Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy.-

There are no ghosts to raise ;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue?
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,

And breathe thy last.

So out of Life's fresh crown

Fall like a rose-leaf down.

Thus are the ghosts to woo; Thus are all dreams made true, Ever to last!

Dirge.

No tears, no sighings, no despair,
No trembling dewy smile of care,
No mourning weeds,
Nought that discloses

A heart that bleeds;

But looks contented I will bear,

And o'er my cheeks strew roses.
Unto the world I may not weep,
But save my sorrow all, and keep

A secret heart, sweet soul, for thee,
As the great earth and swelling sea-

A Crocodile.

Hard by the lilied Nile I saw

A duskish river-dragon stretched along,
The brown habergeon of his limbs enamelled
With sanguine almandines and rainy pearl :
And on his back there lay a young one sleeping,
No bigger than a mouse; with eyes like beads,
And a small fragment of its speckled egg
Remaining on its harmless, pulpy snout;
A thing to laugh at, as it gaped to catch
The baulking, merry flies. In the iron jaws
Of the great devil-beast, like a pale soul
Fluttering in rocky hell, lightsomely flew
A snowy troculus, with roseate beak
Tearing the hairy leeches from his throat.

'Bona de Mortuis.'

Ay, ay: 'good man,' 'kind father,' 'best of friends'
These are the words that grow, like grass and nettles,
Out of dead men, and speckled hatreds hide,
Like toads, among them.

Mr Gosse edited Beddoes's Poems in 1890, and his Letters in 1894.

Robert Montgomery (1807-55) was even in his own time generally known as 'Satan Montgomery, not from any reflection on his character -for he was a much-respected and beloved clergyman; nor from any presumed affinity with the Satanic school-since he stood at the literary and theological antipodes; but from the ill-omened name of his most famous poem, and an amiable desire to distinguish him from the even more universally respected James Montgomery. 'Satan' had indeed no hereditary right to the name of Montgomery, having been unfortunate in the circumstances of his birth. The natural son of a

clown in the Bath theatre and of a local schoolmistress, he was originally called by his father's name of Gomery till he himself thought well to expand it, for the greater dignity, into the more aristocratic Montgomery, after having begun at a Bath school to distinguish himself by verses that brought him local credit. At seventeen he founded a short-lived weekly paper; at twenty he published The Stage-Coach, a poem, and The Age Reviewed, a satire on his own times. Next came The Omnipresence of the Deity (1828), which inside a year ran through eight editions. A volume containing A Universal Prayer, Death, A Vision of Heaven, and A Vision of Hell was treated by Bowles, Crabbe, and Southey as the work of a poet of promise. The Puffiad was accepted as smart satire; the publication of Satan, or Intellect without God (1830), was the crisis of his fortunes. The thesis was highly approved by pious people, and the poem ran rapidly through several editions. Then arose Macaulay in the might of his wrath, and volunteered to the editor of the Edinburgh Review to do the best satire could accomplish towards annihilating a wretched poetaster of the name of Montgomery, who has written some volumes of detestable verses on religious subjects,' which had had an immense sale through puffing and what we would now call log-rolling. The review undertaken in this spirit (April 1830) hardly attempted an 'appreciation' of the work; it is remarkable neither for insight nor fair-play. But as a characteristic specimen of a scathing exposure of actual demerits, Macaulay's skilful and brilliant and effective piece of destructive criticism has become an English classic; and as surely as many of the minor poets of Pope's time are remembered only as they appear in his pillory, so certainly is Robert Montgomery known to new generations by Macaulay's representation of him. But it did not at once kill Montgomery's popularity. The Omnipresence of the Deity reached a twenty-eighth edition before the middle of the century, and selections from his works were repeatedly reissued.

