His tale in brief (though brevity
He studied not) was that a Pauper,
Who of the parish claimed support,
Pray'd for this bounty in a sort
Most monstrous and improper.

The needy wretch had strongly begg'd
Some pittance to his share might fall;
With which, to manage as he may,
Nor drone his scrap of life away
Within the work-house wall.

This to the man in office seem'd A favour inadmissible.

'Twas casting on the house a slur, And on him too, the officer, Who govern'd it so well.

The applicant of whom he spake,
In hale old age before them stood;
Time had not shorn his temples bare,
But on them his once chesnut hair
In snowy whiteness flow'd.

There was a sparkling in his eyes,
The after-gleam of past enjoyment;
And his complexion, fresh and clear,
Denoted, that in open air
Had lain his old employment.

Upright he stood, and unabashed,
And gave to view a manly frame,
Such as in former times had been
The champion of the village green,
And chief in every game.
VOL. X.

Though age so gently press'd him, he
By accident was not uncross'd;

It was the rougher foe to him,
And robb'd him of a precious limb,
His left-side arm was lost.

Thus maim'd, yet he, you still would say,
From no inglorious stock was bred;
He bore an air of hardihood,

Of freedom breathed from the wild wood,
Where his prime life was led.

With open front he stood a picture
And though his frock gave you to trace,
By the loose dangling sleeve, his loss,
It did not mar his port; he was
A model still of rustic grace.

This thread-bare frock, uncouthly patch'd,
Badge of the craft he erst had plied,

A forest livery had been;

And then in colour 'twas as green
As leaves in summer-tide.

"Twas his to watch the antler'd herd, Which peering pass'd in mute alarm, But as he got into an oak,

A branch decay'd beneath him broke, And thence he lost his arm.

"Well, Arthur," said the Magistrate, "What in thy favour can'st aver? There must, forsooth, be weighty cause To reckon thee, 'gainst parish laws, An out-door pensioner ?"

An' please your honour," quoth old Arthur,

"I know nought of their rules about it;
But this I will make bold to say,
I'd scorn to take the parish pay,
Could I earn bread without it.

"Born in the woods, up from a boy
I've been a roving forester,
And fairly earn'd, till latterly,
My food, and fire, and livery,
By keeping the King's deer.

"Three years are gone since this befel;"
And here he touch'd his empty sleeve.
"And though no longer fit to be
A forest-groom, yet zealously
By my own work I strove to live.

"The ranger gave a bounty, when
From service I was forced to go,
And with it I two years was fed ;
Since which this hand has got me bread,
And that with hard ado.

"Using my wits in works, of which
A one-armed man is capable,
In-shifts to make a livelihood,

I traversed heath, and moor, and wood,
For matters which would sell.

"Revisiting my childish haunts,

I roam'd for wild fruits up and down-
Cull'd under brakes the strawberries red,
And brambleberries overhead,
For market at the town.

"And when the riper autumn came,
Startling the squirrel from their drays,
I shook for nuts the hazel trees,
Or gather'd purple bullaces,
Where Roydon's brooklet strays.

"I cropp'd the whorts upon the moors,
The bashful heathcocks' favourite food;
And pluck'd the pleasant cluster'd fruit
From service-trees of old repute
Within the darksome wood.

"And when it nigh'd to Christmas-tide,
I cut the holly's glorious bough,
To deck our parish-church withal ;~~
And some I carried to the hall,
With merry misletoe.

"Such were my shifts, poor helps they were
For eking out those means of mine :—
But now my wits are at an end,
And I shall thankfully depend
On what your worship may assign.”

Spake the Overseer :- "His worship will
Give us an order to receive you
Into the House."-A spot of ire

Glow'd on the veteran's cheek like fire:
Said he, "My presence would but grieve

you.

"I've lived among the ranging deer,
Till leaves and greensward, air and light,
I almost need as much as they :
And where my blithe companions stray,
Those haunts I cannot quit.

"Your house to me would be a prison; For I've in open forest spent

My threescore years, without controul ;—
No,-give the smallest weekly dole,
And I'll be gratefully content."

"It cannot be," quoth the Overseer.
The Justice nodded in assent,
And said with mildness," That retreat,
From what you apprehend of it,
Will prove far different."

