Ah, sottish soul, said I,

When back to its cage again I saw it fly;
Fool to resume her broken chain,

And row her galley here again!
Fool, to that body to return

Where it condemned and destined is to burn!

Once dead, how can it be,

Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me?" (COWLEY.)

A lover's heart a hand grenado:

"Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
Into the self-same room,

"Twill tear and blow up all within,
Like a grenado shot into a magazine.
Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn parts
Of both our broken hearts;

Shall out of both one new one make; From hers th' alloy, from mine the metal take." -(COWLEY.)

The poetical propagation of light:

"The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all,

From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall; Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride's bright

eyes,

At every glance a constellation flies,
And sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent
In light and power, the all-ey'd firmament:
First her eye kindles other ladies' eyes,

Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise;
And from their jewels torches do take fire,
And all is warmth, and light, and good desire."
-(DONNE.)

They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts.

That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowley thus expressed:

"Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand Than woman can be placed by Nature's hand; And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be, To change thee as thou'rt there, for very thee." That prayer and labour should co-operate are thus taught by Donne:

"In none but us are such mix'd engines found,
As hands of double office; for the ground
We till with them; and them to heaven we raise;
Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,
Doth but one-half, that's none."

By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated:

"That which I should have begun

In my youth's morning, now late must be done;
And I, as giddy travellers must do,

Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost
Light and strength, dark and tired, must then ride
post."

All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines:

"Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie; After enabled but to suck and cry.

Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, VOL. VIII.

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These poets were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions.

"It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke; In vain it something would have spoke; The love within too strong for❜t was,

Like poison put into a Venice glass."-(CowLEY.)

In forming descriptions, they looked out not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows:

"Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest:
Time's dead-low water; when all minds divest
To-morrow's business; when the labourers have
Such rest in bed that their last church-yard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this;
Now when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps: when the condemned man,
Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them then
Again by death, although sad watch he keep;
Doth practise dying by a little sleep:
Thou at this midnight seest me."

It must be, however, confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects, often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where scholastic speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shows an unequalled fertility of invention:

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call,
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,

Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st
it quite!

Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,
By clogging it with legacies before!"

travels and his wife that stays at home, with a
To the following comparison of a man that
pair of compasses, it may be doubted whether
absurdity or ingenuity has the better claim:
"Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
180

162

A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th' other do.
And, though it in the centre sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam
It leans and hearkens after it,

And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot obliquely run.
Thy firmness makes my circle just.

And makes me end where I begun."-(DONNE.)

In all these examples it is apparent that whatever is improper or vicious is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pursuit of something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight by their desire of exciting admiration.

Essay on Corley.

ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, who in these periods of approaching ignorance still felt a passion for science, from time to time added to its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number: he repaired those schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning which avaricious governors had monopolized to themselves.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together. The one the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other the most eloquent speaker in the Academic Grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaintance, and a similitude of disposition made them perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly equal, their studies the same, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. In this mutual harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world, and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia showed no dislike to his addresses. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

An exultation in his own happiness, or his being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce his mistress to his fellow student, which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love.-But this was an interview fatal to the peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her but he was smit with an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but in vain, to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust. He retired to his apartment in inexpressible agony; and the emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable.

During this illness Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon discovered the eause of their patient's disorder; and Alcander, being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at this time arrived at such refinement in morals, that In short, every virtue was carried to excess. forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance; and this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents of which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or pretor.

Meanwhile Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given her up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his eloquence in his own defence, was able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, himself stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master; and his skill in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply a precarious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but death or flight was left him, and almost certain death was the consequence of his attempting to flee. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered: he embraced it with ardour, and travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The day of Alcander's arrival Septimius sat in the forum administering justice; and hither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known and publicly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but so much was he altered by a long succession of hardships, that he passed entirely without notice; and in the evening, when he was going up to the pretor's chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; night coming on, he now found himself under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness, and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair.

In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and virtue found on this flinty couch more ease than down can supply to the guilty.

It was midnight when two robbers came to make this cave their retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, and this naturally induced a further inquiry. The alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his

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Misfortune

appearance confirmed suspicion. and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty, and was determined to make no defence. Thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. The proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication; the judge, therefore, was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illumined by a ray from heaven, he discovered, through all his misery, the features, though dim with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It is impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this strange occasion; happy in once more seeing the person he most loved on earth, distressed at finding him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and, falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into an agony of distress. The attention of the multitude was soon, however, divided by another object. The robber who had been really guilty was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and the honours of his friend Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his tomb, that "no circumstances are so desperate which Providence may not relieve."