In the year of the denunciatory review Montgomery went up to Lincoln College and became duly hall-marked B.A. (1833) and M.A. of Oxford. His ordination (1835) and probation as curate were followed by a call to an Episcopal chapel in Glasgow (1836); from 1843 till his death he served a chapel in St Pancras parish. He was a popular preacher, and devoted himself mainly to pastoral and philanthropic work, the only nameworthy poems after Oxford (1831) being The Messiah (1832) and Woman, the Angel of Life, and other Poems (1833).

Montgomery's Devil is unlike Luther's, Milton's, Fielding's, Goethe's, Hauff's, Marie Corelli's, in many things, and amongst others in that the whole poem of over five thousand lines is one continuous monologue by Satan himself—continuous save for the formal division into three books. And the

sentiments, so far from being like what one might expect from the Prince of Darkness, are for the most part eminently worthy of a sound Christian divine; nine-tenths of the opinions put into Satan's mouth are doubtless those actually cherished by Montgomery in his own proper character. In the first book Satan takes a hasty survey of the inhabited world, from China, Babylonia, and Egypt to America, making a few suitable remarks on each country, partly descriptive, partly critical. In Spain the Inquisition is commented on unfavourably, in France the excesses of the Revolution, in the United States slavery. Only very rarely the Fallen Angel recalls the fact that he had seen better days. He somewhat more frequently hints, as in the second book, that he now finds his account in vice and crime; yet in discussing ambition, pride, envy, avarice, selfishness, vengeance, hypocrisy, and their evil consequences, he says very much what every good man with a turn for blank verse might say. The third book deals more specifically with the seamy side of English civilisation, progress, commerce, and society with luxury, selfishness, the trampling down of the poor by those in haste to be rich, the vice of the Court, the shallowness and falseness of social circles, and 'the dark mysteries of life ;' and only now and again comes a hint that this state of things is more favourable for the schemes of hell than the maintenance in England of a 'paradisal' purity. A sketch of the Creation, the fall of man, and the scheme of redemption is given incidentally. Many of the observations are shrewd, the reflections are often relevant and sensible, and the criticisms just. Occasionally there is eloquence and a certain vigour and felicity of expression and rhythmical swing. There are occasional passages distantly resembling Thomson's Seasons, and many much in the key of Pollok's Course of Time. But the plan involves inevitable tedium; there is material for many, many edifying sermons, a good deal that is (or is very like) poetry, and not a little bathos, intensified by a free use of the 'poetic diction' Wordsworth's soul abhorred, and by such locutions as 'twinkless stars' for stars that are not shining, sumless angels' for the innumerable host, aidless (unaided), kindless (unkind), viewless, tombless, &c. There is endless repetition; sunrise and sunset, twilight and moonlight, are described over and over again; and Montgomery rings the changes on such phrases as 'darkly wild,' ' fiercely wild,' &c. In the dedication he hopes his song may not unawake a gentle sigh.' Yet there are many passages that explain how Satan passed through many editions while the Course of Time was still popular.

Satan's View of England.

Heaven-favour'd land! of grandeur, and of gloom, Of mountain pomp, and majesty of hills, Though other climates boast, in thee supreme A beauty and a gentleness abound;

Here all that can soft worship claim, or tone
The sweet sobriety of tender thought,
Is thine the sky of blue intensity,

Or charm'd by sunshine into picture-clouds,
That make bright landscapes when they blush abroad,-
The dingle grey, and wooded copse, with hut
And hamlet, nestling in the bosky vale,
And spires brown peeping o'er the ancient elms,
And steepled cities, faint and far away,
With all that bird and meadow, brook and gale,
Impart, -are mingled for admiring eyes
That love to banquet on thy blissful scene.

Satan describes the Sunset.

