might have been taken bodily out of Marston. There is no doubt that Death's Fest Book is a poem which will reward perusal; it can scarcely be said to invite it. The plot is founded on the story of a Duke Boleslaus of Münsterberg in Silesia, who was killed by his court-fool in 1377. Some months before Beddoes actually commenced the composition of the piece, he wrote, in one of his charming letters, the following extremely sage words about the mode in which to approach modern tragedy: 'Say what you will, I am convinced the man who is to awaken the drama must be a bold trampling fellow, no creeper into wormholes, no reviver even, however good. Such ghosts as Marlowe, Webster, etc., are better dramatists, better poets, I dare say, than any contemporary of ours, but they are ghosts; the worm is in their pages; and we want to see something that our great-grandsires did not know.' It would have been salutary indeed for the poor poet himself to have practised what he preached; as it is, nothing is more curious than the contrast between what he wished to do and what he did. Death's Fest Book is the most eminent specimen existing of poetical spirit-rapping; those very ghosts, whose presence on the modern boards Beddoes so wisely deprecated, were called up more lustily and pertinaciously by none than he. Sometimes, as notably in the scene where the Duke watches by his wife's grave, the modern poet almost attains to the genuine horror of his master's touch, but even here something mechanical reminds us of the deception. In Death's Fest Book, as elsewhere in Beddoes, the lyrics appear to me fresher and more enjoyable than the blank verse, and some of the grim and humorous songs have the spell of real genius upon them. That containing the stanza

From the old supper-giver's pole

He tore the many-kingdomed mitre;
To him, who cost him his son's soul,
He gave it, to the Persian fighter,'

seems to me of an extraordinary force and horror. My friend Mr. Browning, from whose subtle pen we may yet hope to receive the final and authoritative judgment on Beddoes, informs me that many songs of this ghastly comic cast still remain unprinted, and throw an interesting light upon the character of this problem of a poet.

EDMUND W. Gosse

DIRGE FOR WOLFRAM.

[Death's Jest Book, Act ii.]

If thou wilt ease thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep;

And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;
Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes

The rim o' the sun to-morrow,

In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;

'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And there alone, amid the beaming

Of Love's stars, thou 'lt meet her
In eastern sky.

SONG.

[Torrismond, Sc. iii.]

How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere

Of a new-fall'n year,

Whose white and sable hours appear

The latest flake of Eternity :

:

So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love, again?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain

Of evening rain

Unravelled from the tumbling main

And threading the eye of a yellow star :So many times do I love again.

AMALA'S BRIDAL SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act iv.]

Female Voices.

We have bathed, where none have seen us,
In the lake and in the fountain,

Underneath the charmëd statue

Of the timid, bending Venus,

When the water-nymphs were counting In the waves the stars of night,

And those maidens started at you, Your limbs shone through so soft and bright. But no secrets dare we tell,

For thy slaves unlace thee,

And he, who shall embrace thee,
Waits to try thy beauty's spell.

Male Voices.

We have crowned thee queen of women,
Since love's love, the rose, hath kept her
Court within thy lips and blushes,
And thine eye, in beauty swimming,
Kissing, we rendered up the sceptre,
At whose touch the startled soul

Like an ocean bounds and gushes,

And spirits bend at thy control.
But no secrets dare we tell,
For thy slaves unlace thee,

And he, who shall embrace thee,

Is at hand, and so farewell.

ATHULF'S SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act iv.]

A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet, A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet,

A bridal bed and a bier.

Thine be the kisses, maid,

And smiling Love's alarms;
And thou, pale youth, be laid
In the grave's cold arms.
Each in his own charms,
Death and Hymen both are here;
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear:
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Now tremble dimples on your cheek,
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,
For he who kisses is near:

By her the bride-god fair,

In youthful power and force;

By him the grizard bare,

Pale knight on a pale horse,
To woo him to a corse.

Death and Hymen both are here,
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear :
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tornb.

SAILORS' SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act i.]

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er ;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen mermaids' pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny. way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons' azure day,

Like mighty eagle soaring light

O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

HESPERUS' SONG.

[From The Bride's Tragedy, Act i.]

Poor old pilgrim Misery,

Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech-owl's cry,
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant grey hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined;
And his cry it was ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me!