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when in the agonies of poem-birth); but one could read, too, in her large, wild pair of eyes, now very brilliant, that fanatic self-occupation and enthusiasm, which, while it lasts, leaves no room for fear to grow, nor feelings which pain can hurt. She did not heed her shabby shawl, nor her bonnet put on awry, that hot summer evening, as her husband handed her along, with a sort of secondhand simpering copy of her raptures; and the look of one who should say, Behold my Corinna!

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I did not see the Edens again for some time, a business journey calling me from home. During the interval, the poor poetess ofStreet, had proved one or two changes more important than agreeable she had exchanged the pleasures of admiration for the comforts of condolence. Who need be told the fate of her venture, so extravagant to herself, so less than insignificant in the eyes of the world? But the injustice of the public to "Mary, Queen of Scots," declared the condolers, was neither new, nor, unhappily, unaccountable. There had been intrigues, underhand influence employed there must have been-to stand between a work of such merit and its due. In particular He of "The Caterpillar" knew how one poetess of renown could prevent half a dozen reviews from lending a helping hand to any new comer :-how another tragedywriter held all the daily and weekly press in fee. The ear of the poor woman was filled with lies like these; and her heart with bitter, bitter thoughts. There was no one about her to whisper how that she stood in a false position; and besides, she was long past believing such a truth. It was easier to fancy every human being that wrote verses, false, envious, malignant, and leagued against her, than to come down from her delusions, and own herself mistaken. So, there were to be new gripings-new fevers-new sacrifices (this time the meagrely furnished but neat house quitted for a sluttish lodging, under pretext of change of air being necessary for Mrs. Eden when she was writing)—and, in process of time, there was forced out-another volume.

Am I growing prolix over my tragedy? The rest may be told in a very few lines. On my return home from another protracted absence, I inquired, among other friends, for the Edens. Stephen had disappeared-none knew whither-in terror, it was concluded, of a printer's bill. Where Susannah was gone, was better known -to the Lunatic Asylum ! "And so ended," commented some of the very friends who had been foremost in fooling the poor susceptible creature, "her attempts at poetry: as if she could

have made anything of it!" And the literary man of "The Caterpillar" announced the dismal fact, in a lugubrious paragraph, giving, with an admirable show of delicate humanity, the last fancies of her shattered brain,-the last verses she had penned"On the death of her infant."

Believe me to be serious, kind sir, when I repeat that I could tell you half a dozen true stories as dark as this. And with such experiences, do you wonder that I am jealous for all of us minor prophets who write, without any extraordinary originality or depth of talent?—Knowing ourselves, we can neither be made ridiculous nor become unhappy; but let not our friends destroy or darken this self-knowledge by misplaced flatteries. If God has given us fancies and feelings of finer tissue, and rarer sparkle than belong to others; let us take them for what they are blessings and enjoyments; comforts for our own hearts when lonely; food for our own thoughts when sad; even though they will not win for us "the purple robe, the golden chain." These last are good; and the admiration of our fellow-men a good thing also; but, better than either, is the resolved and healthful spirit of him who can be glad in the riches of his own spirit, be they less or more, if temporal rewards are denied to him!

"I am ashamed of you! Paul Bell!" cries the keen voice of one who is looking over my shoulder; "one would fancy you wanted to show the world how to make little of you! As if there was not enough of that going on already!--and as if you were no better than poor, silly, Susannah Eden!"

"Nay, who has a right to speak, if I have not?" was my

answer.

"Well, take your own way," was the answer. "For my part, I say that those who go half-way to show others how to neglect them, deserve to be neglected, Paul Bell; and I hope you will be, that's all."

!

"As you please, dear; so you will only leave me in peace But I will not, after this, trouble you with the remainder of my speech. It is of the less consequence, since nothing will pacify my wife and my wife's sister but having it printed separate.

Ardwick, Nov. 1845.

THE IRON HEART.

I.