But lo! the day declines, and to his throne
The sun is wheeling. What a world of pomp
The heavens put on in homage to his power!
Romance hath never hung a richer sky,—
Or sea of sunshine, o'er whose aureate deep
Triumphal barks of beauteous foam career,
As though the clouds held festival, to hail
Their god of glory to his western home.
And now the earth is mirror'd on the skies!
While lakes and valleys, drown'd in dewy light,
And rich delusions, dazzlingly array'd,

Form, float, and die in all their phantom joy.
At length the Sun is throned; but from his face
A flush of beauty o'er Creation flows,
That brightens into rapturous farewell!
Then faints to paleness; for the day hath sunk
Beneath the waters, dash'd with ruby dyes,
And Twilight in her nun-like meekness comes;
The air is fragrant with the soul of flowers,
The breeze comes panting like a child at play,
While birds, day-worn, are couched in leafy bowers,
And, calm as clouds, the sunken billows sleep :
The dimness of a dream o'er Nature steals,
Yet hallows it; a hush'd enchantment reigns;
The mountains to a mass of mellowing shade
Are turn'd, and stand like temples of the night;
While field and forest, fading into gloom,
Depart, and rivers whisper sounds of fear.-
A dying pause, as if th' Almighty moved
In shadow o'er his works, hath solemnised
The world!-

An English National Rejoicing. How gloriously the festive bells resound! Pealing their gladness through the azure night, As though the triumph of ten thousand hearts In full-voiced chorus shook the starry air, And made it joyous music! Now they swell Aloft, in one tempestuous wave of sound, Then faintly die, like war-notes on the wind, Then on again! with an ecstatic roar, Thrilling the empire with a brave delight.

England hath laid her sceptre on the deep, And with her thunder chased her ocean-foes Like leaves before the breathing of a blast! England hath rear'd her banners on the plain Of battle, Victory waved them, and the world Again shall echo with her haughty name. And hence a stormy rapture shakes the isle ; Hence the loud music of her hollow fanes, Whether in cities emulously tower'd Among the skies, or in lone hamlets seen,

Still pouring out the language of the land;
With all those pageantries, and fiery pomps
That hang and glitter from her window'd piles,
Emblazed with mottoes, and triumphal scenes.

Not one to whom the name of country clings
With spelling fondness but this hour adores.
The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,-lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fullness of this warlike joy.
Yea, hollow cheeks of Sadness, and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!

The Other Side.

Hither, thou frantic Bacchanal! whose voice
Rings loudest, stand upon the hoof-scarr'd heath,
And say if Heaven on such a scene can smile.
Here, deep as in thine own exulting land,
Night reigns; but not with noon-like azure crown'd,
While starry sympathies, all gaily bright,
Look down on gladness: but with sullen calm,
Where Weariness hath toned the wind, and stars
Are mournful watchers o'er the trodden dead,
In tombless havoc weltering on the plain.

Each heart that 's cold, to other hearts was chain'd,
Whose links were out of years of fondness framed.
Each eye, now darken'd with eclipsing death,
Once beam'd the sun of happiness and home;
Each of the dead hath flung a shade o'er life,
Henceforth to be a feast for agony.

Mark where the moon her glimm'ring languor throws,
What death-romance! what visions of the slain !-
One calmly brow'd, as though his native trees
Had waved their beauty o'er his dying head;
Another marred with agonising lines,
And dreams of home, yet ling'ring in his face.
Now go, and sing the splendour of the war!
Go, tell the fortress of the brave and free,
How beautiful her patriotic roar
Of Victory, shouting o'er the new-made dead,
Like Madness, when she, hoots a murderous joy :
So shall a war-fame flourish ever green,
And laurell'd History be trumpet-tongued,
To fire Ambition with a bloody thirst,
And keep the world a slaughter-house for man!

Satan in London.

But hail, thou city-giant of the world! Thou that dost scorn a canopy of clouds, But in the dimness of eternal smoke For ever rising like an ocean-steam, Dost mantle thine immensity, how vast And wide thy wonderful array of domes, In dusky masses staring at the skies! Time was, and dreary solitude was here; When night-black woods, unvisited by man, In howling conflict wrestled with the winds. But now, the storm-roll of immingled life Is heard, and, like a roaring furnace, fills With living sound the airy reach of miles! Thou more than Rome! for never from her heart Such universe-awaking spirit pour'd As emanates from thine. The mighty globe Is fever'd by thy name; a thousand years,

And silence hath not known thee! What a weight
Of awfulness will doomsday from thy scene
Derive; and when the blasting trumpet smites
All cities to destruction, who will sink
Sublime, with such a thunder-crash as thou!

