A CENTO OF MODERN VERSE.

On our way to the South of France, about two years since, we were induced by the beauties of the Loire to linger for some time on the banks of that noble river. From Orleans to the sea, we visited every town of importance, and examined every château of note-now pausing enraptured amidst the palaces of the house of Valois, and anon gazing with profoundest interest on the crumbling remains of the feudal dwellings of our own Plantagenets. On the walls of those cities and towers is written the history of France, from the time of Charles Martel to that of Louis XIII.; and, passing over the epoch of Versailles, we find the darkest pages of her annals inscribed on the stones of Nantes, and signed by the hand of Carrier.

The pictured story of the Loire has two sides-one bright and gorgeous in its hues, the other gloomy and terrible. The splendours of art and the noblest deeds of arms attract us first. The tapestry is reversed, and crime of the deepest dye has marred every graceful line and blurred every glowing tint. Not a single object on which we gaze but is associated with some tale of blood-whether we penetrate the dungeons of Loches, traverse the glittering chambers of Blois, or stand abroad in the open air and watch the course of that revolutionary torrent which swept thousands at once to their doom. In vain we smile on the heroic achievements of the peerless Maid, or the gallant efforts of the brave Vendéens; the sigh still rises as we think of the tortures of the iron cage, the groans of the murdered Guises, and the drowning cries of the victims of the pitiless noyades.

The sun shines brightly as ever on the dancing waters of that famous river, and cruelty still dwells upon its shores-the cruelty of a whole people centred in one small spot. Two years ago this thought was uppermost in our minds as we stood upon one of the bridges which partially cross the Loire, and looked upwards intently on the antique battlements of the old castle of Amboise. As we followed the irregular outline of the building, our glance at last fell on a massive round tower at one extremity, surmounted by a kind of modernised pavilion, the windows of which were visible for their entire length above the low parapet. One of these windows was open, and, seated at a table on which some papers were scattered, we could perceive a figure wrapped in a white bornoose, apparently lost in thought, for his head was raised, and not a limb stirred. It was a prisoner whom we saw, and that prisoner was the Emir Abd-el-Kader, the victim to his own high sense of honour, and the living evidence of the breach of faith of a nation which has ever claimed to esteem honour above all other virtues. He had then been a captive about twenty months-in the lazaretto of Toulon, in the fortress of La Malgue, in the birthplace of Henri Quatre, and now within the walls of that castle which witnessed the butchery of the Huguenot prisoners after the famous " Conjuration d'Amboise." He had barely surrendered, and had time to learn that there was that in Europe which shamed the "Punica Fides" of old, when France arose to shake off the manacles with which she deemed herself fettered. She gained her liberty, such as

it was the liberty of a drunken Helot-but Abd-el-Kader was "a prisoner still;" and in the midst of all her bloody struggles her eye glanced backward fearfully, to assure herself that the African chieftain was still in chains. Orleanist, Legitimist, Bonapartist, or Red Republican, it was the same with all; none felt for the noble captive, none felt for the honour of France. One heart, perhaps, that beat in the bosom of the highest-placed, once a prisoner himself; but his will was power

less.

Twenty months more have gone by since we stood on the old bridge of Amboise, and where is Abd-el-Kader? Look carefully along the time-worn battlements, and his form may be descried pacing the narrow limits of the cell in which he yet lingers. There has been no change of opinion to benefit him. In the very last debate in the Assembly, when every orator in turn proclaimed his political doctrines, the name of Abdel-Kader-thrown like a shell into the Chamber-exploded amidst shouts of derisive mirth; that name which should have chilled them all to silent shame was laughed at as an object of scorn. Laugh on, high-souled patriots, but in your laughter remember that there breathes no meaner thing on earth than the promise-breaker.

In giving utterance to these sentiments, we are fully impressed with the conviction that they are not ours alone, but are shared by the great majority of our countrymen. Could we doubt it, the picturesque and glowing verse of Viscount Maidstone* is before us to attest how deeply a generous sympathy has taken root. He has shown himself its most eloquent exponent, and we rise from his pages with a feeling of pleasure such as very few poems of recent date have excited; charmed not only with the brilliant imagery, the vivid description and the copious flow of language which everywhere abound, but spirit-stirred by the genuine feeling which o'er-informs the whole and testifies to the noble source from whence it sprang.

