Literary Gossip.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 230, 5 February 1876, Page 6

Literary Gossip.

Miss Ellen O. Claytoun, authoress of "Queens of Song," will shortly publish a book on " British Female Artists." A volume upon "Birmingham Poets and Poetry," with biographical notes, is being prepared by G. Linnaeus Banks. At Mr. Bentley's recent dinner sale ten thousand copies of his "Favourite Novels" were subscribed for by the trade. Air Robert Browning's new poem is nearly ready, and will be published this month. The title of it is " The Inn Album." _ Mr. Swinburne has been writing a review of Au"-uste "Vacquerie's new work of political subject matter, " Aujourd'hui et Demain." The death at Paris is announced of the Abbe" Migne at the age of seventy-five. He was the founder of the journal the Umvers Rcligieux, which afterwards became the UrnA limited impression has been prepared for distribution by the trustees of the British Museum among the libraries of Europe of a finely-executed volume of cuneiform inscriptions. " Among the Zulus and Amatongas, by the late David Leslie, and edited by the Hon. W. H. Drummond, will shortly be published by' Messrs. Edmonston and Douglas, Edinburgh. Mr. Edward Jenkins, M.P., is writing a temperance story, which will in size and form resemble " Ginx's Baby." The title of the story will probably be "The Devil's Chain."— AtJienceum. Messrs. Macmillan and Co. have in the press, and will publish before the end of the year, the second volume of Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice's "Life of Lord Shelburne," carrying the history up to the outbreak of the war with the colonies. — Academy. The Rev. James Scott, of Aberlour,_ has in the press a new work entitled " Principles of New Testament Quotation." This work will be published by Messrs. Clarke, of Edinburgh. The forthcoming "Lectures" of the late Canon Kingsley will be published simultaneously on both sides of the Atlantic. The volume will be dedicated to Cyrus Pield, J. A. C. Gray, and other valued American friends. . The death is announced, in his sixty-fourth year, of Professor Newth, of the Lancashire independent College, Manchester, with which institution he had been connected for nearly twenty years. Biblical history, Hebrew, and mathematics were the studies to which, in the college, the deceased gentleman's attention was chiefly directed. Herr Jokai, the well-known Hungarian interviewer, is at the same time a most prolific author. Prom the year 1846 to 1875 his exuberant pen produced no less than 100 volumes of novels, 28 volumes of satirical and humorous writings, 8 volumes of historical, political, and biographical essays, 4 poetry, 4 drama, 8 annals, and 48 common-life novels. Mr Justin Winsor, Superintendent of the Boston Public Library, will, says " Notes and Queries," shortly publish, by subscription, through Messrs. J. R. Osgood and Co., of Boston, and Triibner and Co., of London, a biography of the original quarto and folio editions of Shakspere's works. It will contain sixty-two heliotype facsimiles. The edition will be limited to 250 copies. A Welshman, resident in London, who does not wish his name to be mentioned, has just siventhe munificent sum of £2500, towards the endowment of a natural science chair at the University College of Wales, established at Aberystwith. Mr. Henry Robertson, M.P. for Shrewsbury, at a meeting on the college, held a few days ago at Bala, promised £IOO a year for five years, towards the Temporary Sustentation Pund. A work will shortly issue from the pressof Messrs. Price and Co. in the form of a choice heraldic MS. from the' hand of William Smith, Rouge Dragon, 1597-1618, entitled " The XII Worshipful Companies or Misteries of London. Nearly 500 coats of arms,_ in their proper colors, of Lord Mayors, sheriffs, and aldermen, with biographical notices, are contained in the volume. The original is now in the Bodleian library. The Russian Committee of the third session of the Intercolonial Congress of Orientalists, which is to be held at St. Petersburg in the be"innin<-'- of next September, have nominated Professor Douglas, of the British Museum, as their corresponding member for Great Britain and Ireland. — Athenceum. ROBERT BUCHANAN'S LATEST POEM. THE CHANGELING—A LEGEND OP THE MOONLIGHT. We {Telegraph) are indebted to the Churchman for an advance copy of this poem. The Asrai were spirits of the moonlight, without soul or shadow in the sun, created before of the earth, and the air, and the dew, And the fire that fuseth all three to one, Bright man was fashioned and lived and grew. And walked erect in the shining sun. An Asrai mother, surviving the creation of man, knelt in the moonlight with her soulless, shadowless babe upon her breast, and prayed—

