Save Saturn, whose untroubled light Almost made daylight of the night. With groans the myriad mourners said— “Henceforth all poetry is dead!” “The Ideal age, the lyric strain Expire; with them the fairy reign; The Real comes with iron tread:— Henceforth all poetry is dead!” So said the king, and as he spoke Long, heavy, rolling thunders broke Above them, rattling through the spheres, Whose eyes were drowned with pitying tears. The wind arose and struck the wood; The rain descended in a flood; Hither and thither rushed the leaves Along the ruined temples’ eaves. But Saturn shone as cold and stern As death beside a funeral urn, Looking as though his lustre said— “Henceforth all poetry is dead!” And now the storm was at its height; The trees rolled to and fro in fright; The lurid lightnings blazed and played Demoniac through the eternal shade. While far above the tempest’s plash, Above the thunder’s deafening crash, Twelve sounds fell, fainting, on the blast Which rushed in eddying whirlwinds past. Even as the last sound rent the air A hopeless shriek of fierce despair Shook earth and heaven! and all was calm— Unutterably, coldly calm. The stars came out; the moon once more Shone bright as on its birth of yore; Lyra alone looked down in pain: Her golden chords were rent in twain. But Saturn, smiling, seemed to say— “The Ideal Age has passed away; I have devoured my sons,” he said— “_Henceforth all poetry is dead!_” * * * * * THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE. A SOUTHERN NOVELET. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. CHAPTER I.