Myriads of domes, and temples huge, or high,
And thickly wedded, like the ancient trees
That in unviolated forests frown;
Myriads of streets, whose river-windings flow
With viewless billows of unweary sound;
Myriads of hearts in full commotion mix'd,
From morn to noon, from noon to night again,
Through the wide realm of whirling passion borne,—
And there is London, England's heart and soul.
By the proud flowing of her famous Thames
She circulates through countless lands and isles
Her greatness; gloriously she rules,

At once the awe and sceptre of the world.

Satan describes the Opera. The second are a sensual tribe, Convened to hear romantic harlots sing On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze, While the bright perfidy of wanton eyes Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire.

Satan sympathises.

In a lone chamber, on a tatter'd couch

A dying painter lies. His brow shows young
And noble; lines of beauty on his face
Yet linger; in his eye of passion gleams
A soul, and on his cheek a spirit-light
Is playing, with that proud sublimity

Of thought, that yields to death but gives to Time
A Fame that will avenge his wrongs, and write
Their history in her canonised roll

Of martyrs :-be it for his epitaph,

He lived for genius, and for genius died!

So sad and lone !-wall'd in by misery,
With none to smooth his couch, or shed the tear
That softens pain,-uncheer'd, unwept, unknown,
And famish'd by the want of many days,-
Hither, Ambition; wisdom breathes in woe.

The Felon's Death.

To die

A malefactor's death,-to be the gaze,
The damned, hideous, and detested gaze
Of thousands, staring out their hungry eyes
To glut their wonder, while on tiptoe placed,
To see the spirit gasping from his throat,
And chronicle his agony; to live

A ballad-hero, in the creaking rhymes
Of vagabonds, and have his felon name
From lip to lip thus vilely bandied out,
For vulgar warning,-O ye sinless days
Of childhood; O ye hours of love and home,
And summer dreams, by haunted wood or wild,
And blessings nightly murmur'd from the lip
Of parents,-glory of remember'd days!

Of Macaulay's famous review fully a half concerns dishonest reviewers and reviewing in general. In the other he seeks rather laboriously to convict Montgomery of plagiarising from Dryden, Pope, Crabbe, Campbell, Scott, and Byron; does certainly not quote his best passages; and contemptuously and somewhat hypercritically dissects his mixed metaphors and bombastic phrases.

Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797-1839), author of 'We met 'twas in a Crowd,' and hundreds of other popular songs, was the son of a wealthy Bath lawyer, had earls and baronets for cousins, and, as his biographer expressly says, 'was nurtured in the lap of luxury.' From Winchester he passed into his father's office, then spent three years at Oxford with a vague view to the Church, but in 1826 married a pretty Irish wife and became a popular poet. Unhappily his own fortune and his wife's were sunk in unprofitable speculations: he had to live by literature, and wrote too much, sometimes manifestly against the grain; and spite of his popularity, misfortune and ill-health dogged his steps in his later years. 'I'd be a Butterfly' was one of his first successes; The Aylmers and A Legend of Killarney were his principal stories in prose. Of his thirty-six dramatic pieces, a few may yet be read with a little patience, but even Perfection, produced by Madame Vestris, is forgotten-still more The Proof of the Pudding and Tom Noddy's Secret. But most people familiar with collections of 'Standard English Songs' carry in their heads a small anthology of his lyrics-'The Soldier's Tear,' 'She wore a Wreath of Roses,' ‘O no, we never mention her,' 'We met 'twas in a Crowd,' Gaily the Troubadour touched his Guitar,' Shades of Evening, close not o'er us,' 'I'm saddest when I sing,' 'Lilla's a Lady,' 'I'll hang my Harp on a Willow Tree,' and 'The Misletoe Bough.' He was probably the most successful song-writer of the age next to Moore-his songs and short poems count by hundreds; for some of his songs he composed the tunes (notably 'The Troubadour' and 'We met'). But Sir Henry Bishop set about a hundred and twenty of them to music, and other distinguished and popular composers-Balfe, Sir John Stevenson, Callcott, Barnett, J. P. Knight, C. E. Horn, T. Cooke-were glad to associate their melodies with his verse. Some of his best were translated into Latin (by Archdeacon Wrangham), French, German, Spanish, and Italian. Yet the bulk of his songs are now unsung and unread, and there are well-appointed modern libraries that have no copy of the poems of one whom a contemporary French critic pronounced the English Anacreon. In many, doubtless, spite of unmistakable deftness, metrical ease, and sprightliness, the sentiment was too sentimental, the ecstasy of joy and grief a shade conventional even when it was the expression of a real and sincere feeling. Of his innumerable society verses, the titles and subjects show that the interest was trifling, the wit forced or commonplace-This is my eldest Daughter, sir,' 'My Wife is very musical,' 'Not at Home,' 'I must come out next Spring, Mamma,' 'The Black-ball'd Man,' 'The Old Bachelor;' and the persiflage about rouging, false teeth, elegant. shoes and corns, the effect of dances and of seasickness on ladies' complexions, is a little tire

