"TIME'S REVENGES.

"I've a Friend, over the sea;

I like him, but he loves me.

It all grew out of the books I write-
They find such favour in his sight,
That he slaughters you with savage looks
Because you don't admire my books:
He does himself though; and if some vein
Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,
To-morrow month, if I lived to try,
Round should I just turn quietly,
Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand
Till I found him, come from his foreign land
To be my nurse in this poor place,
And make me broth, and wash my face,
And light my fire, and, all the while,
Bear with his old good-humoured smile
That I told him, Better have kept away
'Than come and kill me, night and day,
With worse than fever's throbs and shoots,
At the creaking of his clumsy boots.'
I am as sure that this he would do
As that Saint Paul's is striking Two:
And I think I had rather.. woe is me!
-Yes, rather see him than not see,
If lifting a hand would seat him there
Before me in the empty chair
To-night, when my head aches indeed,
And I can neither think nor read,
And these blue fingers will not hold
The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

"And I've a Lady-There he wakes,
The laughing fiend and prince of snakes
Within me, at her name, to pray
Fate send some creature in the way
Of my love for her, to be down-torn,
Upthrust, and onward borne,
So I might prove myself that sea
Of passion which I needs must be !

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint,
And my style infirm, and its figures faint,
All the critics say, and more blame yet,
And not one angry word you get!

But, please you, wonder I would put
My cheek beneath that Lady's foot
Rather than trample under mine
The laurels of the Florentine;

And you shall see how the Devil spends
The fire God gave for other ends!

I tell you, I stride up and down

This garret, crowned with Love's best crown,
And feasted with Love's perfect feast,
To think I kill for her, at least,
Body and soul, and peace and fame,
Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,
As all my genius, all my learning
Leave me, where there's no returning
-So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
Filled full, eaten out and in

With the face of her, the eyes of her,
The lips and little chin, the stir

Of shadow round her mouth; and she
-I'll tell you-calmly would decree
That 1 should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire,
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.

"There may be a Heaven; there must be a Hell; Meantime, there is our Earth here---well!"

Commend us to the verse which, like this, suggests emotions beyond those it conveys! "Garden Fancies" please us greatly. The quiet humour of some poems, half satire and half pathos, defies description; and for quoting, alas! our task is far from finished, although our allotted space is well nigh exhausted. But one more extract we must make from "Bells and Pomegranates." Let our readers guess for themselves:

"THE LOST LEADER.

"Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a ribband to stick in his coatGot the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs, who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley were with us; they watch from
their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves !

"We shall march prospering-not through his pre

sence;

Songs may excite us-not from his lyre; Deeds will be done-while he boasts his quies

cence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : Blot out his name then-record one lost soul more, One task unaccepted, one footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow to angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to

us!

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twi

light,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him-come gal

lantly,

Strike our face hard ere we shatter his own; Then let him get the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne!" If there be any of our readers to whom this poet is unknown, we rejoice to have done them the good service of an introduction. Talk of there being no poets! Why Robert Browning has as much poetry in himself as all the rhymers of the last century put together, excepting only Robert Burns, who was-a POET.

We are not pretending to give an epitome of modern poetry; of poetry of the age in which Tennyson lives; that were indeed an ambitious task, demanding study and leisure, and whose execution would fill a volume. We are but glancing at some stray books beside us, without forgetting the other great names which gem the present. Mrs. Norton, the poetess who sits on a throne alone, and sweet Mary Howitt, whose muse has been too long silent. 'Westlan

Marston, R. H. Horne, and others who may worthily follow in their wake. As for the numberless volumes without a claim to be considered poetry, these we will not stretch a finger to preserve from oblivion. Books which are simply dull better remain unnoticed; but there are yet two volumes before us, rich in so many attributes of poetic

excellence that we must bring them before our readers. The "Poems," by James Hedderwick, combine power with grace in a degree that should place him already in a very high rank. It is true that he has not tried his wing in flights as lofty as the poets from whom we have quoted, but the evidence of ability to succeed, were he tempted so to try, cannot be questioned.

We know the active and influential duties which engross his time and attention, and we appreciate the brilliant columns of prose which proceed from his pen; and yet we are selfish enough to hope he will one day renew his poetical labours. The longest of these productions is the "Lost Heart,' so full of beautiful passages that, butterfly like, we rove from one to another, doubtful which to select for the limits of our columns. After all, a shorter piece entire will be better for extract, so, choosing almost at random, let us take the following:

TO A LITTLE GIRL.

"Come hither, gentle one-thy hand-come near me! Wherefore so shy? alas, thou need'st not fear me ! How old art thou, my child? No more than seven? No wonder thou art fair-so fresh from heaven!

I cannot think, thou little beauteous blossom,
The worm of guile hath enter'd yet thy bosom ;
Here, here, at least, is warm and truthful feeling-
Thy tongue most surely speaks the heart's revealing!

Haply thou see'st in me an air of sadness,
And fain wouldst give me thine own eyes of gladness;
Oh, would the world were fill'd with kind endeavour

Would that mankind were but as children ever!

