderness of wheels evolved,
Thro' all their restless mysteries impell'd,

Moved by yon massive pow'r, whose ceaseless rule,
Through't the tangled grove of beam and spar,
In order due the fixed array commands:
To perfect structure speeds the growing web.

A second nature science conjures forth,
As if the elements she held in thrall.
Nor from such measured motion grace apart,
Or form of beauty in each varying stage,
Thro' which the stern creative journey leads,
'Mid earnest industry, whose changeless hum
Sounds day and night within the cheerless hive.
"Nor do its toil worn tenants dread the chill,
Or ceaseless rains, or howling winds, or hail,
Yon rustic labourer's lot, or stern bivouac,
The soldier's slumber ere the battle morn;
Or, as the sailor, "fight with roaring seas,"
Tended their wants with kind appliance sure;
And yet, methinks, from dull mechanic chain,
Yon pensive stripling-in the mountain breeze,
Beside some wand'ring flock-sigheth to roam.
Ah! might he thus his listless labour change,
Or hear the music of the ancient trees,
Amid yon forest hoar, or in some bark
Catch wilder echoes 'mong the whisp'ring shrouds;
Or wand'ring lonely on far eastern shore,
List, amid spicy bow'rs of fancied bliss,
To softest cadence of returning wave.

And that calm sire whose furrow'd brow betrays
Rude channels traced by time, 'mid changeless round
From year to year, how patiently endured!

Still of the meadow dream where first he breathed
Among the blossom'd broom-his faded form
Beneath some village yew still longs to lay.

"Tho' born to toil, man loveth liberty-
Loveth the changeful sky, the buxom air,
The mountain-top, the sea, the lake, the grove,
The winding river, and the jocund lea;
Now from such yearning e'er may be estranged.
Children of simpler days found happier lot.
Tho' kindly master error may forgive,
Tho' no relief their labour to assuage

Be here denied, tho' owned their moral claims,
Far as beseems with education blest,

And fair religion tending carefully

What tho' by healing skill in sickness, nursed,
Or in exhausted age by charity--

Still the fond heart doth unto nature cling,
Still sighs to wander 'mid the gladsome fields,
Or o'er the mighty waters wend its way."

We quote another poem, the "Bright Cavalier," which
has not the quality of style-as we think a bad quality—
that characterises the factory workers.
"Who cometh on steed of Empyrean birth

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Yet pawing the ground as a creature of earth?
All gorgeous his gear, like proud bark o'er the sea
Yon bold warrior rideth triumphantly!

"My helmet emboss'd in rich pearls of the morn
My plumes from the rainbow of ev'ning are shorn;
My cuirass of gold, a bright sunbeam of noon
With tissue of silver inwrought from the moon.
Attemper'd the sword I sustain for the fight
Forged three-fold in steel 'midst the regions of light.
My buckler all dazzling with planet and star
In bright corruscation aye sheddeth afar.
"How calm doth my courser tho' prancing in pride
On the foeman advance, how calm do I ride
Whose breath is dominion whose falchion is pow'r
Whose trumpet alone soundeth victory's hour.
"Write high on my standard these words of command
Truth, honour, integrity, conquer the land:'
Rich, wreath the reverse-scroll emblazon'd of gold,
"I come in my glory, the Winter is gone
'Prosperity sure' doth the banner unfold.

Uplift my right arm, lo! the Summer hath shone!
Awaiteth mine advent the blossoming Spring
At my feet, all her stores rich Autumn doth fling.
"Soft lutes and recorders, that pipe 'mong the trees
Wild note of the monody sung by the breeze,
Loved chaunt of the songsters-sweet breath of the free
Oh! this is the music that marcheth with me.
"I bow to the brave as I bound on my way,
'Joy unto the Just, is the blessing I pray;
Then list to my word, and away with thy fear
Advance! the war-cry is The Bright Cavalier.'
"See what troops in my train ride gallant and gay
The laurel unfading-flowers fresher than May;
Amid the ripe vintage leaves thicker than June
Autumn, Summer and seed-time, hymning one tune.

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