Not half a dozen, I think, out of his own family, were aware, during the whole period in which he was employed on his "Ferdinand and Isabella," that he was occupied with any considerable literary undertaking, and hardly anybody knew what it was. Most of his friends thought that he led rather an idle, unprofitable life, but attributed it to his infirmity, and pardoned or overlooked it as a misfortune, rather than as anything discreditable. On one occasion a near connection, whom he was in the habit of meeting in the most familiar and pleasant manner at least once a week, affectionately urged him to undertake some serious occupation as a thing essential to his happiness, and even to his respectable position in society. And yet, at that moment, he had been eight years laboring on his first great work; and, though thus pressed and tempted, he did not confess how he was employed.

He was sensitive from his very nature as well as from the infirmities that beset him; and this sensitiveness of temperament made it more than commonly disagreeable to him to have his exact habits interfered with or intruded upon. But he did not willingly permit his annoyance to be seen, and few ever suspected that he felt it. When he was riding or taking his long walks, he was, as we have seen, in the habit of going over and over again in his memory whatever he might last have composed, and thus correcting and finishing his work in a way peculiarly agreeable to himself. Of course, under such circumstances, any interruption to the current of his thoughts was unwelcome. And yet who of the hundreds that stopped him in his daily walks, or joined him on horseback, eager for his kindly greeting or animated conversation, was ever received with any other than a pleasant welcome? During one winter, I know that the same friend overtook him so often in his morning ride, that he gave up his favorite road to avoid a kindness which he was not willing to seem to decline. His father and he understood one another completely on this point. They often mounted at the same time, but always turned their horses in different directions. Nor was there in his intercourse at home or abroad-with strangers or with his familiar friends-any noticeable trace of the strict government to which he subjected his time and his character. In his study everything went on by rule. His table and his papers were always in the nicest order. His chair stood always in the same spot, and-what was important in the same relations to the light. The furniture of the room was always arranged in the same manner. The hours, and often even the minutes, were counted and appropriated. But when he came out from his work and joined his family, the change was complete,-the relaxation absolute. Especially in the latter part of his life, and in the cheerful parlor of the old homestead at Pepperell, surrounded by his children and their young friends, his gay spirits were counted upon by all as an

unfailing resource. The evening games could not be begun, the entertaining book could not be opened, until he had come from his work, and taken his accustomed place in the circle which his presence always made bright.

Lydia Huntley Sigourney.

BORN in Norwich, Conn., 1791. DIED at Hartford, Conn., 1865.

On! on! Creation's secrets probe,
Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
All glorious,—yet forlorn.

DE

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

EATH found strange beauty on that polished brow
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip.

He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set

His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile

So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,

Death gazed-and left it there. He dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

BERNARDINE DU BORN.

KING HENRY sat upon his throne,

And full of wrath and scorn,

His eye a recreant knight surveyed-
Sir Bernardine du Born.

And he that haughty glance returned,
Like lion in his lair,

And loftily his unchanged brow

Gleamed through his crisped hair.

"Thou art a traitor to the realm,

Lord of a lawless band,

The bold in speech, the fierce in broil,

The troubler of our land;

Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers,

Are forfeit to the crown,

And thou beneath the Norman axe

Shalt end thy base renown.

"Deignest thou no word to bar thy doom,
Thou, with strange madness fired?
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?"
Plantagenet inquired.

Sir Bernard turned him toward the king,
He blenched not in his pride;
"My reason failed, my gracious liege,
The year Prince Henry died."

Quick at that name a cloud of woe
Passed o'er the monarch's brow,
Touched was that bleeding cord of love,
To which the mightiest bow.
Again swept back the tide of years,
Again his first-born moved,

The fair, the graceful, the sublime,
The erring, yet beloved.

And ever, cherished by his side,
One chosen friend was near,
To share in boyhood's ardent sport
Or youth's untamed career;

With him the merry chase he sought
Beneath the dewy morn,

With him in knightly tourney rode,
This Bernardine du Born.

Then in the mourning father's soul

Each trace of ire grew dim,

And what his buried idol loved

Seemed cleansed of guilt to himAnd faintly through his tears he spake, "God send his grace to thee,

And for the dear sake of the dead,

Go forth-unscathed and free."

THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD.

[The Western Home and Other Poems. 1854.]

THE spears at Corrichie were bright,

Where, with a stern command, The Earl of Huntley ranged his host Upon their native strand.

From many a Highland strath and glen They at his summons came,

A stalwart band of fearless men,
Who counted war a game.

Then, from Edina's royal court

Fierce Murray northward sped,

And rushed his envied foe to meet
In battle sharp and dread.

They met, they closed, they struggled sore,

Like waves when tempests blow,

The slogan-music high in air,

The sound of groans below.

They broke, they wheeled, they charged again, Till on the ensanguined ground

The noble Gordon lifeless lay,

Transpierced with many a wound.

Long from her tower his Lady looked:

"I see a dusky cloud,

And there, behold! comes floating high

Earl Huntley's banner proud."

Then, deep she sighed, for rising mist
Involved her aching sight;

'Twas but an autumn-bough that mocked
Her chieftain's pennon bright.

His mother by the ingle sate,

Her head upon her knee,

And murmured low in hollow tone, "He'll ne'er come back to thee."

"Hist, Lady, mother! hear I not
Steed-tramp and pibroch-roar?

As when the victor-surf doth tread
Upon a rocky shore ?"

Not toward the loop-hole raised her head
That woman wise and hoar,

But whispered in her troubled soul,

"Thy Lord returns no more!

"A funeral march is in my ear,

A scattered host I see,"

And, straining wild, her sunken eye

Gazed out on vacancy.

Back to their homes, the Gordon clan

Stole with despairing tread,

While to the vaults of Holyrood

Was borne their chieftain dead.