'Tis sad to see a blissful vision perish-
To find a stone within the heart we cherish!
'Tis sad to reap ingratitude for kindness-

To look for bliss, and feel as struck with blindness!

While on this lip of thine I print pure kisses,
I sigh to think of lips less true than this is,-
Lips where a maiden's love appear'd to tremble,
Only to prove how well they could dissemble!

I sigh to think of looks as fair and blooming
As summer flowers, no inward blight consuming;
But it is past-the core once canker-eaten,
No loveliness of leaf the flower can sweeten !

But, child, such words are strange to thy young hearing,

Although thy dreaming years are hourly nearing,
When, laying by its mirth, thy heart will ponder
Deeply on things that now but wake thy wonder!
Thy life may be a life of joy or sorrow,
Haply of smiles to-day and tears to-morrow-
Smiles bright as evening-clouds the sky adorning,
That melt away in tears before the morning!

But now, how peaceful! not the ocean's mirror,
Glassing the stormless heavens, is purer, fairer
Than thy young life, as tell thy brows unfurrow'd,
And eyes whose light from calm sweet thoughts is
borrow'd!

"As in the presence of the Sun-grown blind
In contemplation of this Light supreme,
This mystery and this majesty of Mind-
The glory and the vastness of its beam-

I bend! Yet trust that He who can redeem
Mine eyes from darkness, and my heart make
strong,

Will sanctify my spirit to the theme!-
Will lend an inspiration to my tongue,
That it may language win immortal as my song!"

We must also find space for a generous burst to the memory of the gifted and departed.

"Still mourns Erinna!-ever by that coast
Whose dismal winds shriek to each weeping cloud,
Whose waves sweep solemn as a funeral host,
Still mourns she Love's own minstrel in her shroud;
The Sappho of that isle in genius proud;
The Improvisatrice of our land;

The daughter of our soil-our fame endowed;
For her Erinna seeks the fatal strand,

And lifts to distant shores her too-prophetic hand!

The blighted one! the breast, whose sister tear
Sprang to each touch of feeling, heaves no more!
Our Landon, silent on her funeral bier,

Far from our heart, sleeps on a foreign shore;
The voice of her-the song inspired-is o'er !
Oh, she who wept for others found no tone
To soothe the many parting griefs she bore;
None had a tear for that sweet spirit lone--

All sorrows found a balm save that far Minstrel's own!

Thou who receivedst her rose-encircled head,
Our Minstrel in the bloom of her young fame,
Give back our lost and loved! Restore our dead!
Return once more her first and dearest name!
We claim her ashes-'tis a nation's claim !
Her-in her wealth of mind-to thee we gave;
Yet, plead we for the dust of that dear frame :
Oh, bear her world-lamented o'er the wave!
Let England hold at last-'tis all she asks-her
Grave!"

There is a glowing poem called " Painting," which illustrates, or is illustrated by, a beautiful "The picture of Venus, by George Patten. Death of Eucles," "The kind old friendly feelings," and many others we would fain extract, but our limits forbid.

Enough, dear readers, for the present, of "Poets and Poetry." If ye be any of the class who, like good Audrey, "thank the gods they are not poetical," I am quite sure you have missed the whole chapter, for its first paragraph must have seemed like prose run mad, and warned you away. But if I might hope I had awakened something of sympathy in spirits of a finer quality (one must run into the first person at last), how sweet a reward it would be for that which has indeed been a labour of love!

CAMILLA TOULMIN.

THE CHURCH BELL.

In a time-worn turret, by years decay'd,
Which nature embellish'd, but man had made,
Where the ivy had conquer'd the powerless stone,
Once its supporter, but now its throne-
A belfry stood; and in peaceful rest,
'Mid the bats' retreat and the wild bird's nest,
Like a hermit alone in his penitent cell,
Forsook by the world, was the old church bell.

Oft hath it told of the nuptials gay,
Its peal hath welcomed the bridal day;
Tolling for sorrow, and tolling for mirth,
Its tongue proclaiming the infant's birth;
And when grim Death with his terrors hath come,
Remorseless, regardless, to desolate home,
It hath changed its note, and no voice could tell
So surely of woe as the old church bell.

Where now is the voice that was borne on the breeze
In years gone by, when the sheltering trees,
Now towering above it, were saplings weak:
That voice no longer hath power to speak.
Old age crept o'er it and ended its sway,
A victim conquer'd by stern decay;

Nobly it stood, and as nobly fell,

But no vestige remains of the old church bell.

AUGUSTUS PEQUEUR,

Why should I bid thee joy that time hath gather'd
Another year from life, unless it be

That thou art nearer to that welcome haven
Where storms are hush'd, and sorrows cease to be?
And yet I pause to bless the day that gave me
Thy faithful hand to clasp within my own-
Thy loving, truthful heart, whose gentle beauty
Hath been like sunlight 'mid the darkness thrown.
If fervent prayers and wishes, then, can guard thee,
Bringing that peace that fadeth not away,
Thou shalt be girt with many a whisper'd blessing,
Breath'd oft for thee on this remember'd day.
On! dear one, on! thy path is now before thee;
Fear not its perils: though the world will war
With all who tread not in her devious windings,
Still keep thine eye upon thy guiding star!
Through the dim shadows shall its radiance guide
thee;

Safe through the conflict shalt thou fearless come, A cheerful pilgrim, meekly pressing onward, Seeking a safe and more abiding home.

