Ah, surely there is wonder and strange stir
Amid Earth's guardian gods, when the last goal
Hath gained the crown, and to Earth's sepulchre
We bear the way-worn chariot of the soul!
And surely here a memory shall last,
In hill and grove and torrent, of this day,
For bards to glean who can: and they shall sing
How the sweet singer passed
Forth to his rest with war about his way
And a dread mask of Ares menacing!
So far as I can learn, Scott Craven wrote nothing—at all events he printed nothing—after he doffed his civilian habit and became a captain in the Buffs. His 'Joe Skinner,' which was published over eleven years ago, before he had made a reputation as an actor, is the tale of a man,
So good and kind-hearted, so meek and so mild,
With the face of a satyr, the heart of a child,
who died broken and in poverty, a pariah, and misjudged by reason of the sinister sneer, belying his character, that was stamped on his face from birth—a tale in the Ingoldsby manner, told with much of Barham's irresponsible humour and rhyming and metrical cleverness, with
