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Never to die, with many a lisping sweet

And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye, His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. Planning he knows not what that shall not die! Released, he chases the bright butterfly;

Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, Oh he would follow-follow through the sky! Beware the poison in the cup of gold, Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain, The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high, And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane; As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky! Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, But every step is on enchanted ground: Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, Danger thou lov’st, and Danger haunts thee round. A dangerous voyage ! or, if now he can,

Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side ; If now he wears the habit of a man,

Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure, Draws, and cries ho! and, where the sun-beams And, like a miser digging for his treasure, At his own shadow thrusts along the wall? [fall, His tiny spade in his own garden plies,

Who dances without music; and anon And in green letters sees his name arise !

Sings like the lark—then sighs as woe-begone, Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,

And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave, She looks, and looks, and still with new delight ! Glides in the moonshine by a maiden's grave? Ah who, when fading of itself away,

Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow. Would cloud the sunshine of his little day! Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now Now is the May of Life. Careering round, A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou. Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground ! He hears me not—Those sighs were from the Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,

heart. When the rich casket shone in bright array, Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. “ These are my Jewels !” Well of such as he, He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere, When Jesus spake, well might his language be, With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear, 66 Suffer these little ones to come to me!”

Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres That none were half so faultless, half so fair, 'The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years ; Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer, Close by her side his silent homage given

A banished man, flying when none are near ; As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven; And writes on every tree, and lingers long His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, Where most the nightingale repeats her song; His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame, Wheremost the nymph, that haunts the silent grove, At once lit up as with a holy flame!

Delights to syllable the names we love. He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire ; Two on his steps attend, in motley clad; And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire, One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad; [bells. Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led,

Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead; And flowers spring up among the woodland dells Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire, To Hope he listens, wandering without measure Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire! Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure ; Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate,

And, if to Fear but for a weary mile, Crowned but to die—who in her chamber sate Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile. Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown, And every ear and every heart was won,

At length he goes—a Pilgrim to the Shrine, And all in green array were chasing down the sun! And for a relic would a world resign ! Then is the Age of Admiration—Then

A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fallGods walk the earth, or beings more than men ; What though the least, Love consecrates them all! Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse ; Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, At early matins ('twas at matin-time And high imagining and thought of fire !

That first he saw and sickened in his prime) Then from within a voice exclaims “ Aspire !" And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold, Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass, Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled. As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass;

«Absence from Thee-as self from selfit seems !" They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed, Scaled is the garden-wall ; and lo, her beams Of every Age—the living and the dead !

Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing Thou, all-accomplished SURREY, thou art known; His well-known form along the terrace stealing. The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown! -Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to thrill Melting all hearts but Geraldine’s alone!

A heart that loved him, though in secret still. And, with his beaver up, discovering there

“ Am I awake? or is it ... can it be One who loved less to conquer than to spare, “ An idle dream? Nightly it visits me! Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, -That strain,” she cries, “as from the water rose. Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent! “ Now near and nearer through the shade it flows ! Young B. in the groves of Academe,

“ Now sinks departing-sweetest in its close !” Or where llyssus winds his whispering stream; No casement gleams; no Juliet, like the day, Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay. hum,

Still, like aërial music heard from far, Dreaming old dreams a joy for years to come; Nightly it rises with the evening-star. Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane;

“She loves another! Love was in that sigh !" Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain: On the cold ground he throws himself to die. And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving. Well may we glow-as men, we share his fame) Who wish are fearful; who suspect, believing.

-And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow. Down a green alley, or a squirrel then
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now!

Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again,
She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause; If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall,
Nor yet—nor yet her hand from his withdraws; He turns their thoughts to Him who made them
But by some secret Power surprised, subdued, These with unequal footsteps following fast, [all ;
(Ah how resist? And would she if she could ?) These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.
Falls on his neck as half unconscious where,

The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there. And the swart seaman, sailing far below,

Then come those full confidings of the past; Not undelighted watch the morning ray All sunshine now, where all was overcast.

