diæval poets, indeed, we have more allegory and elaborate symbolism than metaphor and pathetic fallacy-our science and our popular theology setting themselves alike in opposition to our poetic insight and aspirations-so that our poets, striving to link the two spheres of the universe together, do it in a confused, halting manner, like children stealing a forbidden pleasure when the eye of the governing 66 How full is the sunlight blaze upon their golden peristyles under the blue sky overlooking the blue sea! how black and sharp-cut the shadows beside them! There is sorrow and fate with the Greeks as with others; but it stands by itself, quite apart from the joy. In a Gothic cathedral all is dusk, sublime, mysterious, teeming with vague symbol-at once secretion and food of the imagination. Light and shadow are married and min-intellect is for a moment turned away. gled; the light is dim and religious; derives a spiritual glory from its very fellowship with darkness; while the gloom becomes half luminous and opalescent from its fellowship with the light. "Our sweetest songs," the modern poet sings, "are those that tell of saddest thought." And yet, with respect to Homer, does not even Homer take the heart-broken old man, when he leaves the tent of Agamemnon empty-handed, back by the shore of the πολυφοίσβοιο θαλάσσης ? Has this magnificent epithet for the sea no reference to the lonely, stormful, sorrowful spirit of the old man as he walked by the long, lone surges of it? This surely is not a purely physically-descriptive epithet, like οίνοπα πόντον. But go on to Eschylus, and what will Mr. Ruskin say to his ȧvýpoμov yéλaoua, "the innumerable smile or laugh of the sea?" In Theocritus, again, assuredly metaphor and pathetic fallacy may be found (notably in the first idyl). The pathetic fallacy in Shakespeare's exquisite poem, "Venus and Adonis," ""No grass, herb, leaf, or weed but stole his blood and seemed with him to bleed; this solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth," etc., is adapted directly from the Sicilian poet Bion's "Lament for Adonis." Again, that beautiful poem of Moschus-the Epitaph of Bion-(3d idyl) abounds in similar pathetic fallacy. Do not Virgil and Catullus (no mean poets, surely) abound in graphic and appropriate poetic metaphors? Mr. Tennyson's dividing the swift mind in act to throw," in "Morte d'Arthur," is of course from Virgil. Let us pass to Christian poetry. We have shown that we shall be more likely to find these forms of thought in modern than in classical poetry, and that by no means because modern taste is more vicious, but because the very conditions of life and thought are changed. In the early me 66 But the colossal poem of Dante forms, we may say, one grand sustained metaphor. And realistic Chaucer too, has he not written "The House of Fame," "The Flower and the Leaf," "The Romaunt of the Rose?" But Petrarch is full of metaphor and pathetic fallacy proper, as, had we space, we might prove. Coming on to Shakespeare, in him these tendencies of thought and feeling already assume their modern expression. Confining ourselves to his sonnets and poems, we open them almost at random; and in "The Rape of Lucrece" we find "a voice dammed up with woe;" sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words;" and the line which we regard as one of the intensest in poetry, "Stone him with hardened hearts, harder than stones," which, moreover, will remind the intelligent of a very modern and very metaphorical great poet, Shelley. In the description of the hare-hunt in "Venus and Adonis "-as incisive, as clear-cut in its workmanship as any gem intaglio-the phrase occurs, "Each envious briar." In the sonnets we have "The earth doth weep the sun being set." Endless instances might be quoted from Ben Jonson, Fletcher, Drayton, Drummond, and the lesser Elizabethan writers. But in some of these, legitimate outgrowth of metaphor degenerates into parasitic conceit, as it did too often in our own socalled "spasmodic" poets: and yet in neither case did our literature touch the base and frigid affectations of such writers. as are lashed in the "Dunciad" of Pope. It seems, however, as if our criticism had of late too much confounded legitimate and genuine metaphor, illustrative of the poet's main design, with mere disconnected conceits of a nimble ingenious fancy. But we have only to compare two poems, alike sensuous and rich in imagery, to feel the difference, namely, the "Venus and Adonis" of Shakespeare, and the trated many works of widely varied char"Hero and Leander" of Marlowe. PAUL GUSTAVE DORÉ. acter, such as Don Quixote and the Wan RODEN NOEL.dering Jew, Baron Munchausen, Rabelais, Balzac in one extreme, and in the other the