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Reciprocation.-Burke's Irritability.- Maxims.
A Spanish poet, in describing his paramour, tells us, that in thinking of his mistress, he fell into a river, where the heat of his passion had such an effect upon the water, that it bubbled up and boiled the fish, insomuch that those who came to take him out, were diverted from their object by the delicacy of the fish, which were swimming about ready cooked!
Cured me, when like to smother ;
Od zooks, we've cur'd each other.
Burke's Irritability. On one occasion Mr. Burke's quick sense of indignity discovered itself by flight. He had just risen in the House of Commons, with some papers in his hand, on the subject of which he intended to make a motion, when a rough-hewn member, who had no ear for the charms of eloquence, rudely started up, and said, Mr. Speaker, I hope the Honourable Gentleman does not mean to read that farge bundle of papers, and to bore us with a long speech to the bargain.Mr. Burke was so swoln, or rather so nearly suffocated with rage, as to be in the instant incapable of utterance, and absolutely rạn out of the House.
On this occasion, George Selwyn remarked, that it was the only time he ever saw the fable realized, A Lion put to flight by the braying of an Ass.
Maximns.--Envious people are very miserable, because the happiness of others torment them as much as their own misery. Envy corrodes its possessors, as rust does iron. Envy is the saw of the soul. The beauty of fame is blasted by envy, as by sickness. To desire little, levels poverty with riches. It is a noble satisfaction to be ill spoken of when we are conscious of doing what is right. Envy and Idleness married together, and begot Curiosity. Envy and Covetousness are never satisfied. Envy is ashamed and afraid to be seen. Envy is sò shameful and cowardly a passion, that nobody ever had the confidence to own it. Envy never yet enriched any man. Envy shooteth at others, and woundeth herself.
To the Ruins of an Old Highland Castle.
TO THE RUINS OF AN OLD HIGHLAND CASTLE.
When the white locks of age crown the heads of oựr sires,
And the deep wrinkled brow tells of years that have pasto And the frame all disjoined and the desolate soul,
Mark the struggling of many a wild wasting blast, We seek for the wreck of their storm-shattered frames,
Some sweet haven of rest, free from the rude wind and wave, We brighten the night of their days with our love,
And we lead their frail steps down in peace to the grave.
But for you ye grey relics of times that are gone,
Ye remembrances sad of gay days now. no more, Ye must bear all unsheltered the pitiless storm,
And the hurricanes shock, and the wild waters roar; And your turrets that once bade defiance to heaven,
Or frowned in contempt on the fierce battle fray Must totter and tumble, the sport of the tempest,
Or moulder and crumble in ashes away.
Long, long years, have fled since the battle strife rag'd
Round your bulwarks unshaken, when chieftains of might,
Cheered on by the pibroch to rapine and fight;
With pipe and with harp, and with dance and with song,
Or the glad hymn of victory flowed from the throng.
Thy children have long sought the dust of their fathers,
In ruin have long slept thy festival halls,
And covered with wild grass, thy tottering walls;
But no arm of aid has renewed thy strength failing,
No friend has repaired the slow havocs of time; Vor even tender pity has wept o'er thy downfal
A stranger thou sinkest in thine own native clime.
Would to heaven the cold hearted race that surround thee.
· Would learn from the wind or the wave of the deep ! In sighs floats the wind thro’ thy courts drear and lonely,
And mournfully murmurs the wave round thy steep. Gut fruitless the wish-thou shalt soon pass away,
And not ev’n a stone tell thy site on the shore: And the bard that laments thee, he too shall depart, And “ the place that now knows thee shall know thee no more." Dunarbach, Nov., 1818.
C. M. T. M.
Thick the rattling rain descended,
Death appeared in dread array.
Burst its bands and flew away,
How sacred the hour when in beauty. reclines
The day-star's last relic of light!
Ere it melts in the bosom of night!
The visage of nature can lend
to the mind, and sweetly reveal Every grace of the pitying friend.
And then, while, as dim shades of glory that roll
O'er the ruins their history hallows,
To the joys that surround it all callous;
At the shrine of its earliest love,
Though shining with angels above.