Purpling the orient-till it breaks away, Then do they wander till the day is gone,

And burns and blazes into glorious day ! Lost in each other; and when Night steals on, But happier still is he who bends to trace Covering them round, how sweet her accents are ! That

sun, the soul, just dawning in the face ; Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far, The burst, the glow, the animating strife, Far above singing !But soon nothing stirs The thoughts and passions stirring into life; To break the silence-Joy like his, like hers, The forming utterance, the inquiring glance, Doals not in words; and now the shadows close, The giant waking from his ten-fold trance, Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows Till up he starts as conscious whence he came, Less and less earthly! As departs the day, And all is light within the trembling frame! All that was mortal seems to melt away,

What then a Father's feelings? Joy and Fear Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given,

In turn prevail, Joy most ; and through the year She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven ! Tempering the ardent, urging night and day

Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the hours Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, Praising each highly—from a wish to raise Kindling her beauty—while, unseen, the least Their merits to the level of his Praise, Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, Onward in their observing sight he moves, Known by her laugh that will not be suppressed. Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves ! Then before All they stand-the holy vow

Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,

Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain? Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, He lives a model in his life to show, And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, That, when he dies and through the world they go, His house she enters—there to be a light,

Some men may pause and say, when some admire, Shining within, when all without is night; “ They are his sons, and worthy of their sire !" A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,

But Man is born to suffer. On the door Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing ; Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild From a vain world we love, alas ! too long, As of a mother singing to her child. To fire-side happiness, to hours of ease,

All now in anguish from that room retire, Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind And Innocence breathes contagion-all but one, To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; But she who gave it birth—from her alone Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. And through the day, that with its dreary light The soul of music slumbers in the shell,

Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Till waked and kindled by the master's spell ; Watching the changes with her anxious eye: And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour While they without, listening below, above, A thousand melodies unheard before !

(Who but in sorrow know how much they love ?) Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise From every little noise catch hope and fear, Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy,

That would in vain the starting tear repress. To meet him coming ; theirs through every year Such grief was ours—it seems but yesterdayPure transports, such as each to each endear! When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill 'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh Their home with gladness. She, when all are still, At midnight in a Sister's arms to die ! Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie, Oh thou wert lovely_lovely was thy frame, In sleep how beautiful! He, when the sky And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony, And, when recalled to join the blest above, When, gathering round his bed, they climb to Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, His kisses, and with gentle violence there [share Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, Break in upon a dream not half so fair,

When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers, Up to the hill-top leads their little feet;

Once in thy mirth thou bad’st me write on thee; Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet

And now I write—what thou shalt never see! The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear At length the Father, vain his power to save, The otter rustling in the sedgy mere;

Follows his child in silence to the grave, Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,

(That child how cherished, whom he would not That gave him back his words of pleasantry

give, When the House stood, no merrier man than he! Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live ;) And, as they wander with a keen delight,

Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade If but a leveret catch their quicker sight

Scatters the earth as “ dust to dust” is said,

Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief

The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were Consoling others in that hour of grief,

ringing, And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing And hope and joy in other hearts were springing ; The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. That House, where Age led in by Filial Love,

Their looks composed, their thoughts on things But hark, the din of arms ! no time for sorrow. above, To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow! The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgivenOne parting pang, and then-and then I fly, Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven? Fly to the field, to triumph-or to die !

Nor at the fragrant hour—at early dawnHe goes, and Night comes as it never came ! Under the elm-tree on his level lawn, With shrieks of horror!-and a vault of flame! Or in his porch is he less duly found, And lo! when morning mocks the desolate, When they that cry for Justice gather round, Red runs the river by ; and at the gate

And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned; Breathless a horse without his rider stands! His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate, But hush!.. a shout from the victorious bands! Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate. And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored ! Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close; One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword; And they return as friends, that came as foes. One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all Thus, while the world but claims its proper Spring to prepare the soldier's festival;

part, While She best-loved, till then forsaken never, Oft in the head but never in the heart, Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever! His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, That home-felt joy all other joys excelling. Days of domestic peace—by him who plays Sick of the crowd, when enters he-nor then On the great stage how uneventful thought; Forgets the cold indifference of men ? Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught,

Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in, A thousand incidents that stir the mind

And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin. To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind ! Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song, Such as the heart delights in—and records Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong Within how silently-in more than words ! Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen, A Holiday—the frugal banquet spread

Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green; On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head And in from far a school-boy's letter flies, With quips and cranks—what time the wood-lark Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) there

That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air,

not?) What time the king-fisher sits perched below, Born with the day and with the day forgot ; Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow: Its ample page various as human life, A Wake—the booths whitening the village-green, The pomp, the woe, the bustle, and the strife ! Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen; But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled,

Met and solicited, behold him now Picturing at large the wonders of the world ; Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, And far and wide, over the vicar's pale,

The sphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too; Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale, They who subsist not on the vain applause All, all abroad, and music in the gale :

Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. A Wedding-dance-a dance into the night

'Twas morn-the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light; As from his lips the slow consent was wrung; When the young bride receives the promised dower, As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old, And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower: The plough they guided in an age of gold, A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,

Down by the beech-wood side he turned away: (Who would be rich while One was wanting bread ?) | And now behold him in an evil day When all are emulous to bring relief,

Serving the State again—not as before, And tears are falling fast—but not for grief: Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door,A Walk in Spring-GRATTAN, like those with thee But in the Senate; and (though round him fly By the heath-side (who had not envied me?) The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,) When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, With honest dignity, with manly sense, Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon; And every charm of natural eloquence, And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise, Like HAMPDEN struggling in his country's cause, Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise, The first, the foremost to obey the laws, Thou wouldst call up and question.