In his brief but modest preface Lord Maidstone says, that "an author is singularly fortunate who finds such a hero as the Numidian Emir as yet unappropriated by others." This may be true, but we look upon it as equally fortunate for his readers that so gifted a writer as Lord Maidstone should have selected the theme to which he has here done justice. If anything besides the actual subject were necessary to commend the poem to the public, it might be found in the additional reason which Lord Maidstone gives, that it was intended "as a tribute to the memory of a dear friend (the late Lord George Bentinck), whose premature death has been the cause of many heavy hearts among all classes of Englishmen." He dedicates his poem, accordingly, to the memory of that lamented statesman, whose character he ably paints in a few vigorous but harmonious lines, and then addresses himself to his labour of love, the illustration of the struggles of the great African warrior.

"Abd-el-Kader" is no [epic poem, neither is it written in the heroic measure consecrated to epics. It is rather a picturesque and shifting narrative in ballad-metre of the leading events of a remarkable period, in

* Ad-el-Kader. A Poem in Six Cantos, by Viscount Maidstone. London: Chapman and Hall, Piccadilly.

which in its main features the truth of history is preserved, while with the tale a thread of fiction is interwoven, slight of texture, but by no means devoid of interest. Lord Maidstone, notwithstanding his skill in turning the ballad-metre to his purpose, has strong misgivings respecting the form in which he has cast his poem, and though there are precedents -to a certain extent-for the course he has adopted, we ourselves think he would have done better had he chosen a more sustained measure. But, apart from the difficulties which he has had to surmount, and which are inherent to this form of rhythm-with the accent falling on the penultimate in every alternate line as a principal obstacle,-Lord Maidstone has been eminently successful, nor did we suppose, till we had fairly gone through the poem, that the structure of his verse would have borne him so well to the end.

Observant of the Horatian maxim not to commence with the exordium of the "Scriptor cyclicus," though he sings "the fate of Priam and the noble war," Lord Maidstone opens his poem with some fine stanzas in Spenserean metre, descriptive of the region of "El Gharb," or "The West," in which province the scene is chiefly laid. He describes also the proclamation of the "Sacred War" against the French Giaours, and the hurrying to and fro of the scouts employed in making it known, mounted on those famous thorough-bred camels, called the Maherry, renowned throughout the north of Africa. The poem then breaks into a spirited dialogue, in ballad metre, between a pilgrim from the Sahara and a Targhee scout, the latter painting a pleasing picture of the Deira of Abd-elKader, whither the pilgrim is bound:

There, the tents are throng as wild fowl
Gather'd on the pool at eve.

Goodly tents of swarthy goats' hair,
Such as Arab maidens weave.

And the riches of Numidia,

Nibbling sheep and grazing kine,
Trusting camels browsing stately,
Gem the hills in wavering line.
And the little wanton urchins,
Under their keen fathers' eye,
Rolling in the parch'd arena,
Dusty, mimic battles ply!
There, in oasis of verdure,

By sweet waters rippling clear,
On a knoll before his tent's door
Abd-el-Kader strikes his spear.

The travellers part, and the pilgrim, a desert-warrior named Khaled, of the race of the Zemmoura, proceeds on his journey to offer his sword and the support of his tribe to the Emir :

These two parted in the Desert-
Parted, never more to meet-

With that blinding sun above them,
And those sands beneath their feet.
Soon, each gaunt Maherry's shadow
Dwindles to a paltry speck;
And the lurid haze receives him
As the sea engulfs the wreck.
Each man trusting to his manhood
Journeys on with lifted spear,

Howling sand-wastes of Sahara
Closing round him, flank and rear.
So in life's bewildering journey,
Thou that happenest on a friend,
Know, 'tis but a wayside-greeting
He must pass-and thou must wend
To the bourne beyond the Desert,
Whither all thy sires have gone.
Linger not too long in converse!
Greet thy brother-and pass on!

Khaled is warmly welcomed by Abd-el-Kader and his warriors, and the greeting is heard afar, not by the French captives only, who sat

but by the heroine of the poem, the high-minded and beautiful Khadidjah, the sister of the Emir, who goes forth into the camp to learn the

news.