"Be't what it will, it suits not me,—
I'll seek my woodland hut once more.'
So said, so done,—for suddenly,
Not without bow of courtesy,
He sought, and left the door.

Now, whether he, ere this, has swerved
From his so stiff determination,
I cannot say I never knew,-
But oft within my mental view
His image takes its station.

For I was struck at witnessing
The poor man's pertinacious love
For the old dwellers in his haunts-
His dappled friends, the inhabitants
Of the otherwise unpeopled grove.

I loved the heart with which he spake,
Whene'er the Forest roused a thought;
And much desired that it were mine,
To bid him spend his life's decline
Within so dear a spot.

lines are read faster and others slower, it is evident that such verse is regular only in the number of syllables, and does not attain to a musical regularity of quantity, in which every line would occupy precisely the same time. This lessens my esteem for verse. Nevertheless, in many sorts of composition, it is still worth while to write in verse, for the pleasure it gives, as well as for the form's sake. The Italian stanza is coming into fashion, but has this fault, that, for the number of rhymes, it requires so much straining and misplacing of words as to be injurious to correctness. This sextuple rudder of thought does best for those who, in sailing, trust more to the wind than to the compass. If I were to write a tragedy for private perusal, and not for the stage, I think it would be best to take a certain kind of verse which resembles the French Alexandrine, namely, the rhyming couplet of twelve syllables. This is a fine sounding measure, full of declamatory pomp and emphasis, and well fitted for conveying the groans of a labouring bosom. Monotony is no fault in verse, if the meaning be good and full; for the very monotony of verse implies its regularity of measure-one of the greatest perfections. I am tired of the blank verse of ten syllables in trage dies; and poets, by adopting a new measure, should get quit of the old spiritless thoughts connected with this.

Having thus expressed the difficulty which a poetical mind finds in chusing between verse and prose, I shall next speak of the choice of themes for poetry. Here the worst error lies in subjection to the opinion of the public, and a wish to light upon some subject that will be sure of immediately arresting its attention. Whoever seeks to enlarge the boundaries of poetry must proceed upon more dignified principles, and turn disinterestedly towards those subjects his mind most strongly draws him to inquire into. That which is built immediately upon the temporary state of popular opinion produces its strongest effect at the first moment it is brought into contact with the public, but diminishes in power ever after, till it comes to appear empty and unmeaning. Such has been the fate of Lallah Rookh, for instance, and will be of all poems that follow after public opinion, which never yet was capable of

having one clear or fixed idea, or of recollecting what it was doing six weeks before

Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, It rules, in native anarchy, the mind. If the world had obstinacy or perseverance in any thing, it would be an unruly force; but happily it partakes of" semper varia et mutabilis" of the female nature, and its tendencies have the same steadiness as the tumbling of a wave, or the succession of thoughts in a sick man's dream. It is not, therefore, made to be obeyed by those who seek for certainty or real good in any department of intellectual cultivation.

Next to be spoken of is the mode of treating a subject. On this subject I feel not many doubts, being convinced that all large and formal plans are as a snare to the poet, and bring him into saying feeble, false, or unseasonable things, which do not come either from his own genius or from the subject. The best plan is that which results immediately from the nature of the theme, and terminates with it. gance of form, and pure and perfect arrangement, give but small delight in poetry, compared with what they give in music and painting. Poetry must be more versant in the interests of the human affections.

Ele

Of all the poets who write at present, the freest in expressing his thoughts in any way they occur to him, is Lord Byron. The freest inventor of fictions is Sir Walter Scott; but they are expressive only of human character, and not of opinion, which has little connection with the active energy of the olden time. Words. worth's genius does not tend much towards the delights of fiction. Being more fit for meditative self-examination, his thoughts are always called in from inventive flights by an anxious wish to separate truth from falsehood. But his mode of writing is sometimes not entirely freed from something like a puritanical grudge, making him wish still to retain " a stern self-respect," and to take too much pleasure in his own modes of action. One would think it would only be necessary for him to look at those vulgar religionists, who are just, chiefly, for the sake of being proud, and who, although they obey the law, are destitute of all feeling of the beauty of abstract relations; so that they would wish almost to stop at the virtue of mere faith, which is