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the afternoon with its sunbeams streaking huge shadows, tainted our very nature, what a land of rest had and writing characters of fire upon all the hills-in the

ours not been !-had iniquity not entered, the golden evening, when the sun was going down over Benmore in blood-in the dim evening to us dearer still

, intellect would have been pure and lofty, the when a faint rich mist was steeping all the landscape in re- image of the Invisible; with angels we should ligious hues – in the waste night, while the moon was rising have held communion : the shadowy eventide red in the north east, like a beacon or a torch uplifted by would have beheld the converse; the twilight some giant-hand-under the breezes and bashful green

star would have looked down upon the fair of spring-in the laughing luxuriance of summer-under the yellow shade of autumn-at the close of autumn- and hallowed intercourse. But rebellion lifted when the woods were red and the stubble sovereign of up its standard ; then followed the curse ; the fields--and again when hill, valley, and wood were spotted with snow, have seen it in a hush so profound ruin; where once the bright thought played,

the mind mouldered, it became a dim, dark that you might have imagined nature listening for some mysterious tidings, and hardly dared to breathe; and in the vampire crawled. Think we what elothe cloudy and dark day, while the thunder was shaking quence we have lost! the tongue now cannot the column and the lightning painting the landscape. disclose its burning language. The poet's fire we sometimes fancied that we saw that fearless form burns dimly - beauty has faded--the eye forgets "gaeing” up thro' the plains of Dalwhinnie and the fairy its utterance-the countenance, which erst was plantations of Dunira.

radiant with high resolve, is clouded--song is To pu' the cress-flower from the well,

hushed—the lyre's strings are unchorded the The scarlet hyp and the hynd berrye,

domestic affections are sullied, Ah, who can And the nut that hang frae the hazel tree,

tell what these would have been, had we For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. And when gloaming especially had poured her dim remained perfect? who paint their 'untainted divine lustre over the dark hills and white castle of sweets! There would have been no anger to Abruchill, and allowed the last lingering lay of sunshine break the melody of their reign ; no jarring to rest on the crest of Benvoirlich, and hushed the streams sound to lacerate the heart: all would have of Glenlednick behind, and drawn a dewy veil over the

been one fond swell of inexpressible bliss. The plain of Dalginross before, and softened the call of the cauldron in the glen below, and suffused over all the lips would have disclosed the passion of the landscape of earth and heaven a sense unutterable of soul; the atmosphere would have been perpeace, and introduced into the scene, as a last glorious fumed with love's richest incense; its clear touch, the moon, to enhance the scene of solemnity, blue sky would have never been shadowed with on the hill, and seeing the stars coming out above the unkindness; no discord would have been heard. silent column, thought of the "eve in a sinless world,” There would have been hopes, but hopes springwhen,

ing from inherent purity; there would have In ecstasy of sweet devotion, Oh then the glen was all in motion;

been struggles, but struggles after a higher bles

sedness. and owned the power of the “consecration," and felt the might of the poet's dream.”

Our evenings, though sin-infected, are still Our limits forbid further quotations. We beautiful; but what would have been their feel that we have not done justice to this most enchanting loveliness, had we continued our

Even now, Eden

homage to the Eternal ? splendid man. We might fill page after page arises before us clothed with the soft grey and chapter after chapter with merely extracts from his powerful writings. His thoughts and and the lamb; the dark majestic cedars cast

of twilight; on yonder bank repose the lion images are magnificent. He is like his own

their umbrage on the rippling waters; there land with its gorgeous sunsets amid the widestretching and heaven-towering mountains: like Along that winding walk stroll the happy pair;

are flowers of every hue and every clime. the splendour of his own lochs shadowing in the sky is dimpled with the golden clouds of their deep waters the sublime scenery of the

sunset. midnight sky: he is like the earth with her the empyrean: it brightens, enlarges, expands.

Presently a silver spot radiates in. rolling oceans and beauteous isles, and huge Music slowly breaks ; it is the melody of heacontinents, and dark forests. He is part of

Gentle voices are heard. We gaze ; we the great universe; the spirit-breathing hymn listen. In the firmament we behold the angels of heaven; the glorious and divine song throw- of the Highest: the fair intelligences alight, ing tenfold beauty, and shedding tenfold lustre and are greeted by man; they turn towards on the vast creation : well may he be one of the magnificent west. Hark, the vesper hymn Scotia's mightiest sons !

sweeps upwards to the Throne !