numerous scenes in Bible history and Dante's Inferno, with such consummate skill and genius, that able critics cannot easily decide in what themes or subjects lies the palm of highest merit. His studio in Paris is described to be an extended museum of costumes and personal ornaments and weapons, ever worn by men of renown, as suggestive of all forms which his fertile imagination may call into artistic existence. His mother keeps house for him in Paris, where In the present number of THE ECLECTIC MAGAZINE we send to our readers a fine portrait of the celebrated artist, Gustave Doré. He was born in the city of Strasbourg about the year 1833. At the age of twelve years he left his native city and came to Paris, where he was employed in comic illustration for a comic newspaper. His striking illustrations for the Wandering Jew first brought him into public she presides as the only lady present notoriety as an artist of unusual genius at the weekly gatherings of his friends. and merit. His fruitful and versatile Doré himself seems to be a confirmed imagination creates at will with wonder- bachelor, quite unwilling that his mind ful rapidity all sorts of beautiful draw- and time would be taken up with the ings to which he plies his pencil. His beautiful forms of the better half of drawings already amount to more than creation. forty thousand. His fame has excited the attention of the Emperor and Empress of France, who graciously granted him an audience. He has made himself the most popular artist in modern France. In this respect and in others he may well deserve to be called the Thörwaldsen of art drawings, as Thörwaldsen was of statuary creations, whose vast collections of works fill immense galleries at Copenhagen for the admiration of all visitors and travellers. Gustave Doré is a man of extraordinary genius. His pencil seems never to tire night or day, while he pursues his favorite employment in the world of art. He seems to be one of those men, of native and original genius, who now and then suddenly start up, meteor - like, to attract the gaze of the world. The creations of his exhaustless fancy have illus Some years since he was employed to furnish illustrations in Bible history, in which he showed extraordinary talent, and was eminently successful. It is remarkable that his illustrations of the Bible should have induced so many persons to read the Word of God for the sake of understanding the force and beauty of the illustrations, who, but for these, might have never become Bible readers at all.. "God Creating Light," "The Creation of Eve," "The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden," "The Sacrifice of Abel and Cain," are among the displays of his bold creative genius in illustrating Bible history. This brief sketch of Doré may suffice to give the reader some impression of his character as an artist of still rising and advancing fame. It will add interest to the portrait at the head of this number. A FATAL STEP. POETRY. I'm not the sort of man, you know, Her dress the sweetest ever put on. Her dress I only set my foot on. It was a silly step to take; And half the room was in a titter I wonder why the women wear them. For folks to tread upon and tear them. She smiled; but oh! in such a manner. Farewell, said I, my only chance Of Coote or Godfrey, Strauss or Lanner. I think I blushed-I know I bowed And raised my erring patent-leather; I stayed an hour; I talked a bit Were kind enough to think me witty. The pangs that lay beneath my laughterPangs that were only stifled then To sting the more for ever after. The season's nearly at an end (There's joy, at least, in that reflection!) A continental tour may tend To dull the edge of recollection. I might, perchance, in other climes Forget my sense of self-abhorrence; Should peace return with better times And clear again the way to Florence. H. S. L. -London Society. CRADLE SONG. SLEEP, my childie, sleep, I' the hush of evening deep! Gone the last long lingering beam From where the tender speedwells dream Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: The drowsy birdies keep More silence-rare the cuckoo's note, Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: Sleep, my childie, sleep: The summer breath can steep All sights and sounds in hallowed rest; Beneath, far setting toward the West, Rich seas of pasture swoon to mist. Sleep, my childie, sleep: Rare does the swallow sweep Now lilied pools for dragon-flies Nor orange mouths that gape supplies While the dam greets with twittering cries. Sleep, my childie, sleep; Still soft the marten's cheep Below the eaves from rustic nest Sleep, my childie, sleep! No more, but nestle to the wing Whose darkness ne'er to them can bring Sleep, my