COURAGE.-Have sufficient to speak to the poor friend, even in the street, and when a rich one is nigh. The effort is not so great as many people may imagine, and the act is worthy of a king.

FORGIVENESS.-Suffer not your thoughts to dwell on the injuries you have received, or the provoking words that have been spoken to you. Not only learn the art of neglecting injuries at the time you receive them, but let them grow less and less every moment, till they die out of your mind.

"I saw your friend, Lily Bingham, the other day; she is a very nice person, but quite old enough to be called Mrs., I should say," cried Jane S, one of a merry group who had gathered round my work-table, on a bleak December evening; and the conversation, which had been very animated, had died away into comparative silence, and was lost in some deep reverie. What a pretty name," exclaimed one; "Is she an old maid then?" inquired another.

"Yes, my dear; Lily is an unmarried lady, but she possesses more virtues, and in truth more graces than fall to the lot of many," was my reply.

"But don't you think it nonsensical to be called Lily Bingham? Why it sounds so childish, and she looks more than thirty, I am sure," persisted Jane.

"True it is, that Lily Bingham is no longer youthful, for full five-and thirty summers have passed over her head; but those who knew her in her bright spring of early youth, when her name, her voice, nay, the sound of her footstep brought a ray of sunshine into the eyes, and a glow upon the cheek of many who have seen her; whatever trouble assailed her, whatever annoyance, ever the same gentle, inoffensive, and submissive being; those friends will ever cherish her by that endearing name. Miss was a title rarely applied to her; it was not simple enough to describe her nature; and Mrs. is a designation to which I think she will never aspire'; but go into any cottage within miles of her home, and mention but the word 'Lily,' and you will see tearful eyes and upraised hands, ready to pronounce a blessing on it."

"But how is it she was never married, if she be so good and amiable?" inquired Anna.

"The very best of women remain unmarried. It often happens that in the concentrated sphere in which they move they do not meet with one of the opposite sex who can appreciate their rare qualities, who can sympathise with their deep and devout feelings; or, having met one in whom was embodied all those noble qualities that woman can look up to, idolize, and venerate; from whom they have been divided by adverse circumstances, and driven into opposite currents, they remain faithful to the idol of their youthful dreams, and cherish to the end of life the memory of the past. However, as you appear so much interested in my friend, I feel almost disposed to tell you what I know of her history, and then your wonders will cease.”

Oh, pray do!" was echoed by every voice: "there is nothing we should like better than a true story."

"Well, when I first knew Lily, she was my schoolfellow; and a merry-hearted girl she was, always good-natured, ever ready to oblige; Lily was very good-tempered, very rarely got into

trouble herself, and was the best hand in the world at helping others out of difficulties. Her sister, who was three years older, had left the school when I went, so that I knew very little of her; but Lily (who would never be called Miss Bingham) was very much attached to Mary, and always spoke of her, as did all her school-fellows, in such affectionate terms, that I could not suppose her otherwise than amiable: besides, I used to read most of her letters; and a woman's letters are, in most instances, an index of her mind. I have often felt affection for people I have never seen, from a perusal of their letters; and such was the affection I entertained for Mary. Ah! I remember how (when amusing ourselves in castle-building) we used to talk of the future, she would look forward to spending many happy hours with her sister, and one was to go and stay with them and another should pay them a visit (for they had no mother); but all these bright dreams vanished ere they became realities. Lily had no sooner left school than Mary was taken ill, and after many weeks of anxious care and unremit ting attentions, poor Lily received her sister's last sigh, and committed her mortal remains to the tomb. This was her first trial; for she had never known a mother's care and love, and she was now left her father's sole companion; for he deeply mourned the overthrow of the fond hopes, that his home would be once more the haven of domestic bliss. To him she therefore devoted herself; in truth, no amusement, no gaiety could detach Lily from her parent, when he stood in need of a companion, or of consolation; nor, during his life, did she permit him to feel the want of a wife or daughter's care. As an only child, a lovely being, animated, graceful, and endearing, Lily was not without lovers as well as friends: among the latter was a gentleman, some years older than Lily, whom I shall designate Gerald; he had known her family a long time, and they appeared to be on very good terms. He was not rich, indeed I believe he had nothing but a small income, as he was the eldest of a very large family; neither was there anything prepossessing in his manner or appearance; but he was clever, amiable, and remarkably strict in his morals and religious feelings. Nothing could induce him to say what he did not think, and a compliment from him, or a fine speech was a marvel: whoever might be present, he always singled out Lily as his companion; he lent her books, he corrected her mistakes; he superintended her drawing lessons, and found fault with every trifle which displeased him; he often called Lily to account for unthinking words and actions that no other appeared to notice, and even for what others commended. I do not suppose he ever made love to Lily (for I believe he was too shy), but