ing from a shallow egoism and tending nowhere in particular. Their only advantage seems to be that they leave no taste behind them; yet they counted as a 'gem' in an anthology of 1828. In these unenclosed domains of the feelings, however, the vice of vagueness hardly does its worst. It is more clearly observed when it is exercised upon some welldefined theme concerning fact, where precision, and therefore knowledge, are needed to convey any impression at all. This time we have a lady at the writing-table, and a bold one, an historic Muse who allows her fancy to flutter off to Xerxes:
I saw him on the battle-eve,
When like a King he bore him,—
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him!
The warrior and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow and the morrow's meeds;—
No daunting thoughts came o'er him:
He looked around him, and his eye,
Defiance flashed to earth and sky!
······I saw him next alone:—nor camp
Nor chief his steps attended;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp,
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom fortune high
So lately seemed to deify;
He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave;
Behind, the foe;—before, the wave!
He stood; fleet, army, treasure, gone,
Alone, and in despair!
While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And Xerxes in a single bark,
Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare!—
What a revenge—a trophy, this—
For thee, immortal Salamis!
This poem—also from a pre-Victorian anthology—un-
