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cued from poverty by the kindness of Edmund Burke; entered the Church; and enjoyed competence and universal esteem till his death in 1832. His collected works, with a life by his son, in eight volumes, were published in 1834.]

“Come lead me, lassie, to the shade
Where willows grow beside the brook ;

For well I know the sound it made,
When dashing o'er the stony rill,
It murmur'd to St. Osyth's Mill.”

The lass replied " The trees are fled,
They've cut the brook a straighter bed :
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake.”

“ Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,

And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fastened to the stone,

And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes,
And green its mossy passage makes.”

The holy spring is turn'd aside,
The arch is gone, the stream is dried ;
The plough has levell’d all around,
And here is now no holy ground.”.

“Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide,

To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide,

And part the church-way lane o'erlook.
A boy, I climbed the topmost bough,
And I would feel its shadow now.

“Or, lassie, lead me to the west,

Where grew the elm trees thick and tall, Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest

Deliberate birds, and prudent all ; Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, But they're a social multitude.”

“ The rooks are shot, the trees are felld, And nest and nursery all expellid; With better fate the giant-tree, Old Bulmer's Oak, is gone to sea. The church-way walk is now no more, And men must other ways explore: Though this indeed promotion gains, For this the park's new wall contains : And here I fear we shall not meet A shade-although, perchance, a seat."

“ O then, my lassie, lead the way

To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn :
That something holds, if we can pay-

Old David is our living kin;
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves !”

“ Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate:
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more.
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound !"

“O then," the grieving Man replied,

“ No farther, lassie, let me stray ; Here's nothing left of ancient pride,

Of what was grand, of what was gay:

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But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold--
All, all that's left, is chilling cold.
I seek for comfort here in vain,
Then lead me to my cot again!”

[THE following extract will give some notion of the vein of the famous Dean of St. Patrick's. But no adequate notion can be afforded by extracts. Gulliver's Travels,' offensive as it is in many respects, may be in the hands of every reader for a shilling or two ;-and there, and perhaps better even in The Tale of a Tub,' may be fitly learnt the great powers of Swift as a satirist, and his almost unequalled mastery of a clear, vigorous, and idiomatic style. The Battle of the Books,’ from which our extract is taken, was of Swift's earlier performances. It had reference to the great contest which was then going on between the advocates of Ancient Learning and Modern Learning. The bee represents the Ancients—the spider the Moderns. Such contests are as harmless and as absurd as the more recent disputes amongst our French neighbours, about the comparative merits of The Classic and the Romantic schools. Real criticism can find enough to admire in whatever form genius works. The apologue of the Spider and the Bee was not unjustly applied, some dozen years ago, to a coterie of self-applauding writers, “ furnished with a native stock," who, despising accuracy and careful investigation, turned up their noses at those who were labouring to make knowledge the common possession of all.

Jonathan Swift was born in 1667, and died in 1745. An excellent edition of his works, in nineteen volumes, was edited by Sir Walter Scott, There is a cheap edition, in two large octavo volumes, published in 1841.]

Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a certain spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infinite numbers of flies whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his palace, like human bones before the cave of some giant. The avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes, all after the modern way of fortification. After you had passed several courts you came to the centre, wherein you might behold the constable himself


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