No utter'd syllable, or woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

A's though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her heart in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

"A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and
kings.

"Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven :-Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

"Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sca-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

1

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

"Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day :
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again." EVE OF ST. AGNES. With the rich beauties and the dim obscurities of lines like these, let us contrast the Verses addressed To a Tuft of early Violets by the fastidious author of the Baviad and Mæviad.

"Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,

And trust your unprotected heads

To cold Aquarius' watery skies.

"Retire, retire! These tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

"Stern Winter's reign is not yet past -
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.

"Alas, for such ungentle doom!
But I will shield you; and supply
A kindlier soil on which to bloom,
A nobler bed on which to die.

“Come then-'ere yet the morning ray
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away ;
O come and grace my Anna's breast.
"Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know

What worth, what goodness there reside,
Your cups with liveliest tints would glow;
And spread their leaves with conscious pride.
"For there has liberal Nature joined

Her riches to the stores of Art,
And added to the vigorous mind
The soft, the sympathising heart.

"Come, then -ere yet the morning ray
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
O come and grace my Anna's breast.

"O! I should think-that fragrant bed
Might I but hope with you to share—*
Years of anxiety repaid

By one short hour of transport there.

Your little day; and when ye die,

Sweet flowers! the grateful Muse shall give

* What an awkward bed-fellow for a tuft of violets!

"While I alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came,
Without a friend to weep my fate,

Without a stone to tell my name."

We subjoin one more specimen of these "wild strains" said to be "Written two years after the preceding." ECCE ITERUM CRISPINUS.

"I wish I was where Anna lies;

For I am sick of lingering here,
And every hour Affection cries,

Go, and partake her humble bier.

"I wish I could! for when she died

I lost my all; and life has prov'd
Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unlov'd.

"But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have "no business there?"

* "How oft, O Dart! what time the faithful pair
Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share,
On thy romantic banks, have my wild strains
(Not yet forgot amidst my native plains)
While thou hast sweetly gurgled down the vale,
Filled up the pause of love's delightful tale!
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray'd,

"And who, with pious hand, shall bring
The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?

"And who, while Memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear, .
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,

And with her finger-point the tenderest line!"

Mæviad, pp. 194, 202.

Yet the author assures us just before, that in these "wild strains" "all was plain.".

"Even then (admire, John Bell! my simple ways)

No heaven and hell danced madly through my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain;

Yet trust me,
while thy ever jingling train
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason and revolt the heart;
My hopes and fears, in nature's language drest,
Awakened love in many a gentle breast."

Ibid. v. 185 -92.

If any one else had composed these "wild strains," in "which all is plain," Mr Gifford would have accused them of three things, 66 1. Downright nonsense. 2. Downright "frigidity. 3. Downright doggrel;" and proceeded to anatomise them very cordially in his way. As it is, he is thrilled with a very pleasing horror at his former scenes of tenderness, and "gasps at the recollection" of "watery Aquarius!” he! jam satis est! "Why rack a grub-a butterfly upon

a wheel ?"