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SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

Ta time when literature, like almost every other field of thought and industry, numbers so many aspirants and zealous seekers after success that each individual runs the risk of being overlooked in the crowd, it is, perhaps, well for an author to try and secure a separate and distinct niche for himself. The writer who has a special subject, and whose position is recognized in connection with that subject, is more likely to obtain a hearing than one who has a general superficial knowledge, and has given his attention to almost every branch of art or science. Following the example of Capel Lofft at the beginning of the present century, and that of the late Charles Tennyson Turner at a more recent date, Mr. Waddington has chosen the "Sonnet" as his especial study, and both in England and in this country his name has already become somewhat familiar in connection therewith. The plot of ground which he has endeavored to cultivate is that of the sonnet-writer and the sonnet-critic. will, however, be seen in the examples of his work printed herewith that he has occasionally ventured into other forms of verse, although it is as a sonneteer that he has principally achieved success.

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Mr. Waddington is a native of England, and was born at Boston Spa, Yorkshire, in that country on the 9th of November, 1844. His ancestors at the time of the Commonwealth lived at East Rigton, a little hamlet adjoining Bardsey where the poet Congreve was born, and about nine miles from Horsforth where Longfellow's English ancestors resided. It is interesting to note that the two families were connected, a Miss Longfellow (sister of Longfellow's ancestor who emigrated to America about the year 1680) having married a Mr. Waddington, of Harewood, near Bardsey, who afterwards bought the Longfellow property at Horsforth. When twelve years old he was sent for a short time to St. Peter's School, York, but was soon transferred to St. John's, Huntingdon, a school famous for having sent at least one illustrious pupil into the world, that pupil being no less a personage than Oliver Cromwell. Here Mr. Waddington remained for five years and at the age of sixteen was chosen to act as editor of the school magazine to which he contributed his first literary essays in prose and verse. His favorite authors at this time were Wordsworth and Emerson, and his principal companion was the second master of the school, a Broad Church clergyman who believed in Maurice and Kingsley but not in eternal punishment.

In 1862 he was offered a Scholarship at St. Peter's College, Cambridge; but as his friends wished him to go to Oxford, he matriculated at Brasenose College at the latter university where

he took his B.A. degree in 1865. While at Oxford he sat for a while at the feet of the illustrious theologian Dr. Pusey, and attended the lectures which that distinguished founder of the High Church School delivered in his own private room at Christ Church. Mr. Waddington does not appear to have been greatly influenced by Pusey's teaching. After leaving Oxford he obtained an appointment in the Board of Trade which he has now held for upwards of twenty years.

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The first volume which Mr. Waddington pub, lished, and which had been suggested by his friend Mr. Austin Dobson, was his "English Sonnets by Living Writers" to which he appended his essay on "The Sonnet and Its History." It also contained his sonnet entitled "Soul and Body," which was highly eulogized in the St. James's Gazette and other newspapers. This volume was published in 1881, and in the following year appeared his companion volume entitled English Sonnets by Poets of the Past." In 1886 was published his "Sonnets of Europe" in which he included translations from his own pen of sonnets by Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Philippe Desportes, and Hugo Hollandius,—a writer in the Academy observing respecting his translation of Dante's sonnet that it was preferable to that by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. His Sonnets and Other Verse" was published in 1884, and was very favorably received. I should not omit to mention that Mr. Waddington has written a study and biographical sketch of the Oxford poet, Arthur Hugh Clough, to whose writings his own compositions appear to bear considerable affinity as regards thought and subject matter. He hopes shortly to publish another volume of his own work entitled "Rosa Mariæ and Other Sonnets."

THE NEW EPIPHANY. (Chant Royal.) I.

J. L.

AWAKE, awake! Nay, slumber not, nor sleep! Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,

From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep
Of formless being, comes a gracious light,
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round
A golden glory on the enchanted ground;—
Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye
That greet the day-spring with your jubilee
Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring
Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

II.

Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight

Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;
Hasting the while his summoning notes invite
Where riper grasses and green herbs abound:-
But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice-happy sound!
He comes, he comes, your shepherd-king, 'tis he!
Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee
To him who makes once more new growths up-
spring;

Oh, quit your ancient glebes,-oh, joyfully
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

III.

Too long ye till exhausted lands, and reap
Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:
Too long your laggard oxen laboring creep
Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite
The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:
Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?
Ah, ye are old, yet not too old to be

Brave travelers o'er bald custom's boundary;-
Then each, let each his robe around him fling,
And with his little one, his child, set free,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

IV.

See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep
Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight,
Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,
The faery infant of the infinite!
Ah,

happy child, with what new wonders
crowned

He'll turn to thee, to fathom and expound;
Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee

To solve the universe, its destiny;

And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling, Asking, enquiring,-whispering, "May not we Go forth, and welcome the eternal king?"

V.

Oh, linger not! No longer vainly weep
O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;
Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep
Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright;
Around your brows be this phylacter bound,—
Let Truth be king, and let his praise resound!
Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,
To sound his praises let all hearts agree!
Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,
Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy

Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

ΕΝΤΟΙ.

