THE INFLUENCE OF BEAUTY. JOHN KEATS. [John Keats was born in London 1796; he was intended for a surgeon, and published his mystical poem "Endymion" before he was twenty, a circumstance that ought to have procured for it a kindly consideration-but nothing was too young or too innocent for the savages of "The Quarterly." In Keats' case the shot did not hit, for before the article appeared the young poet was taken to Italy; but he could not outstrip that galloping consumption that had seized him. He was buried in "the strangers' ground" in Rome, where he died Dec. 27, 1820. Keats displayed in his writings an immense amount of imagination, and it may be safely asserted that much of our recent poetry has been influenced by them.] A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Nor do we merely feel these essences Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread Among the shepherds 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay, great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Edged round with dark tree-tops? through which a dove Full in the middle of this pleasantness JANUARY WIND. ROBERT BUCHANAN. [Mr. Buchanan was educated at Glasgow University, and came to London in 1859. For the first four years of his London life he had a hard time of it, working as a nameless contributor to certain cheap periodicals, but he did find employment, and in the meantime was storing up those poetic treasures which culminated in the publication of his "Undertones" (1863), a volume which was acknowledged to be "the most remarkable first volume of poems, perhaps, ever written." He has published two volumes sirce-"The Idyls of Inverburn,' and recently, "London Poems." They have more than justified the high praise that was bestowed upon his maiden venture.] THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows; It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows: It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry, Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high; And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call, The wind, wife; the wind, wife: the wind that did it all. The wind, wife, the wind; how it blew, how it blew ; The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it screamed, it crew; And while you moan'd upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright, I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night; It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still,The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that blew us ill! The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows; The wind, wife; the wind, wife; that blew him out to sea! The wind, wife, the wind; now 'tis still, now 'tis still; The wind, wife, the wind: up again, up again! It blew our David round the world, yet shrieked at our window pane; And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow, Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow, It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and cry The wind, wife; the wind, wife; may it blow him home to die. (From "Idyls and Legends of Inverburn." By permission of Mr. Strahan.) MAUD MÜLLER. J. G. WHITTIER. [Mr. Whittier is an American poet of some standing, still living.] MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee But, when she glanced to the far-off town, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest A wish, that she hardly dared to own, The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And blushed as she gave it, looking down He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay 66 Maud Müller looked and sighed : $6 Ah, me! He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. 66 My father should wear a broad-cloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, |