As Silvio did; ais gifts might be
Perhaps as false or more than he,
But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.
With sweetest milk and sugar, first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And, as it grew so every day

It waxed more sweet and white than they:
It had so sweet a breath. And oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft

And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And, when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown
And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness,

And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

Nothing can exceed the grace, the delicate prettiness of this little poem. There is a trippingness in the measure, now stop

Z*

ping short, now bounding on, which could not have been exceeded by the playful motions of the poor fawn itself. We must forgive his want of gallantry. It must have been all pretense. No true woman-hater could so have embodied a feeling peculiar to the sex, the innocent love of a young girl for her innocent pet.

I must find room for a few stanzas of Marvell's Horatian Ode

upon Cromwell's return from Ireland. Fine as the praise of Cromwell is, it yields in grandeur and beauty to the tribute paid by the poet to the demeanor of the King upon the scaffold; by far the noblest of the many panegyrics upon the martyred King.

What field of all the civil war

Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art:

Where, twining civil fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope,

That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands,

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

And he who wrote this was Cromwell's Latin Secretary! and Cromwell's other Latin Secretary was Milton! There have been many praises of the Lord Protector written latterly, but these two facts seem to me worth them all.

XLI.

SCOTTISH POETS.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

Two of the ballads of William Motherwell are among the most beautiful in the Scottish dialect, so full of lyrical beauty; and yet the one which is the most touching is scarcely known, except to a few lovers of poetry. "Jeanie Morrison," indeed, has an extensive popularity in Scotland, and yet even that charming song is comparatively little known in this country.

Burns is the only poet with whom, for tenderness and pathos, Motherwell can be compared. The elder bard has written much more largely, is more various, more fiery, more abundant; but I doubt if there be in the whole of his collection any thing so exquisitely finished, so free from a line too many, or a word out of place, as the two great ballads of Motherwell. And let young writers observe that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during many years, did "Jeanie Morrison" attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling that would find vent. In "My heid is like to rend, Willie," the appearance of spontaneity is still more striking, as the passion is more intense, intense, indeed, almost to painfulness.

How

Like Burns, Motherwell died before he attained his fortieth year, and like him, too, although a partisan of far different opinions, he was ardently engaged in political discussion as the editor of a Tory newspaper in Glasgow. He was even the Secretary of an Institution that sounds strangely in English ears—a Scotch Orange Lodge. I notice these facts only to observe, that they are already almost forgotten. The elements of bitterness and

hatred, in which the politician revels, live through their little day, then pass away forever: while the deep and pure feelings of a true poet are imperishable.

As with "Percy's Reliques," my own copy of Motherwell has to me an interest beside that of its high literary merits. If I would explain the source of that interest, I must even tell the story, luckily a very short one.

Three years ago a friend, to whom I owe a thousand obligations of all sorts and kinds, posted London over to procure this volume. Now my friend is a man of book-shops and book-stalls, but only one copy could he meet with, and that was neither Scotch nor English, but American, from the great Boston publishers, Ticknor and Company. The book became immediately a favorite, and was laid on the table-a phrase which in my little drawing-room has a very different sense from that which it bears in the House of Commons.

One fine summer afternoon, shortly after I had made this acquisition, two young Americans made their appearance, with letters of introduction from some honored friends. There was no mention of profession or calling, but I soon found that they were not only men of intelligence and education, but of literary taste and knowledge; one especially had the look, the air, the conversation of a poet. We talked on many subjects, and got at last to the delicate question of American reprints of English authors; on which, much to their delight, and a little to their surprise, there was no disagreement; I for my poor part pleading guilty to the taking pleasure in such a diffusion of my humble works. side," continued I, "you send us better things-things otherwise unattainable. I could only procure the fine poems of Motherwell in this Boston edition." My two visitors smiled at each other. "This is a most singular coincidence," cried the one whom I knew by instinct to be a poet. "I am a younger partner in this Boston house, and at my pressing instance this book was reprinted. I can not tell you how pleased I am to see it here!"

"Be

Mr. Field's visit was necessarily brief; but that short interview has laid the foundation of a friendship which will, I think, last as long as my frail life, and of which the benefit is all on my side. He sends me charming letters, verses which are fast ripening into true poetry, excellent books; and this autumn he brought back himself, and came to pay me a visit; and he must