‘Oh, Tiber, father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day!’ So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.” This does not sound like those verses of Shelley, which we lately encountered. Those went through the empyrean of song like Aurora’s chariot of the morning, with cherubs, and garlands, and flashing torches. This, in the comparison, is like some well-appointed dump-cart, with sleek, well-groomed Percheron horses--up to their work, and accomplishing what they are set to do absolutely well. It was not until 1842, a year or two after the Italian visit, that Macaulay ventured to publish that solitary book of his verse; he very much doubted the wisdom of putting his literary reputation in peril by such overture in rhyme. It extorted, however, extravagant praise from that muscular critic Christopher North; while the fastidious Hunt writes to him (begging a little money--as was his wont), and regretting that the book did not show more of the poetic aroma which breathes from the _Faerie Queene_. But say what we may of its lack--there is no weakly maundering; it is the work of a man full-grown, with all his wits active, and his vision clear, and who loved plain sirloins better than the fricandeaux and ragoûts of the artists. There is also a scholarly handling, with high, historic air blowing through--as if he liked his Homer better than his Spenser; his prosody is up to the rules; the longs and shorts are split to a hair’s breadth--jingling and merry where the sense calls for it; and sober and resonant where meaning is weighty; flashing, too, where need is--with sword play and spear-heads that glitter and waver over marching men; but nowhere--I think it must be said--the tremulous poetic _susurrus_, that falters, and touches, and detains by its mystic sounds--tempting one into dim border-lands where higher and more inspired singers find their way. Christabel is not of his school, nor the star-shaped shadow of Wordsworth’s Daisy. _Parliamentarian and Historian._ Meantime occasional papers from Macaulay’s hand found their way into the pages of the great Northern _Review_--but by no means so many as the Whig managers could have wished; he had himself grown to think lightly of such work; the History was calling for his best powers, and there were parliamentary duties devolving upon him as member for Edinboro’.