BARREN FAITH.

The Bee, 1759.

o, friend, we nurse in vain a scholar-faith,

Though one that with its husky logic feeds
And satisfies our intellectual needs;
How should this move to good or guard from scaith?
Begot of schoolmen's subtleties alone

It carries with it no awakening force,
Life is not quickened by it in its course;
The head is ever cool; the heart a stone.
Such dead-seed faith is with no saving rife,
It does not, cannot blossom into aught
Of active goodness, is mere barren thought
That never can become a law of life.
Something the soul demands on which to thrive;
If it is saved, it must be saved “alive.”

WILLIAM SAWYER.

[John Crawford Wilson, born at Mallow, Cork, Ireland. Poet, dramatist, and miscellaneous writer. His chief poetical works are: The Village Pearl; Blsie; Flights to Fairyland: and Lost and Found, a pastoral. Jonathan Oldaker, or Leaves from the Diary of a Commercial Traveller, is a series of sketches and tales which has passed through several editions. His most important dramas are Gitanilla and a stage version of his poem Lost and Found. He has on several occasions appeared with much success as a public reader of selections from his own works and those of other

authors. "Mr. Wilson's style is animated and rapid: we have seldom read verses which breathe more earnestly the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love. To the moral qualities which distinguish poets, Mr. Wilson may lay an undoubted claim. Genuine feeling is so infectious, that such a writer can hardly tell a plain and pathetic story to unsympathizing hearers."— Athenæum.]

"I must go Home to-day!"

A golden beam
Of dazzling sunlight streamed from heaven to earth;
Through clouds that seemed like polished silver domes
Of temples angel-built, or fairy towers
Spotless and white, with sparkling minarets,
Drifting like icebergs in a calm blue sea,

The fiery shaft ran down-down to a bed
On which lay prone a little wasted form

Of faded earth, from which the struggling soul
Yet panted to be free.

It was a girl

A little sickly girl lay on that bed—

To whom God's sunbeam came. She saw the beamBut to her eye of faith 'twas not a beam

"Twas a bright golden stair with myriad steps,

All small-all suited to her tiny feet-
And leading straight to Heaven.

"I must go Home-
Not a short holiday, my mother dear,
Like those I've had from school-from school to Home,
And then from Home to school; the Home so short,
And, oh, the school so long! but always Home;
And it will be to-day-must be to-day."

"My darling is at Home!" the mother sobbed, As with a moistened feather she essayed To damp the parched lips, round which the dews Shook from the wings of death thronged cold and clear. But in the eyes through which that spirit looked A soft denial shone; and the small voice Pleaded in whispers to that mother's heart,"Oh! do not keep me here-let me go Home; I'm very tired of earth-I long for Home;

I'm weak and ill, and only fit for Home

And such a Home, sweet mother!-there-'tis there!"

She smiled within the sunbeam, and her hand, Like it, transparent seemed, as it was raised Pointing to Heaven. A Heaven not far awayBut near; so near-that e'en her dying smile Seemed not to herald night, but the bright dawn Of an unclouded and eternal day.

The mother felt, as kneeling by that bed She tended every want, and on her breast Pillowed the sufferer's head-that the frail shell The young worn mould encircled by her arms, Was crumbling fast to dust-and that the wings Of a freed angel would be heavenward spread When earth's last gyves fell off, and the last sigh Followed the sunbeam, sent to light her Home.

They called her "Lily"-Lilian was her nameBut from her birth she seemed so waxen whiteSo fairy slight - so gentle and so pure, That to her father's mind she ever brought The image of that pale and fragile flower: And so he called her "Lily." "Twas a term In which endearment, tenderness, and hope Were all wreathed up; the hope too often crossed By jealous fears, when some untoward breath Too roughly bent to earth the sickly flower, Leaving it drooping on its yielding stem.

And there she lay at last,-almost in HeavenOf Time and of Eternity a part

A dying, living link, uniting those

Who live to die- and die to ever live!

Her eyes were closed. Her mother thought she slept The sleep that wakes no more: but 'twas not so.

A step was on the stair-the fading eyes
Opened again on earth-the wasted cheeks-
Dimpled once more, as round the lips a smile
Played like the shadow of a silver cloud
Upon a sunlit stream. "Mother! 'tis he-
'Tis father's footstep-and so very kind—
So thoughtful of his Lily, he has left
His heavy boots below; he pauses now—
Clings to the rail, and sobs. I hear it all!
He fears I am gone Home. Go, mother dear!
Tell him I could not go till he returned.