THE day is gathering up the mist
As though it were a kirtle grey,
Some maid (that kept a morning tryst)
Would not have dew-stain'd by the way.

The cheerful birds are all a-wing,

The wak'ning flowers scarce smell of earth,
Whilst Dove in song is murmuring-
Too soft for grief, too low for mirth.

Come! let us wander through the dale
Where billowy Dove delights to flow,
And I'll recal a grandam's tale
Was told me long, long years ago.

II.

Once on a time-(O happy words!
What pleasant memories are thine!)
A serf that kept Lord Robert's herds
At morning miss'd a brindled kine.

In vain his rustic horn he blew,
No welcome lowing met his ear.
Alack poor villain, well he knew
Lord Robert's loss would cost him dear.

And o'er the wold and through the dale
The livelong day he vainly sought,
Until his heart with fear did quail,
And he became like one distraught.

Then saw he, or 'twas grammarye,
Lord Robert riding all alone,

The knight stopped 'neath a blasted tree,

And sat down on a rugged stone.

He took a little cross of gold

And broke the holy sign in twain,

Then blew a blast both clear and bold,

And lo! a voice replied again.

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That would'st thou? Speak! E must depart Ere pander night-stars do decline.”

The knight replied, "AN IRON HEART!"

A voice like thunder said, “'Tis thine !”

And at the sound Lord Robert's steed
Did bristle up his flowing mane:
He was a horse of noble breed,

And yet he dripp'd with sweat like rain.

The knight sprung to the saddle-bow,
And though uncased in mail or plate,
His gallant war-horse reel'd I trow,
As though o'ermaster'd by the weight.
Day came and when Lord Robert heard,
The brindled kine had gone astray,
He swore that by his knightly word
The idle serf should die that day;

And as he swore so did he do-
The man did for the beast atone!
The IRON HEART God's image slew,
As though it were but flesh and bone.

III.

Young Marian May was very fair,
And gentle as the turtle-dove.
Her eyes, as blue as violets are,
Seem'd almost tearful with their love.

Her old blind sire would never stir

Unless his Marian held his hand:

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Though I am dark," he said, "with her,"

"The power of light I understand,

"I seem to feel the roses blush

"When Marian's cheek on mine is lain, "The lily's silver glory-hush!

"Thou 'lt hear it when she speaks again."

Lord Robert saw the gentle maid,
And lustful doom'd her for his prey.
His will was whisper'd and obey'd,
For who such master dare gainsay?

A shriek rang through Lord Robert's hall;
O no! 'twas not the screech-owl's cry;
Though harsh, it could not so appal
As did that burst of agony.

And Marian May was rarely seen;
None spoke of her above their breath:
Lord Robert's IRON HEART, I ween,
Had chill'd the gentle one to death.

She died her father could not stay,
And so they laid them side by side.
And though men spoke of Marian May,
None dared to tell why Marian died.

IV.

Lord Robert and a clump of spears
Went forth to battle for the Rood;
And in that Holy strife, for years
None rode so deep in Paynim blood;
Where'er the IRON HEART had led
His ruthless vassals on, alack!
Were crimson heaps of ghastly dead!
-He never brought a captive back.

And deep and loud his revels were,
But wine could never heat his brain,
And much men marvell'd lady fair
Did ever smile on him in vain.

Nought could delight him-nought distress
In human feelings he'd no part;

He cared not who might ban or bless-
God keep us from the IRON HEART!

V.

Lord Robert was an aged man;
His sinews weaken'd day by day,
His bleared eyes with rheum ran,
His raven hair was thin and grey;

And ever and anon he'd start
And gnash his teeth and cry aloud,
"Hell's curse upon this IRON HEART
"By which my weary limbs are bow'd."

Then would he pace his chamber round
And mutter fearful words of sin,
And beat his side and lo! a sound
Like death-bells answer'd from within.

Still would he beat and sweat with dread,
Until outworn he swoon'd away;

And those who heard those sounds have said
They seem'd the knell of Marian May.

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