some, and at times not quite impeccable on the score of good taste. Prayers, elegies, verses, and other like solemnities are rarely but oddly mixed on the same page with jingles about county balls, picnics, Lord and Lady Hogsnorton, and other frivolities. But there is a vein of real and stern satire in 'The Absentee,' written against heartless Irish landlords in the time of the Famine :

And own that Erin is too fair for thee,
Deserter! Renegade! and Absentee !

and the pathos, tenderness, sad and serious reflection, are often, but not always, quite genuine, spontaneous, and natural, though seldom able to stir other hearts.

Old Age sits bent on his Iron-gray Steed. Old age sits bent on his iron-gray steed,

Youth rides erect on his courser black; And little he thinks, in his reckless speed,

Old age comes on in the very same track!
Though one seems strong as the forest tree,
The other infirm and wanting breath;
If ever youth baffles old age, 'twill be
By rushing into the arms of death.

And youth will quaff, and youth will feast,
His lagging foe he'll still deride;
Until, when he expects him least,

Old age and he stand side by side.
He then looks into his toilet-glass,
And sees old age reflected there;
He cries, Alas! how quickly pass

Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair!'

Of what is the Old Man thinking? Of what is the old man thinking,

As he leans on his oaken staff? From the midday pastime shrinking, He shares not the merry laugh. But the tears of the old man flow, As he looks on the young and gay: And his gray head, moving slow,

Keeps time to the air they play : The elder around are drinking,

But not one cup will he quaff,
Oh! of what is the old man thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff?
'Tis not with a vain repining

That the old man sheds a tear;
'Tis not for his strength declining,
He sighs not to linger here.
There's a spell in the air they play,

And the old man's eyes are dim,
For it calls up a past May-day,

And the dear friends lost to him. From the scene before him shrinking, From the dance and the merry laugh, Of their calm repose he is thinking, As he leans on his oaken staff.

Lord Harry has written a Novel
Lord Harry has written a Novel,

A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,

No sketch of a commoner's wife :

No trash such as pathos and passion, Fine feelings, expression, and wit; But all about people of fashion.

Come look at his caps, how they fit.

Oh Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were striplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.
But past are thy terrible touches,

Our lips in derision we curl,
Unless we are told how a Duchess
Convers'd with her cousin the Earl.
We now have each dialogue quite full
Of titles- I give you my word,
My Lady, you're looking delightful;'

'Oh dear! do you think so, my Lord?'
'You've heard of the Marquis's marriage,
The bride with her jewels new set,
Four horses, new travelling-carriage,
And déjeûné à la fourchette.

Haut Ton finds her privacy broken,

We trace all her inns and her outs;
The very small talk that is spoken

By very great people at routs.
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the Innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.

