anner; as, for example:

'We care not what skies are the clearest,
What scenes are the fairest of all;
The skies and the scenes that are dearest
For ever, are those that recall
To the thoughts of the hopelessly-hearted
The light of the dreams that deride,
With the form of the dear and departed,
Their loneliness, weary and wide.'

It may be assumed that 'Salsette and Elephanta' has been read by all who
care about the undertaking. It was recited in the theatre at Oxford,
printed in the same year (1839), and reprinted exactly forty years
afterwards. It is a by no means unattractive piece of rhetoric.

Another of the annuals to which Mr. Ruskin contributed in those days was
the _Keepsake_, in which he figured in 1845, under the editorship of
the Countess of Blessington, with Landor, Monckton Milnes, Lord John
Manners, and the future Lord Beaconsfield as fellow-contributors. He was
also welcomed to the pages of _Heath's Book of Beauty_. Five years later
he collected his fugitive pieces, and, adding a few new ones, included
the whole in a volume privately circulated in 1850. Copies of this book
are said to have been bought at sales, at different times, for L31 and
41 guineas. Six years ago, a selection from the 'Annual' verses was
published, together with the prize poem and other matter, in America.

Glancing through Mr. Ruskin's verse, one is forced to admit that it has
no special individuality or charm. It deals with conventional subjects
in a more or less conventional manner. There is a classical element, and
a flavour of foreign scenery, and an occasional excursion in the
direction of such topics as 'Spring,' 'The Months,' 'The Old Water
Wheel,' 'The Old Seaman,' 'Remembrance,' 'The Last Smile,' and the like.
The rhythm is always regular and flowing, and the descriptive passages
have light and colour; but the 'lyric cry' has no particular tone that
could attract the public. The longest piece ever written by Mr. Ruskin
was, not the prize poem, but that entitled 'The Broken Chain,' with an
extract from which I may conclude this brief survey of a great
prose-writer's verse-production:--

'Where the flower hath fairest hue,
Where the breeze hath balmiest breath,
Where the dawn hath softest dew,
Where the heaven hath deepest blue,
There is death.

'Where the gentle streams of thinking,
Through our hearts that flow so free,
Have the deepest, softest sinking,
An