WILLIE WINKIE.

Wee Willie Winkie
Rins through the toun,
Up-stairs and doun-stairs
In his nicht-goun;
Tirling at the wi low,

Crying at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed, For it's now ten o'clock ?"

"Hey, Willie Winkie,

Are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singing gay thrums

To the sleeping hen;

The dog's speldered on the floor,

And disua gie a cheep:

But here's a wankrife laddie
That winna fa' asleep."

Henry Alford.

Alford (1810-1871) was a native of London. He was the author of "Poems and Poetical Fragments" (1831); "The School of the Heart, and other Poems" (1835); also of many minor pieces in verse. His Life, written by his widow, appeared in 1873. As a divine and a scholar his reputation was high.

A MEMORY.

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light,
The smoothest stream that ever wondered by,
The fairest star upon the brow of night,
Joying and sparkling from his sphere on high,
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye,
The lily pure, the mary-bud gold-bright,
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky
From the dear flutterer mounted out of sight,—
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought,
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm,

As one frail glimpse, by painful straining caught
Along the past's deep mist enfolded calm,
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined,

But rising clearly on the inner mind.

693

Isaac McLellan.

AMERICAN.

Born in Portland, Maine, in 1810, McLellan was educated at Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 1826. He studied law in Boston, but never engaged actively in the profession. In 1830 he published “The Fall of the Indian;" in 1832, "The Year, and other Poems;" and in 1844 a third volume of miscellaneous pieces. He has been for some years a resident of Long Island.

THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

Well do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the summer-time,
And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life,

If thou art sick and weak, or mourn'st the loss
Of brethren gone to that far distant land,
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike,—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest-birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of spring the robin comes,
And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth

Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig,
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field,
And the gay company of reapers bind
The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree
Close at the cornfield's edge.-Lone whip-poor-will,
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.

Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes
His lodging in the wilderness of woods,
And lifts his anthem when the world is still.

Robert Hinckley Messinger.

AMERICAN.

Messinger (1811-1874), a native of Boston, Mass., was educated at the Latin and High Schools. He entered the counting-house of his brother, a New York merchant, and was associated with him several years. Having literary and artistic tastes, he became a man of varied accomplishments, and a favorite in the choicest society. His often-quoted poem, "Give Me the Old," appeared first in the New York American of April 26th, 1838, then edited by Charles King, afterward President of Columbia College. In all American collections, except the present, the poem is marred by the omission of the last four lines, which we have restored. Messinger never aspired to be more than an amateur in poetry. He nev er published a volume, and his verses were all put forth anonymously. The friends to whom he refers in the poem we quote were Walter and William Weyman, of New York; Captain Frederick A. Smith, of the United States Corps of Engineers; and Stuart Maitland, of Scotland, the "alter ego," who resided at the time in New York.

A WINTER WISH.

"Old wine to drink, old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to converse with."-Alfonzo of Castile.

Old wine to drink!

Ay, give the slippery juice,

That drippeth from the grape thrown loose, Within the tun;

Plucked from beneath the cliff

Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,

And ripened 'neath the blink
Of India's sun!
Peat-whiskey hot,

Tempered with well-boiled water!
These make the long night shorter,-
Forgetting not

Good stout old English porter!

Old wood to burn!

Ay, bring the hill-side beech,
From where the owlets meet and screech,
And ravens croak;

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet!
Bring, too, a clump of fragrant peat,

Dug 'neath the fern!

The knotted oak!

A fagot too, perhap,

Whose bright flame dancing, winking,
Shall light us at our drinking;

While the oozing sap

Shall make sweet music to our thinking!

Old books to read!

Ay, bring those nodes of wit,

The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, Time-honored tomes!

The same my sire scanned before,

The same my grandsire thumbéd o'er, The same his sire from college boreThe well-earned meed

Of Oxford's domes;(Old Homer blind,

Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by

Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie,-) Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie; Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay, And Gervase Markham's venerie!

Nor leave behind

The Holye Booke by which we live and die!

Old friends to talk!

Ay, bring those chosen few,

The wise, the courtly, and the true,
So rarely found!

Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud

In mountain walk!

Bring Walter good,

With soulful Fred, and learned Will;
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still
For every mood!)—

These add a bouquet to my wine!
These add a sparkle to my pine!
If these I tine,1

Çan books, or fire, or wine be good?

Frances Anne Kemble.

A daughter of Charles Kemble, the actor, and niece of the more distinguished Mrs. Siddons and John Philip Kemble, Fanny, as she was called, was born in London in 1811. She became an actress, and made quite a hit as Bianca in Milman's "Fazio;" also in the Julia of Knowles's "Hunchback." In 1832 she visited the United States with her father, and brought out these and other plays at the principal theatres with success. She married Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia; but in 1849 was divorced, and resumed her family name. She has written 1 In Scotch, to tine is to lose. See its use by Richard Gail, page 331.

plays, poems, and books of travel; and late in life an interesting account of her own career and varied experiences. She has shown superior talents in her varied productions.

LINES WRITTEN IN LONDON. Struggle not with thy life!-the heavy doom Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave: Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb Thou shalt go crushed and ground, though ne'er

so brave.

Complain not of thy life!--for what art thou

More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not

weep1

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow, And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life!-patience shall see

The perfect work of wisdom to her given; Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT. The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love!