Tall and stately was the daughter
Of Numidia's royal stock;
Dark her eyes' unfathom'd lustre—
As the pool beneath the rock
Where a drifted torrent slumbers;

Free her speech, her bearing high;
Such as best beseems the Bedouin,
Eldest child of liberty!

Khaled and Khadidjah, who are the fictitious personages of the storythough Abd-el-Kader has a sister, in fact, so named-fall in love with each other, and the poet takes occasion to dwell on the power of the passion in lines which we do violence to our inclinations in abstaining from quoting. Then comes a feast on the Berber "kouskous," the staple dish of the Nomads of El Gharb, and which Lord Maidstone describes in a note as being composed of "a sort of flour rolled into grains, and then thoroughly steamed through, and saturated with the flavour of stewed mutton or chicken, the meat being served out with it. I have eaten it," adds Lord Maidstone, "and must admit, that it is simply the best thing I ever tasted." Kouskous is not only "the food of love," but apparently the incentive to heroism, for after the feast Abd-el-Kader addresses his people, recalling the glories of the Moorish race from the time of the successors of the Prophet (the first Khalifs), and carrying its history through the conquest of Spain and the loss of that country under Boabdil, whose evil star still shines balefully on all his race, down to the period of the arrival of the invading Franks, "steering here without a breeze." The Emir relates why and when he rose, tells his followers-as he really believedthat he bears a charmed life, urges them to watch and suffer in the assured hope of vengeance, reminds them of their exploits at Macta and Constantina, and calls upon them to swear revenge. A night scene follows, when the Berber's camp-song is heard, and with this strain the first canto ends. The second commences with an apostrophe to "Peace," which gives its name to the canto, and, this theme discussed, the poem renews its course with a striking picture of the great necessity of Afric lifewater,-the procurement of which, where it is scant, is the Desert man's

greatest claim to praise. Here follows another beautiful picture descriptive of night and morning in the camp of the Faithful:

Wrapt in haick and bornoose slumber
Hardy warriors many a one;
Though the purple night is waning
To a promise of the sun.
Underneath the stately palm-trees,
Cast about in groups they lie;
Rigid forms of Bedouins shrouded
From the treacherous moon's cold eye.
Stars are plentiful as fire-flies,

Fretting heaven's arch with light;
Sounds are none, to break the silence
Of the solemn desert night-
Save the gurgle of the streamlets,
And the challenge of the hound,
To the flying pack of jackals
Whining petulantly round.

Mark! those lines of distant ombrage
In portentous gloom reveal'd,
Here and there a group of camels-
Sable on an argent field.

Hark! it is the Dubbah's laughter,
Pealing from the lonely waste;
As he skirts the straggling Deira
In his gallop of hot haste.

See! the mountain-tops are kindling
Into radiance, one by one,

And the palm-trees gather verdure,
And the Desert looms less dun.
Many a formless purple shadow
Brightens to a sharp-edg'd line;
Serpentining exhalations,

Misty yet, the streams define.

Twilight's mellow short-liv'd freshness
Steals aloft-and Libyan day

Settles on the proud horizon

Pulse by pulse, and ray on ray.

Khadidjah rises early and seeks the lotus-margined springs in a lovely glade of Atlas, where, surrounded by her maidens, like another Diana she makes her toilet without fear of any intrusive Actæon; and the simple repast of the Desert over, calls on Lellah Maynoun, one of her attendants, to sing of Hagar, and how it fortuned with Ishmael in the Desert. After excuses as valid as those of Lady Heron, or of any other accomplished vocalist, she chants a spirited lay, and is followed by another maiden, Bedra of the Beni-abbés, who, in praise of "El Naamah," the ostrich, sings with equal poetic fire. But Khadidjah is abstracted; the theme she longs to hear is left unsung. Ayesha, from Ghadames in the slave country, notes her abstraction, and pours forth a ballad in honour of the stripling of Zemmoura, who slew the terrible lion of El Hamra's Well, with what success we leave all true lovers to divine. After this come the rising of the camp, admirably told, and a hunting scene, where Khaled, in the glen, smites a wild boar as he rushes past, but without effect, the fierce monster seeking shelter in impenetrable blackthorn. There is wonderful vigour and poetical beauty in this scene. The adventure of the boar, who is supposed to be a Jinn,

thicket of