The last to brook oppression. On he moves,

Graver things Careless of blame while his own heart approves, Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings Careless of ruin—(“For the general good Its holy office; and the sabbath-bell,

'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.”) That over wood and wild and mountain-dell On thro’ that gate misnamed, thro’ which before Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, With sounds most musical, most melancholy, On into twilight within walls of stone, Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues

Then to the place of trial; and alone, The pathway leading through the aged yews,

Alone before his judges in array Nor unattended; and, when all are there,

Stands for his life: there, on that awful day, Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, Counsel of friendsmall human help denied That House with many a funeral-garland hung All but from her who sits the pen to guide, Of virgin-white-memorials of the young,

Like that sweet saint who sat by Russell's side

Under the judgment seat.

He muses, turning up the idle weed;

But guilty men Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead Triumph not always. To his hearth again, Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now, Again with honour to his hearth restored, The ladder resting on the orchard-bough, Lo, in the accustomed chair and at the board, Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air, Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear, (The lowliest servant calling by his name) (claim, 'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there. He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,

At night, when all, assembling round the fire, All met as at a holy festival !

Closer and closer draw till they retire, -On the day destined for his funeral !

A tale is told of India or Japan, Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, Breathed in his drowsy ear “ Away, away! What time wild Nature revelled unrestrained, Take thou my cloak—Nay, start not, but obey And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reigned :Take it and leave me.” And the blushing Maid, Of Knights renowned from holy Palestine, Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert strayed; And minstrels, such as swept the lyre divine, And, when her dear, dear Father passed along, When Blondel came, and Richard I in his Cell Would not be held—but bursting through the throng, Heard, as he lay, the song he knew so well :Halberd and battle-axe-kissed him o'er and o'er; Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale Then turned and went—then sought him as before, Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, Believing she should see his face no more! Among the shining Alps of Polar seas And oh, how changed at once—no heroine here, Immoveable for ever there to freeze ! But a weak woman worn with grief and fear, Or some great Caravan, from well to well Her darling Mother ! 'Twas but now she smiled ; Winding as darkness on the desert fell, And now she weeps upon her weeping child ! In their long march, such as the Prophet bids, -But who sits by, her only wish below

To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids, At length fulfilled—and now prepared to go ?

And in an instant lost-- a hollow wave His hands on hers—as through the mists of night, Of burning sand their everlasting grave !She gazes on him with imperfect sight;

Now the scene shifts to Cashmere--to a glade Her glory now, as ever her delight!

Where, with her loved gazelle, the blue-eyed Maid To her, methinks, a second Youth is given; (Her fragrant chamber for awhile resigned, The light upon her face a light from Heaven ! Her lute, by fits discoursing with the wind)

An hour like this is worth a thousand passed Wanders well-pleased, what time the Nightingale In pomp or ease—'Tis present to the last ! Sings to the Rose, rejoicing hill and dale; Years glide away untold—'Tis still the same ! And now to Venice - to a bridge, a square, As fresh, as fair as on the day it came !

Glittering with light, all nations masking there,
And now once more where most he loved to be, With light reflected on the tremulous tide,
In his own fields—breathing tranquillity-

Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,
We hail him-not less happy, Fox, than thee! Answering the jest, the song on every side ;
Theè at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled, To Naples next-and at the crowded gate,
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child !

Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait,
Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray, Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire,
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day. Vesuvius blazing like a world on fire!-
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, Then, at a sign that never was forgot,
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat, A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it
I saw the sun go down !-Åh, then 'twas thine not?)
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,

From harp or organ! 'Tis at parting given, Shakspeare's or Dryden's—through the chequered That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven; shade

Young voices mingling, as it floats along, Borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed ; In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song! And where we sate (and many a halt we made) And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all ; To read there with a fervour all thy own,

So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, And in thy grand and melancholy tone,

And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ;Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, So soon to hover round her full of fears, Fit theme for long discourse—Thy bell has tolled ! And with assurance sweet her soul revive -But in thy place among us we behold

In child-birth-when a mother's love is most alive! One who resembles thee.

No, 'tis not here that Solitude is known. "Tis the sixth hour. Through the wide world he only is alone The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. Who lives not for another. Come what will, The ploughman leaves the field ; the traveller hears, The generous man has his companion still ; And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears

The cricket on his hearth ; the buzzing fly, Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest.

Still with its note of gladness passes by : And such, his labour done, the calm He knows, And, in an iron cage condemned to dwell, Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, An atmosphere that brightens to the last ; [glows He feeds his spider-happier at the worst The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, Than he at large who in himself is curst ! —And from the Future too ! Active in Thought Among old books, old friends; and not unsought 1 Richard the First. For the romantic story here alluded to, By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours, we are indebted to the French Chroniclers.See FAUCHET, When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, Recueil de l'Origine de la Langue et Poësie Fr.

6 Look up,

O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind, Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure Streams from the depth of ages on mankind, From pain, from grief, and all that we endure, Streams like the day-who, angel-like, hast shed He slept in peace—say rather soared to Heaven, Thy full effulgence on the hoary head,

Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given Speaking in Cato's venerable voice,

In his right hand to hold the golden key and faint not-faint not, but rejoice !" That opes the portals of Eternity. From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now -When by a good man's grave I muse alone, Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow: Methinks an Angel sits upon the stone ; And, 'mid his old hereditary trees,

Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night, Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright; His children's children playing round his knees : And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear, Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung, Says, pointing upward, “ Know, He is not here ! ” When side by side the archers' bows are strung ; His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize,

But now 'tis time to go ; the day is spent ; Envying no more the young their energies

And stars are kindling in the firmament, Than they an old man when his words are wise ;

To us how silent—though like ours perchance His a delight how pure—without alloy ;

Busy and full of life and circumstance ; Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy !

Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, Now in their turn assisting, they repay

Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few ; The anxious cares of many and many a day ;

And, as the sun goes round--a sun not oursAnd now by those he loves relieved, restored, While from her lap another Nature showers His very wants and weaknesses afford

Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks,

Think on themselves, within, without inquire ; Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks,

At distance dwell on all that passes there,
While they look up! Their questions, their replies, All that their world reveals of good and fair ;
Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, And, as they wander, picturing things, like me,
Gladdening his spirit: and, his theme the past, Not as they are but as they ought to be,
How eloquent he is ! His thoughts flow fast; Trace out the Journey through their little Day,
And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old ? And fondly dream an idle hour away.
False are the tales that in the World are told !)
Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end ;
Like one discoursing of an absent friend.
But there are moments which he calls his own.

NOTES.
Then, never less alone than when alone,
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,

Page 10, col. 2, line 6.
Loved and still loves—not dead-but gone before,

Stand still to gaze,
He gathers round him ; and revives at will

See the Iliad, l. xviii. v. 496.
Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still-
That come not now at dreary intervals-

Page 11, col. 1. line 37.
But where a light as from the Blessed falls,

Our pathway leads but to a precipice ;
A light such guests bring ever-pure and holy-

See BOSSUET, Sermon sur la Résurrection.
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy !
-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn)

Page 11, col. 1, line 48.
To live with others than to think on them !

We fly; no resting for the foot we find ;

“I have considered," says Solomon, “all the works that And now behold him up the hill ascending, are under the sun; and behold all is vanity and vexation Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending ; of spirit.” But who believes it, till death tells it us? It Sustained, excited, till his course is run,

is death alone that can suddenly make man to know himBy deeds of virtue done or to be done.

self. He tells the proud and insolent, that they are but When on his couch he sinks at length to rest,

abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed,

account of the rich man, and proves him a beggar, a naked Those by the World shunned ever as unblest,

beggar. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, acknowledge it.

and makes them see therein their deformity; and they But whom he sought out, sitting desolate,

O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could Come and stand round-the widow with her child, advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! hast done; and whom all the word have flattered, thou only They, who watch by him, see not ; but he sees, hast cast out and despised : thou hast drawn together all Sees and exults-Were ever dreams like these ? the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and amThey, who watch by him, hear not ; but he hears,

bition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears !

words, Hic jacet.-RALEIGH. 'Tis past ! That hand we grasped, alas, in vain !

Page 11, col. 1, line 56. Nor shall we look upon his face again !

Now, seraph-winged, among the stars we soar; But to his closing eyes, for all were there,

Inconceivable are the limits to our progress in Science, Nothing was wanting ; and, through many a year “ A point that yesterday was invisible, is our goal to-day, We shall remember with a fond delight

and will be our starting-post to-morrow." The words so precious which we heard to-night ; His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,

Page 11, col. 1, line 62. Like setting suns or music at the close !

Through the dim curtains of Futurity. Then was the drama ended. Not till then,

Fancy can hardlyforbear to conjecture with what temper So full of chance and change the lives of men, Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked

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