He saw my anger was sincere,

And lovingly began to chide me ;
And wiping from my cheek the tear,
He sat him on the grass beside me.
He feigned such pretty amorous love,
Breathed such sweet vows one after other,
I could but smile while whispering low-
Be quiet, do, I'll call my mother.

C. M.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

Lovelace.

"To Althea, from prison."

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail.
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,

And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here!

66

Byron,
Don Juan."

Draw near,

You lovers that complain,

Of Fortune or Disdain,

And to my ashes lend a tear;

Melt the hard marble with your groans,

And soften the relentless stones,

Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide,
Of all Love's cruelties and Beauty's pride!
T. Stavley.

Sweetest love! I do not go

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show
A fairer love to me:

But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best

Thus to use myself in jest,

By feigned death to die.

Donne.

"To his Love, on going a Journey."

She spoke and wept the dark and azure well

:

Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears,

And every little circlet where they fell,

Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres
And intertangled lines of light :—a knell
Of sobbing voices came upon her ears
From those departing Forms, o'er the serene
Of the white streams and of the forest green.

Shelley.
"Witch of Atlas."

On the door you will not enter,

I have gazed too long-adieu !
Hope withdraws her peradventure—
Death is near me,-and not you!
Come, O lover,

Close and cover

These poor eyes, you called, I ween,
"Sweetest eyes were ever seen."

Mrs. Browning.

"Catarina to Camoens.'

Speak, speak, thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?

Longfellow.

"The Spectre in Armour."

(h). STANZAS OF NINE VERSES.

One particular arrangement of nine-line verse is known as the Spenserian stanza, being first used by Spenser in his Fairie Queene. It consists of eight heroics followed by an Alexandrine, and these are made to rhyme in three sets, 1, 3; 2, 4, 5, 7; 6, 8, 9. Though it is thus complex in structure, there is sufficient variety in its stately swing to render it suitable, either for lengthy or short compositions, and to make it a favourite form with most of our poets. Besides the Fairie Queene, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Beattie's Minstrel, Burns's Cotter's Saturday Night, Byron's Childe Harold, and Shelley's Revolt of Islam, are written in it. A stanza from each of these poems follows:

His life was nigh into death's door yplast,

And thread-bare cote and cobbled shoes he wore;
Ne scarce good morsell all his life did taste;
But both from backe and bellie still did spare,
To fill his bags, and richesse to compare :
Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none
To leave them to; but thorough daily care
To get, and nightly feare to lose, his owne,
He led a wretched life, unto himselfe unknowne.

Spenser.

"Avarice.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ;
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her morning face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave;
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Thomson.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star,

And waged with Fortune an eternal war;
Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,

And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

Then dropped into the grave, unpitied and unknown.

Beattie.

Dr. Beattie says of this stanza: "I am surprised to find the structure of Spenser's complicated stanza so little troublesome. I think it the most harmonious that ever was contrived. It admits of more variety of pauses than either the couplet or the alternate rhyme [he means the stanza of four], and it concludes with a pomp and majesty of sound which to my ear is wonderfully delightful. It seems also very well adapted to the genius of our language, which from its irregularity of inflexion and number of monosyllables, abounds in diversified terminations and consequently renders our poetry susceptible of an endless variety of legitimate rhymes.*

* Forbes's "Life of Beattie."

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare—
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.

Burns.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed; nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

Byron.

Specimens of other nine-line stanzas, not Spenserian, follow.

If thou beest born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights

Till age snow white hairs on thee;
Then, when thou return'st wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

Nowhere,

Lives a woman true and fair.

Donne.

"Fair and False.'