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for them, and that very suffering for conscience-sake will make more proselytes to deism than the example of heterodox' prelates to christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impious alliance which insults the world with the name of “Holy!» I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the dead; but it would be well if the adherents to the classes from whence those

persons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and—but enough for the pre


· When Lord Sandwich said u he did not know the difference between orthodoxy and heterodoxy»-Warburton, the bishop, replied, « Orthodoxy-my lord—is my doxy—and heterodoxy is another man's doxy»-A prelate of the present day has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect that which Bentham calls « Church-of-Englandism..

VOL. 11.





« THERE is a tide in the affairs of men

Which taken at the flood »—you know the rest, And most of us have found it, now and then;

At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
The moment, till too late to come again.

But no doubt every thing is for the best-
Of which the surest sign is in the end :
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.


There is a tide in the affairs of women

«Which taken at the flood leads»—God knows where: Those navigators must be able seamen

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare.-
Men with their heads reflect on this and that
But women with their hearts or Heaven knows what!


And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,

Young, beautiful, and daring—who would risk A throne, the world, the universe, to be

Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk The stars from out the sky, than not be free

As are the billows when the breeze is briskThough such a she's a devil (if that there be one) Yet she would make full many a manichean.


Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset

By commonest ambition, that when passion O’erthrows the same, we readily forget,

Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. If Anthony be well remembered yet,

'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion; But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, Outbalance all the Cæsar's victories.


He died at fifty for a queen of forty;

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport-I

Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I

Gave what I had a heart—as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever.


'T was the boy's « mite,» and like the «widow's» may

Perhaps be weighed hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do, or do not, weigh,

All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,

And Love's a god, or was before the brow Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of—but chronology best knows the years.


We left our hero and third heroine in

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman:
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin,

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman,
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.


I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong;

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; But I detest all fiction, even in song,

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. Her reason being weak, her passions strong,

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.

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