I want to feel his kiss upon my lips;
And take it up to Heaven."

Another sob,

And then a choking whisper from without. "May I come in? If she is gone, say 'No.' If not, say 'Yes.' I'll tread so very light

I shall not wake her, wife. May I come in?"

A faltering voice said, "Come!" "Twas Lily's voine;

So he went in-a stalwart lusty man

A giant, with a tiny infant's heart,

165

Weeping big tears that would not be controlled.
Oh! how he loved that child-how she loved him!
Yet both so opposite; her little soul
Clinging round his-a tendril round an oak-
A lily cleaving to a rugged rock.

He sat beside her bed, and in his hands
Buried his streaming eyes. His soul rebelled:
"She had no right to die-to rive his heart;
Rob him and it, of all life's tenderest ties."
He felt as he could say, "Lily, lie there
For ever dying; but, oh! never die

'Til I die too." He thought not of his wife-
She was his other self. She was himself;
But Lily was their cherished life of life-
Of each and both a part-so grafted on,

That, if removed, they must become once more
Two bodies with two souls-no longer one,
Their living link destroyed-not loving less,
But singly loving-'twixt their hearts a gulf
Unbridged by Lily's love;-a love so pure
That not a taint of selfishness was near;
All this he felt, and on the future looked
As on a desolation.

Lily spoke

Or whispered rather-but a thunder peal Would less affect him than her sinking tones: "Raise me, dear father; take me to your breast-Your broad kind breast, so full of love for me"Twill rest me on my road-'tis half-way Home!

And then he rose, and round her wasted form His brawny arms-before whose mighty strength The massive anvil quivered, as his hands Swung high the ponderous sledge-or in whose gripe The fiery steed stood conquered and subduedClosed, as the breath of heaven, or God's own love, So lightly, softly, gently, hemmed they in The little dying child. Then there he sat, Her face upon his breast, and on his knee Her tearless mother's head; for all her tears Were inly wept, dropping like molten lead Upon her breaking heart.

Far in the west

Long waves of crimson clouds stretched o'er the hills;
And through those clouds, as in a sea of blood,
The sun sank slowly down. Ere his last ray
Glanced upwards from the earth, the father felt
His Lily lift her head-celestial light
Beamed from her eyes, as for the last embrace,
She to her mother turned, and then to him:
"They beckon me," she said; "I come! I come!"
Around his neck she twined her faded arms,
Rising obedient to her heavenly call;
Again he pressed her lips, but in the kiss

Her soul, enfranchised, bounded from its thrall;
Its crumbling fetters drooped upon his heart-
The angel was at Home!

THE ROOKS RETURNING TO THEIR

NESTS.

[The REV. GILBERT WHITE (1720-1793) published a series of letters addressed by him to Pennant and Daines Barrington, descriptive of the natural objects and appearances of the parish of Selborne in Hampshire. White was rector of this parish, and had spent in it the greater part of his life, engaged in literary occupations and the study of nature. His minute and interesting facts, the entire devotion of the amiable author to his subject, and the easy elegance and simplicity of his style, render "White's History," a universal favourite-something like Izaak Walton's book on Angling, which all admire, and hundreds have endeavoured to copy. The retired naturalist was too full of facts and observations to have room for sentimental writing, yet in sentences like the following-however humble be the theme-we may trace no common power of picturesque painting :}

The evening proceedings and manœuvres of the rooks are curious and amusing in the autumn. Just before dusk, they return in long strings from the foraging of the day, and rendezvous by thousands over Selborne down, where they wheel round in the air, and sport and dive in a playful manner, all the while exerting their voices, and making a loud cawing, which, being blended and softened by the distance that we at the village are below them, becomes a confused noise or chiding; or rather a pleasing murmur, very engaging to the imagination, and not unlike the cry of a pack of hounds in hollow echoing woods, or the rushing of the winds in tall trees, or the tumbling of the tide upon a pebbly shore. When this ceremony is over, with the last gleam of day they retire for the night to the deep beechen woods of Tisted and Ropley. We remember a little girl, who, as she was going to bed, used to remark on such an occurrence, in the true spirit of physico-theology, that the rooks were saying their prayers; and yet this child was much too young to be aware that the Scriptures have said of the Deity, that "he feedeth the ravens who call upon him."

A CAT ADOPTING YOUNG SQUIR

RELS.

A boy has taken three little young squir rels in their nest, or drey, as it is called in these parts. These small creatures he put under the care of a cat who had lately fost