Martin Luther.

Luther Eleutheros! thou lion-heart,

Call'd by a name predestined to be Free,
Nobly thou didst the Christian warrior's part,—
Paul and Ignatius fought again in thee:
My glorious namesake, what a praise to me,
By nation, name, and nature too, thou art,
Martin Eleutheros! my Saxon chief!

I, too, would scorn to bend a slavish knee,

Or bate one tittle of my firm belief,

Or seem some other than I boast to be

No human master's servant: in thy strength,

The ROCK OF AGES, is my spirit strong;

And resolutely will I lead along,

Like thee, for truth, and good, and God at length!

The Mau about Town.

Evil-eyed loiterer, pilgrim of fashion,
Sunless and hard is thy frost-bitten heart;
Scoffing at nature's affection and passion,
Till thou hast made the sad angels depart :
Sinner and fool! to be searing and sealing

All the sweet fountains of spirit and truth—
Quick to be free from the freshness of feeling,

Swift to escape from the fervours of youth.

Woe to thee-woe! for thy criminal coldness;
Oh, I could pity thee, desolate man,
But that those eyes, in their insolent boldness,
Tempt me to scorn such a state, if I can:
Wearied of hunting the shadows of pleasures,
Thou art half dead in the prime of thy days,
Emptied of Heaven's and Earth's better treasures,
Victim and slave to the world and its ways!

Early and late at thy dull dissipation,
Listlessly indolent even in sin,

What is thy soul but a pool of stagnation,
Calmness without, and corruption within ?
Happiness, honour, and peace, and affection—
These were thy heritage every one,—
But as thou meetest them all with rejection,
They have rejected thee, Prodigal Son!

O that humility, gracious as duteous,
Lighten'd those eyelids so heavy with scorn!
O that sincerity, blessèd as beauteous,

Gilded thy night with the promise of morn!
Frankness of mind is the best of high breeding-
Kindness of soul the true Gentleman's part;
And the first fashion all fashions exceeding,
Is the warm gush of a generous heart!

King Veric.

(Suggested by a gold British coin, unique, of VERIC REX, found among some Roman remains at Farley Heath.)

Veric the King, in his chariot of war,
Like a statue straight upstood,

As his scythèd wheels flash'd fast and far,
Smear'd with the Romans' blood;

His huge bronze celt was crimson with gore,
And, round his unkempt head,

The golden fillet his fathers wore

Was dabbled with drops of red!

And rage in the monarch's eye blazed bright,
And his cheek was deadly pale,

For Plautius Aulus had won the fight
With his mighty men in mail:

The carross of hide and the wicker targe
Were riddled far and near;

And terrible was the prætorian charge,
And keen the cohort's spear!

And over the hurt-wood, and over the heath,

Alone-alive he fled;

For the car bore straight to his stronghold of Leith

The living-and the dead!

Young Mepati lay at his father's feet,

Hew'd by the ruthless foe;

And the bloodhound may track on the trickling peat

The pathless way they go!

Young Mepati-well had he borne him then,

On Fair-lee's fatal day,

He boasted that ten of those bearded men

Had vanish'd from the fray;

His flinthead shafts went merrily home,
As four hard hearts had felt;

And six of the stalwarth guards of Rome
Had bow'd to the stripling's celt!

Young Mepati, come of the Comian stock,—
Ha! look! they hem him round,

And down is he hurl'd in the battle shock,
And trampled to the ground,-

But Veric has seen with his lightning eye,
And struck as the bolt, goodsooth!
Like thundering Thor with his hammer on high,
He has saved the gallant youth!

But, woe! for the foe had smitten him sore;
And eight deep wounds in his front
With red lips swore how well the boy bore
That hideous battle brunt!

Proudly the monarch smiled on the child,
In his rescuing arms upborne,-
But-all of his son that Veric has won
Is a corpse by the tigers torn!

Then, deep as the ocean's distant roar,

The father gave a groan;

And the Attrebate king by his gods he swore He should not die alone!

Back on their haunches swift he stopp'd

Those untamed fiery steeds;

As an eagle down on the dovecote dropp'd,
Or a whirlwind in the reeds!

And, was it then that the monarch's life
By the Waverley witch was charm'd?
The javelin sleet of that stern strife
Around him flew unharm'd!

And weary he cleft with his wedge of war
The hundredth foreign brow,
Before he would flee in his iron car,
As he is fleeing now!

For lo! to that false foe he has lost
All that a king can lose;

His veteran chiefs, his patriot host,

Scatter'd as early dews:

Treason had wink'd at the stranger's gold,
And faithless friends had fled,-

And Mepati's self-his darling bold-
Alas! that he is dead.

He flies, as only a king may fly,

In obstinate despair,

On his hill-top high like a lion to die

At bay in his own lair!

And lo! the black horses are white with foam,

Strong straining up the steep;

To carry the king to his ancient home,
Yon far-seen castle keep!

But-woe upon woe! for the wily foe

Hath been before him there,

And while the lion was prowling below,
Hath spoil'd the lion's lair;