Thou art the king, O Truth! We bend the knee
To thee; we own thy wondrous sovereignty;
And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing,
Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

THE INN OF CARE.
AT Nebra, by the Unstrut,-
So travelers declare,--
There stands an ancient tavern,
It is the "Inn of Care":
To all the world 'tis open;
It sets a goodly fare;
And every soul is welcome
That designs to sojourn there.

The landlord with his helpers,
(He is a stalwart host),

To please his guest still labors
With "bouilli" and with “roast";-
And ho! he laughs so roundly,
He laughs, and loves to boast
That he, who bears the beaker
May live to share the "toast."

Lucus a non lucendo

Thus named might seem the inn,
So careless is its laughter,
So loud its merry din;
Yet ere to doubt its title
You do, in sooth, begin,
Go, watch the palid faces,
Approach and pass within.

To Nebra, by the Unstrut,
May all the world repair
And meet a hearty welcome,

And share a goodly fare;

The world! 'tis worn and weary

'Tis tired of gilt and glare!

The inn! 'tis named full wisely,
It is the "Inn of Care!"

A HOMILY.

BE to every man just,-and to Woman
Be gentle, and tender, and true;
For thine own do thy best, but for no man
Do less than a brother should do.

So living thy days to full number,

In peace thou shalt pass to thy grave; Thou shalt lie down, and rest thee, and slumber,Beloved, loving-hearted, and brave.

MORS ET VITA.

We know not yet what life shall be,

What shore beyond earth's shore be set; What grief awaits us, or what glee,

We know not yet.

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,

Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea Shall meet and greet us, nor forget

Those days of yore, those years when we
Were loved and true,-but will death let
Our eyes the longed-for vision see:
We know not yet.

SOUL AND BODY.

WHERE wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born Became thy dwelling-place? Didst thou on earth,

Or in the clouds, await this body's birth? Or by what chance upon that winter's morn Didst thou this body find, a babe forlorn?

Didst thou in sorrow enter, or in mirth? Or for a jest, perchance, to try its worth Thou tookest flesh, ne'er from it to be torn?

Nay, Soul, I will not mock thee; well I know

Thou wert not on the earth, nor in the sky; For with my body's growth thou too didst grow; But with that body's death will thou too die? I know not, and thou canst not tell me, so In doubt we'll go together,-thou and I.

WHAT GOSPEL?

WHAT gospel, still, what gospel? Christ, yea, Christ!

Back to the shores of Galilee once more, To the old lesson of love, the simple love Of peace and wisdom that the world sufficed. Christ! for he spake with pity, nor enticed

The broken-hearted to an empty storeChrist! for his words true balm and healing pour

In the world's wounds, the holy words of Christ!

What gospel, still, what gospel? Love, yea, love! There is no heaven, and no hope but thisNo heritage of joy, no hallowed bliss

To bring the spirit to the realm above;

Oh, vain glad-tidings, and oh, little worth,―
Unless our charity make glad the earth.

FROM NIGHT TO NIGHT.

FROM night to night, through circling darkness whirled,

Day dawns, and wanes, and still leaves as before

The shifting tides and the eternal shore;
Sources of life, and forces of the world,
Unseen, unknown, in folds of mystery furled,
Unseen, unknown, remain for evermore—
To heaven-hid nights man's questioning soul
would soar,

Yet falls from darkness into darkness hurled!
Angels of light, ye spirits of the air,

Peopling of yore the dreamland of our youth, Ye who once led us through those scenes so fair, Lead now, and leave us near the realm of Truth:

Lo, if in dreams some truths be chanced to see Now in the truth some dreams may happy be.

THE NEOPHYTE.

His spirit is in apogee! To-night

Far from our earth he speeds;-he heeds no more
The long waves breaking on life's echoing shore:
Lo, Truth, his aureole, as heaven grows bright;
And Faith, his carcanet, as chrysolite
'Mid soul-wrought gems gleams thro' the opening
door

Of purest Innocence;-on wings that soar
Thro' cloud-girt vistas to the Infinite,
Upward he journeys, and what limitless scope,
What boundless prospects to his vision rise-
What thrones, how fair! and oh, how full of hope
The heavenly mansions and the star-built skies!
-Yet love, dear love! behold, the day shall be,
Earthward he will return, and kneel to thee.

THE BATTLE OF BELIEF.

I.

BLOW, blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm!
Behold, upon the mountains, o'er the plain,
In serried troops they come, their squadrons

swarm

Around your buttressed walls in fierce disdain:
O blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm!
As surging waters from th' inrushing main-
Each wave a warrior with uplifted arm—
They sweep around your time-worn, tottering
fane;

Then blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm!
Behold, they come, these cohorts of the Lord,
Armed with the spirit of Truthfulness more strong
Than steel to pierce past error's baneful wrong;
Armed with the Truth more trenchant than a

sword

O blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm!