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Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,

Which better far were mute.
For lo! the new Moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread,

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread,)
I see the c!d Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain and make it move and live!

11.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief

In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze- and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel how beautiful they are !

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I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

Iv.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loneless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth-
And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V.
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady, is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding nature to us gives in dower,

A new Earth and new Heaven
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-

We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth;
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of imagination-
For not to think of what I needs must feel,

But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural man

This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul,

VII.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth. Thou Wind that rav'st without,

Bare craig, or mountain-tairn *, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanists! who in this month of showers,
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devil's yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold !

What tellist thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds-
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold !
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans and tremulous shudderings—all is over-
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

A tale of less affright,

And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,

'Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way;
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth,

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

* Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who hare heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

10.-APOPHTHEGMS.-I. [An Apophthegm is, properly speaking, a pithy saying. An Aphorism is a precept, or rule of practice. Plutarch made a collection of Apopthegms which are for the most part what we call Anecdotes. Lord Bacon's collection of Apophthegms is almost wholly of the same character. In a preface to this collection our great English philosopher writes as follows:

"Julius Cæsar did write a collection of apophthegms, as appears in an epistle of Cicero : I need say no more for the worth of a writing of that nature. It is pity his work is lost, for I imagine they were collected with judgment and choice; whereas that of Plutarch and Stobæus, and much more the modern ones, draw much of the dregs. Certainly they are of excellent use. They are mucrones verborum, pointed speeches. Cicero prettily calls them salinas, salt pits, that you may extract salt out of and sprinkle it where you will. They serve to be interlaced in continued speech. They serve to be recited, upon occasions, of themselves. They serve, if you take out the kernel of them and make them your own. I have, for my recreation in my sickness, fanned the old, not omitting any because they are vulgar [common], for many vulgar ones are excellent good; nor for the meanness of the person, but because they are dull and flat, and adding many new, that otherwise would have died.”

We shall devote a few Half-hours' to this amusing branch of literature, selecting, without chronological order from many books :-)

DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE.Dr. Johnson and I [Boswell] took a sculler at the Temple Stairs, and set out for Greenwich. I asked him if he really thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages an essential requisite to a good education. Johnson. “Most certainly, sir ; for those who know them have a very great advantage over those who do not. Nay, sir, it is wonderful what a difference learning makes upon people even in the common intercourse of life, which does not appear to be much connected with it.” “And yet," said I, “people go through the world very well, and carry on the business of life to good advantage, without learning." Johnson. Why, sir, that may be true in cases where learning cannot possibly be of any use ; for instance, this boy rows us as well without learning as if he could sing the song of Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were the first sailors.” He then called to the boy, “What would you give, my lad, to know about the Argonauts ?” “Sir," said the boy, “I would give what I have." Johnson was much pleased with his answer, and we gave him a double fare. Dr. Johnson then turning to me, “Sir,” said he," a desire of knowledge is the natural feeling of mankind; and every human being, whose mind is not debauched, will be willing to give all that he has, to get knowledge."-BOSWELL. Life of Johnson.

DECAYED GENTRY.—It happened in the reign of King James, when Henry, Earl of Huntingdon, was Lieutenant of Leicestershire, that a labourer's son of that country was pressed into the wars; as I take it to go over with Count Mansfeldt. The old man at Leicester requested his son might be discharged, as being the only staff of his age, who by his industry maintained him and his mother. The earl demanded his name, which the man for a long time was loth to tell (as suspecting it a fault for so poor a man to confess the truth), at last he told his name was Hastings. “Cousin Hastings," said the earl, "we cannot all be top branches of the tree, though we all spring from the same root; your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed !” So good was the meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honourable person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to believe, that some who justly hold the surnames and blood of Bohuns, Mortimers, and Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own extractions), are hid in the heap of common people, where they find that under a thatched cottage, which some of their ancestors could not enjoy in a leaded castle-contentment, with quiet and security.-FULLER. Worthies.- Art. of ShireReeves or Shiriffes.

GOLDSMITH. Colonel O'Moore, of Cloghan Castle in Ireland, told me an amusing instance of the mingled vanity and simplicity of Goldsmith, which (though, perhaps,

coloured a little, as anecdotes too often are) is characteristic at least of the opinion which his best friends entertained of Goldsmith. One afternoon, as Colonel O'Moore and Mr. Burke were going to dine with Sir Joshua Reynolds, they observed Goldsmith (also on his way to Sir Joshua's) standing near a crowd of people, who were staring and shouting at some foreign women in the windows of one of the houses in Leicester Square. “Observe Goldsmith," said Mr. Burke to O'Moore, “and mark what passes between him and me by and by at Sir Joshua's." They passed on, and arrived before Goldsmith, who came soon after, and Mr. Burke affected to receive him very coolly. This seemed to vex poor Goldsmith, who begged Mr. Burke would tell him how he had the misfortune to offend him. Burke appeared very reluctant to speak ; but, after a good deal of pressing, said “that he was really ashamed to keep up an intimacy with one who could be guilty of such monstrous indiscretions as Goldsmith had just exhibited in the square.” Goldsmith, with great earnestness, protested he was unconscious of what was meant. “Why,” said Burke, “did you not exclaim, as you were looking up at those women, What stupid beasts the crowd must be for staring with such admiration at those painted Jezebels; while a man of your talents passed by unnoticed ?" Goldsmith was horror-struck, and said, “Surely, surely, my dear friend, I did not say so ?” “Nay," replied Burke, “ if you had not said so, how should I have known it?” “That's true," answered Goldsmith, with great humility: “I am very sorry-it was very foolish : I do recollect that something of the kind passed through my mind, but I did not think I had uttered it.”- Notes in Croker's edition of Boswell's Johnson.

ILLUSTRIOUS PRISONERS.—Queen Elizabeth, the morrow of her coronation, went to the chapel ; and in the great chamber, Sir John Rainsforth, set on by wiser men (a knight that had the liberty of a buffoon), besought the queen aloud-—"That now this good time, when prisoners were delivered, four prisoners, amongst the rest, mought likewise have their liberty who were like enough to be kept still in hold.” The queen asked, “who they were ?" and he said “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who had long been imprisoned in the Latin tongue, and now he desired they mought go abroad among the people in English.” The queen answered, with a grave countenance, “ It were good, Rainsforth, they were spoken with themselves, to know of them whether they would be set at liberty ?”—Bacon.

CANNING AND THE AMBASSADOR.—What dull coxcombs your diplomatists at home generally are! I remember dining at Mr. Frere's once in company with Canning and a few other interesting men. Just before dinner Lord called on Frere, and asked himself to dinner. From the moment of his entry he began to talk to the whole party, and in French-all of us being genuine English-and I was told his French was execrable. He had followed the Russian army into France, and seen a good deal of the great men concerned in the war ; of none of those things did he say a word, but went on, sometimes in English and sometimes in French, gabbling about cookery and dress, and the like. At last he paused for a little-and I said a few words, remarking how a great image may be reduced to the ridiculous and contemptible by bringing the constituent parts into prominent detail, and mentioned the grandeur of the deluge and the preservation of life in Genesis and the Paradise Lost, and the ludicrous effect produced by Drayton's description in his Noah's Flood :

“ And now the beasts are walking from the wood,
As well of ravine, as that chew the cud,
The king of beasts his fury doth suppress,
And to the Ark leads down the lioness;
The bull for his beloved mate doth low,

And to the Ark brings on the fair-eyed cow," &c.
Hereupon Lord resumed, and spoke in raptures of a picture which he had

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