several times over before we see it as it is. This assurance lends fresh hope to the interest which waits on his future—the future of a very young man, who is not above painstaking and self-discipline—yesterday drudging in the shawl-manufactory, and to-day feasting with barons high in the ducal towers of Inverary—for
his soul is rich,
And this bis book unveils it» as the night
Her panting wealth of stars.
May that future correspond with his avowed resolve to "go forth 'mong; men, not mailed in scorn, but in the armour of a pure intent;" and with the spirit of those lines in which he makes Walter repress his greed of mere Fame[1] ("next grandest word to God!"), and, in riper purpose, reason thus with life:
Great duties are before me and great songs,
And whether crowned or crownless, when I fall
It matters not, so as God's work is done.
I've learned to prize the quiet lightning-deed,
Not the applauding thunder at its heels
Which men call Fame.
In a narrow cell sat one who was a prisoner for life. Around him were the four dingy walls, covered with great black characters, scratched thereon at sundry times with bits of charcoal: but there was no pleasure in reading these hieroglyphics, for they were the fruit of solitude and melancholy, whose heavy, heavy thoughts had thus expressed themselves. High up was placed the little window, the only connexion with life—with nature—and with the heavens; but the black iron bars kept watch over that, and obscured the clear daylight. The links of his chain, round his hand and his foot, kept the prisoner bound in his dreary cage, but they could not fetter the soul's deep longing after liberty.
Days and years had passed in this gloomy cell. A charming, fresh summer's morning it was, when the door of this prison was first closed on him, and when he was told that Death alone should set him free. Here he had remained ever since; severed from the rest of mankind, shut up from them as if he had been a wild beast; and their farewell words to
- ↑ Thus last line is perhaps unsurpassed by any in the volume. It Is one of many which are likely to be thence elected into the society of our stock quotations. If but for some half-dozen of these alone, the poet may securely aver, non omines moriar.
I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool—so tries
Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands
By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx,
Staring right on with calm eternal eyes. (p. 6.)