childie, sleep; Our earth-born clouds must weep Her Father's wing those shadows throw; -Macmillan's Magazine. FALSE ! I. RODEN NOEL. Then to steal down the street to a garden, As solemn and square as a tomb- I could not resist it-that garden, And there at a window, a curtain By accident only a corner The branch of the sycamore raised, • Ah! never did man in Ravenna And form of the Italian mould. She heard not, she saw not my coming, The grapes she was poising reflected A moment, and only a moment, And out of the scene of the moment A picture it slowly has made Of the face and the fruit it bent over, A picture that never will fade"The Epergne" is the name that I give it, This picture that never can fade. -London Society. W. S. TRUE CHIVALRY. [IN the cholera wards of the London Hospital, in a scene of suffering and death sufficient to try the stoutest heart, a lady-volunteer nurse has passed her time since the beginning of the epi demic, moving from bed to bed in ceaseless effort to comfort and relieve. So very youthful and so very fair is this devoted girl, that it is difficult to control a feeling of pain at her presence under such circumstances. But she offered her help at a time when, from the sudden inroad of cases, such assistance was urgently required, and nobly has she followed her self-sought duty. Wherever the need is greatest, and the work hardest, there she is to be seen toiling until her limbs almost refuse to sustain her. And the effect of the fair young creature's presence has been that the nurses have been encouraged by her never-failing energy and cheeriness, so that dread of the disease has been lost in efforts to combat it. This is an instance of devotion which it would be an insult to praise-it need only be recorded. Lancet.] LISTEN, where o'er startled Europe, As of thunder heard afar! Hark, how each disputes the glory; Flash for each a transient fame! Let them vaunt their fatal conquests; Not be shrined in grateful song? Not amid the din of battle, Proudest victories are won: Lo, where Cholera's fainting victims Death the stoutest heart appals! 'Midst the horrors rampant there, Moves with noiseless step a maiden, Gentle, young, and passing fair. Like a ray of heavenly mercy, Tender, steadfast, meek, and calm, She around each couch of anguish Sheds sweet Pity's priceless balm. Beaming in a halo round her, Sympathy's divinest grace Lends to all a new-born courage, Lights with love that loathsome place. Brave, serene, her self-devotion, Eager in the fearful strife, Tend the maiden's efforts still; BY VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE. UNDER this title, a volume of very instructive poems, beautifully printed by Macmillan & Co., of London, has just been issued from the press. Its noble author, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, has justly earned the appellation of "England's great Ambassador," by a long and very useful life in the diplomatic service of his country, of more than half a century. Entering upon an Ambassador's life fifty-eight years ago, he has represented England in all the leading courts of the world, and was Minister at Washington in 1820, when John Quincy Adams was Secretary of State. He was present at the memorable Congress of Vienna in 1815 by order of the English Government, and is now, we believe, the only survivor of that august assembly. He is still an active and influential member of the House of Lords, although in his seventy-ninth year. He has been the honored compeer of many eminent statesmen on both sides of the Atlantic, who have long since left the world, while his Lordship still lingers at this advanced age, to give to the world of letters an instructive volume of eighty poems, of varied character, selected from the ample stores of his gifted pen, which have been accumulating as the fruits of his poetic genius along his extended diplomatic life. His Lordship has kindly sent us a copy, accompanied with a note expressive of the interest he feels in the affairs of our country. Lord Stratford de Redcliffe is especially worthy of honor from Americans, not only from his warm advocacy of civil and religious freedom in general, but for his long and very efficient protection of the missionaries of the American Board at Constantinople, as well as by his great influence with the Turkish Government, in procuring the abolition of the death penalty for the subjects of the Sultan, on changing their religion. A fine portrait of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe adorned THE ECLEC TIC for June, 1865. We learn in the preface that the poems comprising the volume were written at various intervals during a long course of serious and sometimes very responsible occupations in the public |