But we have one season left sweeter than

Eden's sweetest hours. If sin blighted the JAMES GRAHAME.

flowery Paradise, and nipped its odoriferous

fruits, Christ has also thrown over the earth AFTER perusing the immortal Milton, and a more beautiful and enchanting grace: the beholding the magnificence and sublimity of dew of the fairer land is on us; the sun of the the celestial worlds pictured to the imagination better world shines in our horizon; the gales by his master-spirit; after accompanying Ather of the soft and peaceful clime breathe ever and stone in his dream of suns and systems replete anon their incense; the ground once more with life and loveliness; and after sweeping scents with eternal flowers : immortality is immensity, vast and infinite, with Byron in ours. The sigh of repentance, and the tear his Cain, we are refreshed by the tender lays of penitenee, and the voice of faith tend upof Grahame-his perception of beauty, and his wards. _One day in seven is given us; we then calm and holy Sabbath scenes; we are once rest. Delicious bliss is bestowed; Heaven more drawn to earth, and find that it still bears pours out its unrufied serenity, marks of pristine grace, and still has moments The calm and quiet Sabbath is the theme of heavenly peace. And, oh, had not sin of our poet; the strings of his harp are tuned

ven,

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to its sweetest melody. The pious soul feels In softer harmony the people join, the influence of his strain; its very name is

While liquid whispers from yon orphan-band

Recal the soul from adoration's trance, music sweeter than Israfil ; its bliss is assimi.

And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. lated with that of heaven. The anthem of wor- Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meet ship rolls upwards from every star; the matin The hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime

A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, song issues from the lips of countless intelli

As if the whole were one, suspended high gences. The thrones, and principalities, and In air, soaring heavenward. powers, utter the praises of the Immortal. And now from this earth may be heard the tender

The gentle wind bears onwards the deepwhisperings of love, and the swell of a mighty toned music to the sick man's ears :-* chorus to the Creator; the murmurings of re

Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,

Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered ; bellion cease; the flag of iniquity is lowered;

He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will risethe hoarse discord dies away; the haughty Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! defiance is carried on the breeze no longer. No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow; Man stands and hearkens. The homage-hymn

My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day

My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far deepens every hour. There is sound of inex

In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow, tinguishable joy : Creation brightens; the reign There would I bless His name who led me forth of sin waxes feeble; oppression is overthrown. From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweetsIt is beautiful to behold the sun arise, scat

Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow

Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye. tering his radiant beams on a world teeming with loveliness, while the peace of the King

How natural is this scene; it takes hold of sweeps onwards from “palm-peaks of Para- the heart: it is truth; we feel it to be so; dise," telling of the holy Sabbath. The earth every chord of the mind vibrates to its verity: lies in all the freshness of early dawn; a tran- it is poetry; it is reality. The sick-room opens quillity pervades the wide-spread universe :- to view : we see the pale inhabitant; he is

raised on one arm; again the harmony comes How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed

o'er the vale ;' his ear catches the distant The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song: hymn; his eye is heavenwards; his spirit The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath

throbs with joy; the wish arises for health Of tedded grass, mingling with fading flowers That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.

and strength; he promises to be holy, should Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum his life be spared. Live, and be as thou hast Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

vowed ! The distant bleating midway up the hill.

Oneother quotation from The Sabbath, and we Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland lees,

proceed to speak of Grahame's minor poems : The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;

Oh, Scotland ! much I love thy tranquil dales; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight, Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;

Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke

Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs ; O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

Or when the simple service ends, to hear The voice of psalıns, the simple song of praise.

The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man, It is sweet to stand on some hill-top, and

The father and the priest, walk forth alone

Into his garden-plot, or little field, listen to the now swelling and now fading

To commune with his God in secret prayerchimes, to see the simple villagers pour into To bless the Lord, that, in his downward years, the old grey church, through its ivied porch, His children are about him: sweet meantime, while the sun ascends the sky in glory; the

The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,

Brings to his view the days of youthful years, corn-field waves in the breeze; the rooks caw

When that same aged thorn was but a bush. in yonder wood; the bee and butterfly settle Nor is the contrast between youth and age on the wild flowers of the straggling lane. At

To him a painful thought; he joys to think such an hour, and at such a place, the music of

