Though the soft spirit of those eyes
Might ne'er with Lamb's compete
Ne'er sparkle with a wit so wise,
Or melt in tears as sweet

The nurseling's unforgotten look
A kindred love reveals
With his who never friend forsook,
Or hurt a thing that feels.

In thought profound, in wildest glee,
In sorrow's lengthening range,
His guileless soul of infancy

Endured no spot or change.

From traits of each our love receives
For comfort nobler scope;

While light which childlike genius leaves
Confirms the infant's hope:

And in that hope, with sweetness fraught,
Be aching hearts beguiled

To blend in one delighful thought
The Poet and the Child.

Lord Macaulay.

Had Lord Macaulay devoted himself more to the service of the Muse, it is doubtful if he would ever have reached that proud eminence which he has attained as a critic, essayist, and historian, but we may safely assume, that he would have held no mean position among the poets of the Age. His four Lays of ancient Rome, with which he surprised the world in 1842, prove at once his intimate acquaintance with the old Roman writers and his capacity for writing poetry of the highest order. The Songs of the Huguenots and of the Civil War, which belong to his earliest poetical efforts, are full of energy and martial fire, and it seems almost incredible to us, that they were the productions of inexperienced youth. In reading Naseby Battle, whatever our religious opinions or political leanings may be, we are carried away in spite of ourselves by the stream of rushing words, that seem to re-echo the rolling of the drums, the clang of the trumpet, and the clash of encountering swords.

NASEBY BATTLE.

(June 14, 1645.)

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day in June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine; And the Man of Blood') was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General') rode along us to form us for the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout,
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line,

"For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!"

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall:
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes! close your ranks!
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
They are here
we are gone
Our left is borne before them, like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

they rush on. We are broken

Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last. Stout Skippon hath a wound: the centre hath given ground:

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen in our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? "Tis he, thank God, 'tis he; Bear up another minute. Brave Oliver') is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dyke, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Charles I.
Fairfax.
Cromwell.

Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple-Bar.
And he he turns, he flies shame on those cruel eyes,

That bore to look on torture, and dared not look on war.

Fools, your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans1) to-day,
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

And she of the seven hills shall moan her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword, And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the Hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!

As a worthy pendant to this fine lyric, we give Ivry, in a slightly abbreviated form:

The king) is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the King."
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke) is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest,
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre!

Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count) is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

Corresponds to the German Liebchen.
Henry IV.

Mayenne.

Count Egmont.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van
"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man;
But out spake gentle Henry: "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Thomas Babington Macaulay, though belonging by his father's side to an old Highland family, was born in the year 1800 at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire. His father, Zachary Macaulay, a native of Scotland, had settled in England, and married the daughter of a Bristol bookseller, Miss Selina Mills, who became the mother of the distinguished writer. Young Macaulay studied at Cambridge, wrote for the Edinburgh Review, was called to the bar, and in 1830 entered parliament as member for the borough of Calne. Having obtained the post of legal adviser to the Supreme Court of Calcutta, he resigned his seat in Parliament, and went to India. After returning to England, he was elected member for Edinburgh in 1839, and again in 1852. In 1857 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Macaulay of Rothley Temple. He died in 1859.

A. Smith.

Mr. Albert Smith (1816-1860), the popular lecturer, besides many humorous sketches in prose, wrote a good deal of comic poetry. Perhaps his most amusing pleasantry in rhyme is his account of the alarm and flight of those merry sprites, the fairies, at the advent of Science.

SCIENCE AND THE FAIRIES.

When Father Time was in his prime,
Some thousand years ago,

Ere his beard was long, or his pinions strong,
Or his locks as white as snow,

In our merry land there dwelt a band
Of tiny joyous elves,

Who owned no order or command

From any but themselves.

And each one lived in a cottage orné
Of these elfen gamesome things,

By the tiger-moth thatched with his plume so gay,
And glazed with a dragon-fly's wings.

They danced all night in the moonbeams bright,
And quaffed their cowslip wine;

Then hid their heads in their moth-down beds
Ere day began to shine.

And they revelled long, with their dance and song,
Till a strange gigantic dame

A visit paid to their forest glade,

And Science was her name.

Her lungs were air-pumps of monstrous size;
Her breath blew forth a steam,

And with oxyhydrogen her eyes 1)

Like meteor sparks did gleam.

With triple cranks and rackwork neat, 2)
Her limbs and joints did move;

And her vital powers were raised to heat
With a Dr. Arnott's stove.3)

The fairies gazed on this fearful sight,
Then swift through the summer air,
In a dreadful fright they all took flight

To the realms of my lord knows where.*)

They have gone for aye, for since that day
They no longer in England dwell;
Lone is the glade, and the leafy shade,
And forsaken each quiet dell.

And Science still her march keeps on;
But since that epoch dread,

Our legends old to their graves have gone,
And Romance herself has fled.

In a poetical epistle, addressed to a lady in Chamouni, a clerk in the Foreign Office, in Downing Street,

1) A reference to the oxyhydrogen, or Drummond light (Siderallicht).

2) Crank and rack work, in German, Kurbel and Zahnstange mit Rad.

3) Dr. Neill Arnott, physician-in-ordinary to Queen Victoria, obtained the Rumford Medal, in 1854, for an improved stove.

The Lord knows where, is a popular expression, equivalent to Wer weiss wohin?