Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved,

As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore.

LXXXIII.

"And Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they; While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there, A plenty horn of jewels. And here I

(Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny,

Which calls them Highland pebble-stones, not worth a fly.

·

LXXXIV.

Still Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico,

The city's delicacy, and the pride

Of our Imperial Basilic; a row

Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,

All down the steps; and as we enter'd, lo! The strangest sight-the most unlook'd-for

chance

All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance.

LXXXV.

"'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court.
At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,
Congées and scrape-graces of every sort,
And all the smooth routine of gallantries,
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall,

Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild

cries

Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.

LXXXVI.

"Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads

Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.

LXXXVII.

"A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion;-she reels,

She falls, she faints! while laughter peals Over her woman's weakness. Where,' cried I, 'Where is his Majesty?' No person feels Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die.

LXXXVIII.

"Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran
To the first landing, where, incredible!
I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,
That vile impostor Hum,-

So far so well,—

For we have proved the Mago never fell

Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence ; And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, Plain in our own original mood and tense, The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis im. mense!"

No more was written.

*

LAMIA.1

PART I.

PON a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,

Before King Oberon's bright diadem,

Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipp'd
lawns,

The ever-smitten Hermes empty left

His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight
Of his great summoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
A nymph to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ;
At whose white feet the languid Tritons pour'd
Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
And in those meads where sometimes she might

haunt,

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,

"This tragedy (King Stephen) gave place to Lamia, a Poem, which had been in hand for some months. He wrote it with great care, after much study of Dryden's composition."-CHARLES BROWN.

Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose.
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
Burn'd from his winged heels to either ear,
That, from a whiteness as the lily clear,
Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair,
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,
And wound with many a river to its head,
To find where this sweet nymph prepared her
secret bed.

In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,

And so he rested on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
There as he stood he heard a mournful voice,
Such as, once heard, in gentle heart destroys
All pain but pity; thus the lone voice spake :
"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake?
When move in a sweet body fit for life,
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife
Of hearts and lips? Ah, miserable me!"
The God, dove-footed, glided silently

Round bush and tree, soft-brushing in his speed
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
Until he found a palpitating snake,

Bright and cirque-couchant, in a dusky brake

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue; Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd; And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—