Lastly, my foes farewell; for such I have
Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;
'Mongst which I can't believe but some there be
That hate my vices only, and not me;
Let them pass o'er my fame without a blot,
And let the vulgar snatch, they know not what.

Let them besmear me by the chattering notes,
Poor, silly hearts, which echo through their throats;
I'll pass it o'er and pray, with patience, too;
"Father, forgive, they know not what they do."
Yet O! I could have wooed my treacherous fate;
T'have let me died without the public hate.

THE MODERN CYMON.

THE LUNATIC, THE LOVER, AND THE POET."

BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.

[Mr. Bryan Waller Proctor, born about the year 1790, and educated at Harrow School, is better known for the least ambitious of his writings, those sterling English songs which he published under the pseudonym of "Barry Cornwall," than for the more matured efforts of his genius-such is the vitality of a song (who does not remember "The Sea, the Sea, the open Sea ?") when it has once fairly taken hold of the public mind. When Barry Cornwall commenced writing his English Songs, he could say with some degree of truth that "England was singularly barren of song writers." This opinion he has lived to outgrow; for the growth of sterling English song has been no less rapid than, let us hope, it is permanent. To the few names that could be pointed at in Barry Cornwall's early days the names may now be added of Charles Mackay, Eliza Cook, Felicia Hemans, Charles Swain, and his own highly gifted and much-lamented daughter, Adelaide Proctor. Mr. Proctor is the author of a tragedy, Mirandola," ," which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre in 1821. He has also published "A Sicilian Story," "Marcian Colonna," "The Flood of Thessaly," poems; and a series of "Dramatic Scenes," modelled on the old English drama. Mr. Proctor is a member of the bar, and was for many years a Com

missioner of Lunacy, which office he resigned in 1860. During the present year (1866) he has published a "Memoir of Charles Lamb."]

You bid me tell you, why I rise

At midnight from my lonely bed;
And search amongst the coming clouds
And talk as though I saw the dead:
You speak of madness-of the moon-
I've heard such idle jeers before:
Give me your patience, for my tale,
And you shall deem me mad no more.

I was not born of noble race:

I know a peasant was my sire;

But, from

my mother's breast, I sucked
The milk that filled my blood with fire.
I ran, as wild as doth the wolf,

About the fields, for many years;
But, in my twentieth summer, Thought
Sprang upwards, in a rain of tears.

A sudden chance (if chance it were)
Flung me across a marriage train;
And there I saw a wretched girl

Forced onwards, while she wept in vain.

I never saw so fair a thing:

My eyes were hot within my

head:

I heard her scream-I saw her forced

(By a brother) towards a brute-and wed.

I sought the hills-I sought the woods;
My heart was bursting in my breast:
At last, tears rushed in rivers forth,
And, for a time, I felt at rest.

Those tears! they washed from off my eyes
The cloudy film that on them lay;

And I awoke, and saw the light,

And knew I did behold the Day.

Till then, I had but been a beast,

Had let mere savage will prevail;
Was ignorant-sullen-fierce; till Love-
(You have some fable, like my tale,)
Till Love flew forth and touched my
heart;
Then, all at once, my Spirit strong
Swelled upwards, like a torrent damm'd,
And forced its furious way along.

I read I learned-I thought-I loved!
(For Love was all the motive then);
And one, who was a friend, gave help,
And I went forth and mixed with men:
I talked with him they called her lord;
I talked with Her-who was a bride
Through fraud and force and rapine;-God!
She spoke :-I think I could have died!

I heard her words; I saw her eyes,
Where patient mingled with the sad:
I felt her breath upon my cheek;
Its perfume did not drive me mad.
I listened dumbly to her wrongs-
Imprisoned, struck, despised, deceived;
And, in my heart, I heard a voice

Cry out "Revenge!"—and I believed!

Still, Time wore on; and efforts vain
Were made to bend the Dæmon's will;
To wean him from the wrong to right;
But, he was base and cruel still.
Such deeds he did! Romance hath bared
The truth of many a hellish crime;

But never yet did Fiction dream

Of half that I could tell in rhyme.

Suffice it; all things have an end.
There is an end, where mortal pain
Must stop, and can endure no more:
This limit did we now attain;

For Hope-sweet Patience-Virtue fled!
I did what she could never dare:
I cut the canker from her side;

And bore her off-to healthier air!

Far-far away! She never knew
That I had blood upon my breast:
And yet (although she loved me much),
I know not why, she could not rest.
I strove to cheer her love,-to stir

Her pride-but, ah, she had no pride!
We loved each other ;-yet she pined:
We loved each other;—yet she died!

She died, as fading roses die,

Although the warm and healing air Comes breathing forth, and wraps them round: She died, despite my love and care. I placed her, gently, in the lead;

I soothed her hair, as it should be;
And drew a promise-what she vowed
Is secret, 'tween my soul and me!

She died; and yet I have her still,-
Carved, softly, in Carrara stone;
And in my chamber she abides,
all alone;

Sitting in silence,

Alone, save when the midnight moon

Her calm and spotless bosom seeks;

Then, she unclasps her marble hands,

And moves her marble lips-and speaks!

And this is why I restless seem;

And this is why I always rise

At midnight still throughout the year,
And look for comfort in the skies;
For then the angel of my heart

Awakens from her sleep of stone;
And we exchange sweet hopes and thoughts,
In words unto the earth unknown.

Now, tell me, am I mad?-Who's He
That stares, and gibbers at me there?
I know him: there's his crookèd claw;
His glittering eye; his snaky hair;
Begone!-he's gone! Excuse me, Sir;
These fellows often pinch my brain;
(I know full well who spurs them on ;)
But as you see-they teaze in vain.
(By permission of the Author.)

MY ACCOUNT WITH HER MAJESTY.
ANDREW HALLIDAY.

[Mr. Andrew Halliday was born at Grange, in the county of Banff, Scotland, in the year 1830. He was educated at Marischal College, Aberdeen, and made his first appearance as a journalist in the columns of the Morning Chronicle and the Leader. He afterwards turned his attention to essay writing, and furnished many contributions to the Cornhill Magazine, Temple Bar, London Society, &c. He has been for some years past one of the principal contributors to All the Year Round, from which he has collected and published three volumes of essays, entitled "Everyday Papers,' Sunnyside Papers," and "Town and Country," of which the Examiner says:-"They supply to our current literature some of the best reading which seeks chiefly to amuse.' Mr. Halliday has also written a number of burlesques and farces for the stage.]

99 66

I NEVER laid by a penny till the Post-office Savings Banks came up. Not that I mightn't have done so, for I earned good wages; and after paying all the expenses at home, I had always plenty of loose cash to spend. I was never without money in my pocket; but always at the year's end I had spent all I had received. I knew very well that I might have saved a good bit without cutting down the weekly allowance to the missus for the house, or stinting myself of any reasonable enjoyment; but I had never begun the thing, and when I thought about doing it, I was at a loss how to go about it. What I used to do, when I had a little lump of money over and above the expenses, was to put it away in a drawer, and lock it up; and I used to say to