Bayly's works were edited by his widow, with a Memoir (2 vols. 1844); and see Andrew Lang's Essays in Little (1891).

John Abercrombie (1780-1844), after Dr Gregory's death the chief consulting physician in Scotland, secured extraordinary credit as an author by two works on The Intellectual Powers (1830) and The Moral Feelings (1833), without psychological value or philosophical insight, but substantially 'sound' and enlivened by illustrations from pathological mental cases. The son of one of the ministers of Aberdeen, he studied there and at Edinburgh, where from 1804 onwards he rose to eminence in his profession. He wrote also books on the pathology of the brain and of the stomach, and a volume of Essays and Tracts.

Sir David Brewster (1781-1868), born at Jedburgh, was educated for the Church of Scotland at the University of Edinburgh; but his nervousness disqualifying him for a clerical career, he became editor in 1802 of the Edinburgh Magazine, and in 1808 of the Edinburgh Encyclopædia. He was already deep in optics; the kaleidoscope was invented by him in 1816, and in 1843 and 1844 he improved Wheatstone's cumbrous stereoscope by means of refracting lenses. One of the chief originators of the British Association (1831), in 1815 he was elected F.R.S. and Copley medallist; in 1818 the Rumford medal was awarded him for his discoveries on the polarisation of light; in 1832 he was knighted, and had a pension conferred upon him; in 1838 he was appointed Principal at St Andrews; in 1849

he was elected a foreign associate of the French Institute; and he was Principal of Edinburgh University from 1859 till the last year of his life. Among his works were an edition of Legendre's Geometry, translated by Thomas Carlyle (1822); the standard Life of Newton (1828; enlarged ed. 1855); Letters on Natural Magic, addressed to Sir Walter Scott (1831); Martyrs of Science (1841); More Worlds than One (1854); and treatises on the kaleidoscope and various subjects in optics. The Home Life of Brewster, by his daughter, Mrs Gordon (1869; 3rd ed. 1881), is a worthy monument to him.

Michael Faraday (1791-1867) was born, a blacksmith's son, at Newington Butts near London, and at thirteen was apprenticed to a bookbinder. He began early to make experiments in chemistry and electricity, and, attending Sir Humphry Davy's lectures, took notes which he transmitted to Sir Humphry, desiring his assistance to 'escape from trade and enter into the service of science.' By Davy he was appointed chemical assistant in the Royal Institution in 1813; in 1827 he succeeded to Davy's chair of Chemistry there; and he was made F.R.S. in 1824, D.C.L. in 1832. In 1831 the first series of his Experimental Researches in Electricity and Physics was read before the Royal Society a work which was continued to 1856. For many years he gave lectures at the Royal Institution, eminently popular from the happy simplicity of his style and his successful illustrations, in spite of the fact that the subjects were far from simple or at first sight attractive. He was not merely one of the greatest of discoverers in the realm of physics, but one of the most successful popularisers of science, and well deserved the pension granted in 1835. He was a simple, gentle, cheerful man of genius, a Sandemanian of strong religious feeling and unassuming manners. Tyndall pronounced Faraday the greatest experimental philosopher the world has ever seen, and classified his principal discoveries under four heads magno-electric induction, the chemical phenomena of the current, the magnetisation of light (which,' said Tyndall, I should liken to the Weisshorn among mountains-high, beautiful, and alone'), and diamagnetism. Other physicists credit him with at least a dozen discoveries of the first importance in these departments of research. In Faraday's opinion, it required twenty years of work to make a man in physical science, the previous period being one of infancy. While lecturing before a private society on the element chlorine, Faraday made a memorable remark : 'Before leaving this subject I will point out the history of this substance, as an answer to those who are in the habit of saying to every new fact, "What is its use?" Dr Franklin says to such, "What is the use of an infant?" The answer of the experimentalist is, "Endeavour to make it useful." Among his famous works were his lectures on The Non-metallic Elements and The