and his express copies from nature too literal and real.  He was a softer sort of Gainsborough, with more than his grace, and with not a little of his taste for scattering happy and characteristic groups among landscape scenes—­but, it must be added, with only a far-off approach, to the strength of that great master.  That, had his life been prolonged, he would have risen to very high distinction, cannot be doubted.  It was his generous dream, we are told, to acquire a competency by painting commissions, and then dedicate his time and pencil to historical compositions,—­a dream which many artists have dreamed; but his works have little of the epic in them.  Nature gave him good advice, when she directed his steps to the surf-beat shore, and bade him paint the swelling tide, the busy boats, fishermen drying their nets, and the sea-eagle looking from the rock upon his wide and, to him, fruitful dominion.”

* * * * *

MISS KEMBLE’S TRAGEDY.

FRANCIS I.

  I passed him with his train,
  The gathering crowd thronging and clamouring
  Around him, stunning him with benedictions,
  And stifling him with love and fumes of garlic;
  He, with the air he knows so well to don,
  With cap in hand, and his thick chestnut hair
  Fann’d from his forehead, bowing to his saddle,
  Smiling and nodding, cursing at them too
  For hindering his progress—­while his eye,
  His eagle eye, well versed in such discernment,
  Roved through the crowd; and ever lighted where
  Some pretty ancle, clad in woollen hose,
  Peeped from beneath a short round petticoat,
  Or where some wealthy burgher’s buxom dame,
  Decked out in all her high-day splendour, stood
  Showing her gossips the gold chain, which lay
  Cradled upon a bosom, whiter far
  Than the pure lawn that kerchieft it.

A BEAUTY.

  Had a limner’s hand
  Traced such a heavenly brow, and such a lip,
  I would have sworn the knave had dreamt it all
  In some fair vision of some fairer world. 
  See how she stands, all shrined in loveliness;
  Her white hands clasped; her clustering locks thrown back
  From her high forehead; and in those bright eyes
  Tears! radiant emanations! drops of light! 
  That fall from those surpassing orbs as though
  The starry eyes of heaven wept silver dew.

A BETROTHED LOVER’S FAREWELL.

  Ay; but ere I go, perchance for ever, lady,
  Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles,
  Where thousands strew’d the earth, have christen’d it
  The Frenchman’s grave; I’d speak of such a theme
  As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than
  Its name gives promise.  There’s a love, which born
  In early days, lives on through silent years,
  Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow,
  When it shows brightest:  like the