IN MEMORIAM XV.

To-night the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day:
The last red leaf is whirled away;

The rooks are blown about the skies:

The forest cracked, the waters curled,

The cattle huddled on the lea;

And wildly dashed on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world;

And but for fancies which aver

That all thy motions gently pass
Athwart a plane of molten glass,

I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;
And but for fear it is not so,

The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pour on yonder cloud,
That rises upwards always higher,

And onward drags a labouring breast
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.

A. TENNYSON.

IDEM LATINE.

Nox ruit et tenebris simul increbescere venti
Murmura, composito fusa procella die.
Seræ frondis honos volitare per aera: corvos
Huc illuc rapidi ferre referre noti.
Aridus in silvis sonuit fragor: unda retorsit

Crispa sinum fugit grex trepidatque metu.
Et silvam et turres lato discrimine lucis

Perculit occidui fax fugitiva dei. Sed tu (sic finxisse libet) super æquora vectus Findis iter placidum per speculumque maris. Non aliter perferre queam quo brachia rami

Collidunt strepitu, brachia nuda comis. Quod si certa fides fuerat, mens ægra foveret Hanc nebulam fatis irrequieta suis.

Ecce! laboranti similis sese erigit alis

Vix nebula ignavis, dum magis alta petit. Tandemque Hesperiis immensa extenditur oris : Imminet occiduis ignea turris aquis.

S. H. BUTCHER.

ELEGY ON MRS. KILLEGREW.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much lamented virgin lies.
Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent,
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But like a harden'd felon took a pride

To work more mischievously slow,
And plundered first and then destroyed.
Oh double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died;

Heaven by the same disease did both translate: As equal were their souls so equal was their fate.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the wind displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear

The winds too soon will waft thee here; Slack all thy sails and fear to come,

Alas thou know'st not thou art wrecked at home!

JOHN DRYDEN.

IDEM LATINE.

Ergo tot Veneres, tam vegetum decus,
Vultus eximios, membra decentia,
Summotas oculis Mors rapuit sibi,
Defletam tumulus tegit.

Nec fatum pietas nec retinet lepos :
Nec sors supplicio ferrea simplice
Expletur, neque enim vulneris unici
Ictu corripiut simul

Vitam ipsumque decus; sed magis in scelus
Audax illa mora damna trahit mala,
Et prædata prius quæ cupit improba
Tum demum cumulat nece-

Duplex ausa nefas sacrilega manu,
Foedatis adytis quæ sacra diriput ;
Non Orinda alia vi periit: pari
Ambas implicitas lue

Summovere dei: quasque simillimæ
Conjunxere animæ sors similis tulit.

Armis ipse ferox interea notis

Frater signa faventibus,

Dum currit pelago, dat fluitantia,

Et votum studio suscipit irrito

Demens! pro seditu: mitter puer, preces

Vanas: jam nimium favent

Venti, jamque vehit te citior ratis.
Quin cursum cohibes velaque contrahis.
Te fallis, placido dum frueris mari,

Passus naufragium domi.

S. H. BUTCHER.

LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own-
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story;
An old rude song that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

S. T. COLERIDGE.