Those happy hours, when down the mountain-side
We saw the rosy mists of morning glide,
And, hand-in-hand, went forth upon our way,
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat We sought the water-fall with loitering feet, And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love;

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky, Alike without a cloud, without a ray, The round red autumn moon came glowingly, While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way.

The hours are past, love;

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those blessed hours when the bright day was past, And in the world we seemed to wake alone, When heart to heart beat throbbingly and fast, And love was melting our two sonls in one.

Arthur Henry Hallam.

Hallam, who was born in London in 1811, and died in Vienna in 1833, was a son of the eminent historian, Henry Hallam. He distinguished himself at Eton, and at Trinity College, Cambridge; and was the author of several essays and poems full of promise, which were collected and published by his father in 1834. Betrothed to Emily Tennyson, a sister of the three poets, he was the subject of Alfred's "In Memoriam." He had been one of Coleridge's favorites, and at Abbotsford became known to Sir Walter Scott. Lockhart says of him: "Mr. Hallam had with him his son Arthur, a young gentleman of extraordinary ability, and as modest as able." Politics, literature, philosophy, he discussed with a metaphysical subtlety marvellous in one so young. His father, who was devotedly attached to him, and in whose arms he died, said, "He seemed to tread the earth as a spirit

695

Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour,
One to another down the grassy walk.
Hark! the laburnum from his opening flower,
This cherry creeper greets in whisper light,
While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night,
Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore.
What shall I deem their converse? Would they hail
The wild gray light that fronts yon massive cloud,
Or the half bow, rising like the pillared fire?
Or are they sighing faintly for desire
That with May dawn their leaves may be o'erflowed,
And dews about their feet may never fail?

TO ALFRED TENNYSON.

Fitzmaurice Hallam, who also died young.

SONNETS.

O blessing and delight of my young heart,
Maiden, who wast so lovely and so pure,
I know not in what region now thou art,
Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.
Not the old hills on which we gazed together,
Not the old faces which we both did love,
Not the old books whence knowledge we did gather,
Not these, but others now thy faucies move.
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,
All thy companions with their pleasant talk,
And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears;
So, though in body absent, I might walk
With thee in thought and feeling, till thy mood
Did sanctify my own to peerless good.

Still here-thou hast not faded from my sight,
Nor all the music round thee from mine ear:
Still grace flows from thee to the brightening year,
And all the birds laugh out in wealthier light.
Still am I free to close my happy eyes,
And paint upon the gloom thy mimic form,
That soft white neck; that cheek in beauty warm,
And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies:
With, oh! the blissful knowledge all the while
That I can lift at will each curvéd lid,
And my fair dream most highly realize.
The time will come, 'tis ushered by my sighs,
When I may shape the dark, but vainly bid
True light restore that form, those looks, that smile.

The garden trees are busy with the shower That fell ere sunset: now methinks they talk,

Sitting beneath a mossy, ivied wall

On a quaint bench, which to that structure old
Winds an accordant curve. Above my head
Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves,
Seeming received into the blue expanse

That vaults this summer noon. Before me lies
A lawn of English verdure, smooth and bright,
Mottled with fainter hues of early hay,
Whose fragrance, blended with the rose-perfume
From that white flowering bush, invites my sense
To a delicious madness,-and faint thoughts
Of childish years are borne into my brain
By unforgotten ardors waking now.
Beyond, a gentle slope leads into shade
Of mighty trees, to bend whose eminent crown
Is the prime labor of the pettish winds,
That now in lighter mood are twirling leaves
Over my feet, or hurrying butterflies,
And the gay humming things that summer loves,
Through the warm air, or altering the bound
Where yon elm-shadows in majestic line
Divide dominion with the abundant light.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

Thackeray (1811-1863), eminent as a novelist and a humorist, was a native of Calcutta. With his widowed mother he came to England in 1817, was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and subsequently studied at Weimar. He inherited a small fortune, but lost most of it in bad investments. He was also lavish in donations to the needy. At one time he gave the impecunious Dr. Maginn five hundred pounds. Thackeray first became known through his contributions to Fraser's Magazine, under the pseudonyme of Michael Angelo Titmarsh. He had first aspired to be an artist, but his drawings lack the right touch. In 1847 appeared his novel of

"Vanity Fair,” and this was followed by others equally popular. In 1851 he appeared as a lecturer, and in 1855'56 repeated his lectures successfully in the United States and Canada. For two years (1860-'62) he conducted The Cornhill Magazine; but his many literary schemes were frustrated by his sudden death in 1863. Thackeray is entitled to distinct fame as a poet. In some of his poems he shows genuine power, tenderness, and pathos. He was a man of noble impulses, benevolent, charitable, and affectionate-a generous foe and a devoted friend. He died in bed, alone and unseen, struggling, as it appeared, with a violent spasmodic attack which had caused an effusion on the brain.

LITTLE BILLEE.

There were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea,
But first with beef and captain's biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest, he was little Billee.
Now, when they got as far as the equator,
They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender,
We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

"Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie."
When Billy received this information,
He used his pocket-handkerchie.

"First let me say my catechism,

Which my poor mammy taught to me." "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersee.

So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment, When up he jumps: "There's land I see:

"Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee: There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

But when they got aboard of the admiral's,

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a seventy-three.

AT THE CHURCH GATE. Although I enter not,

Yet, round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover,

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster bell,
The organ 'gins to swell-
She's coming-coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast ;
She comes-she's here-she's past-
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint,
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer,
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A street there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—-
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;

The which in youth I oft attended,
To cat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.