THE proper name of this writer is Bryan Waller Proctor; but this he converted into the anagram of Barry Cornwall, by which he is best known as a poet. He was born in London, and was educated at Harrow, where, among other school-fellows who gained a high name in society, he numbered Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. Having finished his classical education, he was placed with a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire, to be educated for the bar; but after studying the elements of the law at this place for four years, he changed his purpose, and became the pupil of a conveyancer at Lincoln's Inn, in which profession he finally settled. The poetical tastes and studies of Proctor lay among the great dramatic authors of the Elizabethan period, and accordingly his first publication, which appeared in 1815, consisted of a series of dramatic sketches in which he caught in a great measure the tenderness and gentleness, although not the sublimity and strength, of those great master-spirits. Towards the end of the same year, he published his Sicilian Story. In 1820 appeared his Marcian Colonna, and in the following year his tragedy of Mirandola. He now became a favourite poet with the public, not only on account of the intrinsic merits of his writings, but also in consequence of that charm of deep melancholy with which they are imbued a melancholy too deep and sustained to be fictitious. In him, also, this natural bias seems to determine the selection of his subjects, which are exclusively themes of tenderness and sadness. In private life, as in his poetry, he blends with pensiveness of spirit and gentleness of manners those virtuous and amiable qualities, which have secured for him through life the affection and esteem of every class of society.

THE LAST SONG.

Must it be? Then farewell,

Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long:
Farewell, and be this song

The last, wherein I say, "I loved thee well."

Many a weary strain

(Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath

Utter'd, of Love and Death,

And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain.

Oh! if in after years

The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart,

Bid not the pain depart;

But shed, over my grave, a few sad tears.

Think of me-still so young,

Silent, though fond, who cast my life away,

Daring to disobey

The passionate Spirit that around me clung.

Farewell again; and yet,

Must it indeed be so-and on this shore

Shall you and I no more

Together see the sun of the Summer set?

For me, my days are gone:

No more shall Ì, in vintage times, prepare
Chaplets to bind my hair,

As I was wont: oh, 'twas for you alone!

And on my bier I'll lay

Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,

And, like a broken flower, gently decay.

THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB.

That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East.
-The guards awoke each from his feverish dream
Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd
Through the far citadel, and thousands troop'd
Obedient to its mournful melody,

Soldier and chief and slave: and he the while
Traversed his hall of power, and with a look
Deeply observant glanced on all: then, waving
His dusky arm, struck through the listening crowd
Silence and dumb respect: from his fierce tongue
Stream'd words of vengeance: fame he promised,
And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe
To those who fail'd him.-There he stood, a king
Half-circled by his Asian chivalry,

In figure as some Indian god, or like
Satan, when he beneath his burning dome
Marshall'd the fiery cherubim, and call'd
All hell to arms. The sun blazed into day:

Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war

Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum

Rolling at intervals; the bugle note,

Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on)
The soldiers' silent, firm, and regular tread;

The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel
That, creaking, bore the dread artillery.

How fierce the dark king bore him on that day!
How bravely! like a common slave he fought,
Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on;—
Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he
Kept on, and this look'd nobly-like a king.
That day he earn'd a title with his life,

And made his foes respect him.-Towards night
He
grew faint, very faint with many wounds:
His soldiers bore him in: they wept: he was
Their old commander, and, whate'er his life,
Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was
His wish) they placed him on his throne.-He sate
Like some dark form of marble, with an eye
Staring, and strain'd with pain, and motionless,
And glassy as with death: his lips compress'd
Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute
To die a king. An enemy came, and strove
To tear away his regal diadem:

Then turn'd his eye; he rose-one angry blush
Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword,
And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then
Stood all defenceless-Ah! a flash, and quick
Fled the dark ball of death; right through the brain
It went (a mortal messenger),—and all
That then remain'd of that proud Asian king,
Who startled India far and wide, and shook

The deserts with his thunder, was-a name.

SONG.

Whither, ah! whither is my lost love straying?

Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?

O ye winds! now playing

Like airy spirits round my temples free,

Fly, and tell him this from me :

Tell him, sweet winds! that in my woman's bosom My young love still retains its perfect power;

Or, like the summer blossom

That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower,
Grows with every passing hour.

Say (and say gently) that, since we two parted,
How little joy-much sorrow-I have known;

Only not broken-hearted,

Because I muse upon bright moments gone,
And dream and think of him alone.

317

DESCRIPTION OF PLUTO.

CHORUS.

Behold, behold, Proserpina!

Dark clouds from out the earth arise,
And wing their way towards the skies,

As they would veil the burning blush of day.
And, look! upon a rolling car,

Some fearful being from afar

Comes onward. As he moves along the ground,
A dull and subterranean sound

Companions him; and from his face doth shine,
Proclaiming him divine,

A light that darkens all the vale around.

"Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us
From the depths of Tartarus.
For what of evil doth he roam
From his red and gloomy home,
In the centre of the world,
Where the sinful dead are hurl'd?
Mark him as he moves along,
Drawn by horses black and strong,
Such as may belong to Night
Ere she takes her morning flight.
Now the chariot stops: the god
On our grassy world hath trod:
Like a Titan steppeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
On his mighty shoulders lie
Raven locks, and in his eye
A cruel beauty, such as none
Of us may wisely look upon.

PROSERPINE.

He comes, indeed. How like a god he looks—
Terribly lovely! shall I shun his eye
Which even here looks brightly beautiful?
What a wild leopard glance he has!-I am
Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly?
I will not: yet, methinks, I fear to stay.
Come, let us go, Cyane.

From The Rape of Proserpine.

TRANSFORMATION OF CYANE INTO A FOUNTAIN.

They are gone afar—afar,
Like the shooting of a star:
See, their chariot fades away,
Farewell, lost Proserpina.

(Cyane is gradually transformed.)

But, ah! what frightful change is here?
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear!
We call thee-vainly.-On the ground
She sinks, without a single sound,
And all her garments float around.
Again, again, she rises,-light;
Her head is like a fountain bright,
And her glossy ringlets fall
With a murmur musical

O'er her shoulders, like a river
That rushes and escapes for ever.
-Is the fair Cyane gone?
And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after-times repair,

With heavy heart and weeping eye,
To sing songs to her memory?

From The Rape of Proserpine.