Oh let him smile as Mortals may, And be like Mortals fair, And let him tread the wondrous way Of golden earth and air, And let the glory of thy ray Shine on his senses from day to day, Far from these waters wan, Strew flowers and fruits upon his way, And make him blest, like Man ! Then out of the air, There came in answer unto her prayer, A mystic Voice ; and it whispered, ' llise ! Steal from the water, and under the skies Find a dead Mother, and on her bed A new-born babe that is also dead, Blend thy babe with the mortal clay, And the thing shall be as thou hast prayed— Thy child shall walk in the golden day. Shall find a soul and cast a shade." The mother obeys, and finds the dead wife and child of a shepherd. Blending her babe Avith the mortal clay, she sees her child a living human being, that has "found a soul." Weary to tell and weary to hear, Were the mortal life for many a year Of that changeling child ; but he grew on earth, Knowing nought of his mystic birth: And ever waxed more strong and fair, With the glory of daylight on eyes and hair. And the poor pale Mother Spirit smiled From far away on her happy child. Thinking, "He thrives, and the golden hours Fill his cup with their fruits and flowers, And he feels the sun, and he drinks its light, Growing on to a mortal's height." And ever nightly unseen she came And kissed his sleep, to her heart's desire, Tho' his breath met her'swith the fevered flame Of a fatal fire. But there came an hour When the Shepherd who called him son lay dead, And when he was buried the Changeling said — " I will take my staff, and leave the place, And seek new fortunes—God give me grace That I prosper well!" And away he went, Humming an old tune, well-content, Beyond the night and across the day, Over the hills and far away ; And all alone ! Yet not alone. For step by step, and stone by stone, Where'er he rested —fleet as wind His Spirit Mother came behind; Creeping to darkness all the day, But ever in the cold moonray Finding his footprints, kissing them, And where his mortal raiment hem Had brushed the warm dew from the grass, Strewing pale flowers. Thus did she pass, The brazen city gates by night She saw him enter; still and white, She followed. Weary to tell and hear Were the Changeling's doings for many a year, But the Spirit saw as the years grew on That his cheek grew wanner, his bright eyes shone Less happy and bright; for he dwelt, behold ! Where men and women were heaping gold And counting gems, and a yellow gleam Shadowed the sight and darkened the dream Of his gentle face; and by lamplight now He read and pondered with pallid brow O'er mighty tomes, and the dark tomes told Of mystic manners of finding gold. He loved, was disappointed, and " kept hideous orgies," and after a time became a warrior. Weary to tell and weary to hear The Changeling's doings for many a year I Weary to tell how the spirit dim Moaning in misery followed him, For whene'er she gazed on his features now, On the bearded chin and brutal brow, She shuddered, and ever whene'er she crept Into the tent where the warrior slept, She saw on his hand a blood-red stain. And she kissed the stain again and again With her mad, cold lips—but it would not go. One night she walked with a foot of snow Thro' a battle field ; and the moon on high Foamed thro' the film of a starry sky, And the breath of the moon, like hoar frost shed, Gleamed on the dreadful drifts of dead. And she saw him standing amid it all, Living and bloody, ghastly and tall, With a hand on his moaning horse's mane ! And his face was awful with hate and pain. And his eyes were mad —for beneath him lay, Quivering there in a pale moonray, A wounded foe —while with dexter hand He held aloft a bloody brand To cleave him down ! Before his look One moment the Spirit Mother shook ; He could not hear her, he could not see, But she shrieked aloud in her agony! He glared all round him like one in dread Of a voice from heaven or a ghost from the dead, And he sheathed his sword with a shudder soon, Alone in the light of the lonely Moon. O Moon ! white Moon ! We see him next at four-score years of age, the sorrowful and repentant Abbot Paul. He sits in the open air, reading his scroll and longing for death. The air is chill, The light is low, but he readeth still, Mumbling the sacred words aloud ; And ever his weary neck is bowed At the name of Mary and every saint : While ever fainter and more faint His voice doth grow as he murmureth : "Holy of Holies, drink my breath ! For I am sick of the sinful light!" The sun has sunken out of sight In the cloudy west afar away— Chilly it groweth, chilly and greyBut who is this with step so still Coming yonder behind the hill ? Over the" peaks with a silver thread Flashing, then rising overhead In the open heaven of golden June ? O Moon ! white Moon ! Down the mountain and into the Mere The pale ray falleth, so silvery clear, And it creepeth silently over all, Till it shineth full on the Abbot Paul, Where he sits so still. O see ! O see ! Paler, stiller, groweth he, But his eyes still burn with a dying gleam ; While faint, afar off, as in a dream, He hears a murmur, he sees a light. Silentlv, stilly, marble white, Soft and pure as the moonray dim, Smiling, outstretching her arms to him, His Spirit Mother upriseth now ! A light not human on his brow, A light not human in his eyes— Fold by fold, like a dark disguise, The mortal dress is dropping away ; Silently, slowly, sinks the clay ; His eyes see clear by some mystic spell, And he knoweth the gentle presence well. " O Mother ! Mother !" She answereth low: " Come from the gleam of golden glow, From the wicked flush of the fevered strife, Back to the mystical moonlight life, Thy heart is heavy, thy sense is drear, Weary with wandering many a year— Come from the sorrows of the Sun ! My own pale darling, my little one I" "Oh Mother ! Mother !" Her arms so dim Are around his neck, and she kisseth him ! She smooths his hair with gentle hand, And she sings a song of the moonlight land; He listens and listens, but still in a dream Looking afar off his dark eyes gleam. Beyond her, thro' her, at some strange thing There on the hilltops, beckoning J

Dead in his chair lies the Abbot Paul, But a Shape stands by him, shapely and tall. And another Shape upon her knee Is looking up in her agony. " O Mother ! Mother !" the dark Shape cries, Gazing on her with gentle eyes—- " O Mother, Mother, I cannot stay— A voice is calling afar away — Up the shining track of the sun, Past the track of the silver moon. Further, higher, my path must run — I have found a soul, and thou hast thy boon ; And the soul is a scourge, and the scourge is a fire, And it shoots me onward to strive and soar, For this is the end of thy heart's desire— I rest not, stay not, for evermore, O kiss me, Mother, before I go !" They kiss each other, those Shapes of snow. They cling in the moonlight, they kiss each other—- " Child, my Child !" and "Mother, Mother !" Silently, swiftly, thro' the air Bisetli one like a meteor fair, Riseth one with a last wild cry ; While one sinks down in a silent swoon, And whiter, brighter, over the sky. Burnetii the light of that night of June ! O Moon ! sad Moon ! sad Moon !