that deserve the comparative praise of good than any other modern writer except Shelley and Tennyson. There is a sort of literary insincerity about Barry Cornwall's verse that found no counterpart in the beautiful character of Mr. Procter. We wonder at rapturous addresses to the ocean, 'I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be,' from the landsman who could never, in the course of a long life, venture on the voyage from Dover to Calais, and at bursts of vinous enthusiasm from the most temperate of valetudinarians; but the poet would have defended his practice by his own curious theory that 'those songs are most natural which do not proceed from the author in person.' Procter's verse has been much admired and much neglected, and will never, in all probability, gain the ear of the public again to any great extent. His merits are more than considerable, but the mild lustrous beauty of his verse is scarcely vivid enough to attract much attention. There would be more to say about his writings if they were less faultless and refined. EDMUND W. GOSSE. FOR MUSIC. Now whilst he dreams, O Muses, wind him round! Into his charmed sleep all visions fair! So may the lost be found, So may his thoughts by tender Love be crowned, And with its beams adorn The Future, till he breathes diviner air, In some soft Heaven of joy, beyond the range of Care! THE SEA. The Sea the Sea! the open Sea! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love (oh! how I love) to ride I never was on the dull tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea! A BACCHANALIAN SONG. Sing! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The VINE, boys, the VINE! O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink!-Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah! who is this maid of thine? The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she, Than vine can be, And very very good company! Dream!-who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine? 'Tis WINE, boys, 'tis WINE! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company. A REPOSE. She sleeps amongst her pillows soft, Hang flutes and folds of virgin white: She sleepeth wherefore doth she start? All day within some cave he lies, Far fading when the dawning skies Our souls with wakening thoughts array. Two Spirits of might doth man obey; By each he's wrought, from each he learns: The one is Lord of life by day; The other when starry Night returns. INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN. Rest! This little Fountain runs Nor the cold of winter days. Lest he may not slake his thirst: He will find this little river Running still, as bright as ever. Let him drink, and onwards hie, Bearing but in thought, that I, EROTAS, bade the Naiad fall, And thank the great god Pan for all! Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings: Our ambition, our content Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, |