The following Cavalier Song was first given by Motherwell as an original manuscript by Lovelace, accidentally discovered on a fly-leaf of his poems. The story found believers. They ought to have seen that the imitation, though very skilful, was too close. Lovelace was the last man in the world to have repeated his own turns of phrase. A steede! a steede of matchless speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come. And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte brave gallants, all, And don your helmes amaine; Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand- For the fayrest of the land; And hero-like to die! JEANIE MORRISON. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne, 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, "Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time! sad time! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh mind ye how we hung our heads, And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes, The broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back Oh, mind ye, luve, how oft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And we with Nature's heart in tune Concerted harmonies; And, on the knowe abune the burn, I' the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth Unsyllabled, unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine? Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' lang syne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forget. The fount that first burst frae this heart XX. GREAT PROSE WRITERS. LORD BACON-JOHN MILTON-JEREMY TAYLOR-JOHN RUSKIN CONCLUSION. OF the many illustrious prose writers who adorned the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First, Bacon is the one whose shrewdness, and power, and admirable good sense have left the deepest traces in our literature. His Essays are still read with avidity and delight, every fresh perusal bringing forth fresh proofs of his knowledge of human nature and felicity of language. We cannot but be grateful to the author, however we may dislike as a man the treacherous friend of Essex and the cringing parasite of James. I do not know any single passage that more advantageously displays his fulness and richness of thought and of style than this on the use of study. "Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament is in discourse; and for ability is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots, and marshalling of affairs come best from those that are learned. To spend · |