unworldly motives--in all holy impulses--in all chivalrous, generous,
and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman--in
the grace of her step--in the lustre of her eye--in the melody of her
voice--in her soft laughter, in her sigh--in the harmony of the rustling
of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments--in her
burning enthusiasms--in her gentle charities--in her meek and devotional
endurances--but above all--ah, far above all, he kneels to it--he
worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
altogether divine majesty--of her love.

Let me conclude by--the recitation of yet another brief poem--one very
different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
of the old cavalier:--

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor call
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and poling crye,
Our business is like men to fight.

OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)

IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple
love of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
sentiment _inspired_ _by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as
a merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure,
he would be apt to speak of the quaint in p