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complains that in consequence of the Crimean War he is obliged to remain in London, while his friends are travelling and solely occupied with sight-seeing:

Confound the telegraphs and war,
And letters sent off wet!
Confound the Russians and their Czar!
Confound the whole "Gazette!"

I thought at last upon the Alps
That you and I should meet;
But now you are at Chamouni,
And I'm in Downing Street.

I made my plans, I fixed the day,
I got some thick-soled shoes
To "do the Alps;" and on the way
I meant to buy a blouse.
I lost myself in visions bright,
Day-dreaming of the treat

To be with you at Chamouni,

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Away from Downing Street.

I thought of those dark pine-tree woods,
Those fern-clad granite cells,

Those channels of the glacier floods,

Those sweet-toned cattle bells.

That milk, these girls, those fraises du bois-
In fact, those things you meet

At every turn in Chamouni,

But not in Downing Street.

And, Annie dear, I thought of you
A poet would say "thee"

In that "unclouded weather blue"
(That's Tennyson, not me,

Or rather "I"), but all my wits
Have beaten a retreat,

Whilst thinking you're at Chamouni,

And I'm in Downing Street.

--

It is worthy of remark, that though a good-natured drollery is the principal feature in Mr. Albert Smith's verses, in prose he occasionally rises into the region of true poetry. What could surpass the following description of evening on the Grands Mulets, in his Ascent of Mont Blanc?

"The sun at length went down behind the Aiguille du Goûté, and then, for two hours, a scene of such

wild and wondrous beauty of such inconceivable and unearthly splendour burst upon me, that, spellbound and almost trembling with the emotion its magnificence called forth with every sense, and feeling, and thought absorbed by its brilliancy, I saw far more than the realization of the most gorgeous visions that opium or hasheesh could evoke, accomplished. At first, every thing about us above, around, below the sky, the mountain, and the lower peaks appeared one uniform creation of burnished gold so brightly dazzling that, now our veils were removed, the eye could scarcely bear the splendour. As the twilight gradually crept over the lower world, the glow became still more vivid; and presently, as the blue mists rose in the valleys, the tops of the higher mountains looked like islands rising from a filmy ocean an archipelago of gold. By degrees this metallic lustre was softened into tints, first orange, and then bright, transparent crimson, along the horizon, rising through the different hues, with prismatic regularity, until, immediately above us, the sky was a deep pure blue, merging towards the east into glowing violet. . . . These beautiful hues grew brighter as the twilight below increased in depth; and it now came marching up the valley of the glaciers until it reached our resting-place. Higher and higher still, it drove the lovely glory of the sunlight before it, until at last the vast Dôme du Goûté and the summit itself stood out, icelike and grim, in the cold evening air, although the horizon still gleamed with a belt of rosy light. . . . The stars had come out, and looking over the plateau, I soon saw the moonlight lying cold and silvery on the summit, stealing slowly down the very track by which the sunset glories had passed upward and away. . . . In such close communion with Nature in her grandest aspect, with no trace of the actual living world beyond the mere speck that our little party formed, the mind was carried far away from its ordinary trains of thought a solemn emotion of mingled awe and delight, and yet self-perception of abject nothingness, alone rose above every other feeling.

A vast untrodden region of cold, and silence, and death, stretched out, far and away from us, on every side; but above, heaven, with its countless, watchful eyes, was over all!"

Mr. A. H. Clough.

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) is a philosophic and satirical poet, who is little read. and was never popular. His best-known poem is the Bothie of Toberna-Vuolich, (1848) which, being written in hexameter metre, is somewhat heavy reading, in spite of the rich vein of comedy pervading it through and through. In one of his best poems, Easter Day, he presents us with a curious doubleness of view, a fantastic combination of the doubts of the sceptic with the faith of the believer; though he finally teaches us, that Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief; Or, at the least, faith unbelief. Though dead, not dead;

Not gone, though fled;

Not lost, though vanquished:

In the great Gospel and true creed,
He is yet risen indeed;

Christ is yet risen.

Mr. Clough, at his death, left an unfinished set of poems, called Mari Magno, which have been compared by critics to the stern but strikingly truthful sketches of nature and character given us by Crabbe. These poems differ widely in style from his earlier pieces. As a good specimen of his satirical and ironical vein, we subjoin the latest Decalogue, a new version of the ten commandments, which Clough recommends better adapted than the old one to the present state of society:

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At Church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honour thy parents; that is, all

From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:

Do not adultery commit;

Advantage rarely comes of it:

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,

When it's so lucrative to cheat:

Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

W. M. Thackeray.

Though William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863) never advanced any pretensions to be considered a poet, we may find, scattered through his novels and miscellaneous works, verses replete with humour or pathos, which show what he was capable of doing, had he seriously devoted himself to writing poetry. Few readers will peruse without emotion the following lines on Napoleon the First in the Chronicle of the Drum:

He captured many thousand guns;

He wrote "the Great" before his name;

And dying, only left his sons

The recollection of his shame.

Though more than half the world was his,
He died without a rood his own;

And borrowed from his enemies

Six foot of ground to rest upon.

He fought a thousand glorious wars,

And more than half the world was his,
And somewhere, now, in yonder stars,

Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.

Of Thackeray's humorous style of writing in verse we can scarcely give a better sample than the verses with the title, Peg of Limavaddy, in the Irish SketchBook.

PEG OF LIMAVADDY.1)

Riding from Coleraine

(Famed for lovely Kitty2)
Came a Cockney bound
Unto Derry city.
Weary was his soul,
Shivering and sad he
Bumped along the road
Leads to Limavaddy.

*

*

Limavaddy's inn's

*

But a humble baithouse,
Where you may procure
Whiskey and potatoes;
Landlord at the door

Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to his hotel come.
Landlady within

Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot

Baby's cradle rocking.

To the chimney nook

Having found admittance,

There I watch a pup

Playing with two kittens;

(Playing round the fire,

Which of blazing turf is,

Roaring to the pot

Which bubbles with the murphies; 3)

And the cradled babe

Fond the mother nursed it!

Singing it a song

As she twists the worsted!

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1) Limavaddy (the Dog's Leap) is a small town in the north of Ireland, on the river Bush.

2) An allusion to the popular song, Kitty of Coleraine. Popular name for potatoes in Ireland.

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