A moment paused, for in

my hand

I bore the dear enchanter's wand,

The artist's pencil,—and he took

One shy glance at the open book

By right of poet's sympathy.

Just then (Oh! strange combining chance

On which a life may rest,

Oh! wonderful ordaining fate,

A moment soon,—a moment late,

And that which is our best,

Poised waiting for us, may elude

Our grasp, and in infinitude

Plunge lost for ages, we may wait

Till far eternity restore

The blessing which time brought no more,)--

Just then-

up walk'd George Vernon --he,

A mutual friend for him and me!

'What, Gabriel here! and Mary too!"-
Then, bowing, as all men should do
Who were not bred at Timbuctoo,
This hearty Artist, known to fame,
Politely interchanged the name

Of each for either, then resumed
The bantering tone he well assumed,
And with a certain humorous grace
He jested on the time and place,
My note-book full of jottings quite
Devoid of sense for vulgar sight,
And Gabriel with the winged feet
Devouring Plato in a London street!

This Vernon, now that even Artists wear

A something of the merchant in their air,
With all free nobleness refined away

From brows whose contour would ill suit the bay,
Had ever somewhat manly in his walk,

A somewhat large and lusty in his talk,
Perhaps a great man miss'd, and yet a hint
Of the true medal struck from nature's mint,
Out of that rarer stuff she sets apart

To fashion her vow'd Hierarchy of art,
Her clear interpreters in paint or verse,
(The special mission graved on the reverse,)
For all art is identical, and sings

On various instruments the truth of things.

If we have hoped from Vernon more than he
Has yet vouchsafed to his own destiny,
We will hope on, for in his vigorous lines
A certain undegenerate promise shines

We ill can spare—

So, o'er the bridge we three

Slowly pass'd on, and Gabriel walk'd by me.

THE COLLEGE.

WHY, Gabriel, why? Thy days were vow'd
To learning, in those ancient halls
Where dropping ivy flings a shroud
Of greenness o'er the old grey walls;
I thought thee sitting at her feet,
And wedded to her stern embrace ;-
Does this high Lady think it meet

That thus thou rove from place to place?
The College dons, they must complain,-
What think those grave neglected books?
But Gabriel, smiling with a stain

Of bitterness in his sweet looks,
"I wanted little of them," quoth he,
"And so they would have none of me.

For what I think I dare to think,
And what I think I dare to say;

So, trenching ever on the brink
Of their good grace, I cast away
On one poor poem, with a shock,
My hard-won fame of scholarship,
And little bewept of hic, hæc, hoc,
I gave my College life the slip.
They did beset my rebel sense

With wisdom of the Founder's times,

They quoted prose, I scarce know whence, I hail'd about their ears with rhymes. Scholarly words they flung at me,

But all the points were rusted off. 'Tis somewhat late in the day," quoth he,

"To level a man with a Roman scoff.

Whatever Cicero thought and said
Does not apply to what I would say ;
We need not summon the 'mighty dead'
In doing the work to be done to-day.
Why should I burden my English head
With rules from the Ars Poetica?"

So much, and more, half false, half true,
A touch of the sore heart stealing thro.'