His journey near a close, heaven is his home. the bells is doubly beautiful; heaven-like their It is sweet to visit the temple of the living harmony, exhilarating their minstrelsy. They God when twilight sheds her softening influnow arise in fairy tones, now softly die away ; ence around, when the winds of night are rising, the melting and spirit-soothing cadence seems when the leaves are falling to the ground, when to proclaim the tidings of hallowed peace and the western sky is tinged with emerald and joy; their silver tinklings invest creation with gold, when the chirping of the birds has ceased, deeper and lovelier colours : it is then that we when bee and butterfly are at rest, when those feel the worthlessness of all our pantings after sounds “ we love so well” swell ever and anon greatness ; we behold the hollowness of earthly on the ear. vanities; we are united with a firmer and a It is sweet to join in the simple responses of fonder tie to the Eternal ; but we stroll down- | the rustic villagers, to listen to their homely wards to the hamlet's church, and enter the praise, to hear their beloved minister. Other sacred fane:

fanes may be more gorgeously decorated, and A placid stillness reigns,

resound with all the magnificence of song, yet Until the man of God, worthy the name,

is there a gentler peace enjoyed in this lowlier Opens the book, and reverentially

and humbler pile. And around us sleep those The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,

who once delighted to worship here, who Then swells into a diapason full:

brought their children to be baptized, who were The people, rising, sing; with harp, with harp, married at yonder altar, who learnt the road to And voice of psalms, harmoniously attuned,

heaven from the same pulpit, and who received The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles,

the last and holiest consolations of earth from At every close, the lingering strain prolong. And now the tubes a softened stop controls;

its pastor. We seem shut out from the world ;

it is but one family; all know each other ; He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,

Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf, the concerns of each are the concerns of the

Welcomes the time of buds- the infant year. whole; the success of one is the success of all;

After weeks and months of snow and storm, they are united by a deep and hallowed tie; the ground, the church, the spiritual shepherd

after the bleak, bare aspect of the beautiful are their own.

creation, after howling and whistling of winds, And yet sweeter is the season spent, after

after leafless trees and ice-bound brooks, with the services of the sanctuary, in the holy retreats

what throbbing emotions the heart hails the of a happy home, when the family is gathered dawn of spring. Nature appears once more around the parents, and that most beautiful of clothed in her pristine loveliness: the light all compositions, Ken's Evening Hymn, is transparent leaves, the budding of flowers, the wafted to the courts above. To our mind there peeping of the primrose in some shady lane, is nothing so well calculated to refine and ex- the fresh rippling of the waters, the serene blue pand the soul; the hour is softening beyond skies, the cooling showers move strangely the expression. The blazing fire, the healthy faces soul. Every breeze resounds with the voice of the children, the complacent features of the of bird; the hill-tops are golden in the sunlong-affianced pair, the liquid notes of praise, shine; the valleys are lighted up with the the light thrown on the pictures, the warmth, radiant beams; the sun peers above the horizon and the comfort, and the snug security, the earlier-it sets later; the genial rain descends ; autumnal winds without, exert a powerful in the rainbow spans the heavens ; the earth is fluence; visions of purity and peace arise, adorned with a greener tint; there is a sound of “sweet as blue heavens o’er enchanted isles ;" revelry on the gale; the soft and melting sumdreams of hallowed quietude. The heart is

mer is on the wing; the world blossoms every

hour. full of love ; every wish, every thought, every throb is steeped in tenderness. “We are dis

Speaking of the stillness of a summer's noon, posed to press to our bosom every flower and our poet beautifully says :every distant star, every lofty spirit of our Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms divining-an embracing of all nature, as of our

My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms

That throw across the stream a moveless shade: beloved." There is a boundless range; we be- Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks; come, as it were, the soul of the universe; we

How peaceful every sound. seem the centre of all existence, the concentra

What an exquisite sketch we have in these tion of all life; there are awakenings to a

few lines !—the picture is complete: the shahigher state, and energies before unknown.

dows of the trees are on the waters; the sun it was in such a still and quiet Sabbath is up the heaven ; every sound is hushed; the evening that we first lisped the name of Jesus ; sky is one vast arch of blue; the earth is one first

learned to know the Son of Mary, the son gem of purest green ; there is no hum of beeof God. We well remember the room, with tion steals over the soul; existence seems to

no song of bird ; the luxury of eastern meditaits homely furniture and old-fashioned organ. float in an enchanting softness; we feel as if There it is, just as it stood of yore; the fire

we were in a new world ; the tumult of man is Alings our shadows on the wall; the light is forgotten ; a serene quietude pervades every that which we sometimes most love-the dim, object; the leaves move not; the wind is melancholy hue of evening: We talk of the dropped; the imagination revels in fair and gentleness and meekness of Christ; the tear lovely creations of poet and of sculptor; the rolls. down the cheek as we think of his sorrows

mind is fascinated ; it is absorbed ; it has, as and his griefs; our little bosom feels deep, deep it were, ceased to breathe; there is a dreamlike pangs; we would stand for him against the beauty; the flowers stir not; there is no ripple world; we cling around our fond mother; our heart gushes with tenderness towards her. The flows imperceptibly.

in the brook ; the stream flows onwards, but it storm rages without; the wind whistles through

The summer fades; its gorgeousness and its the trees ; the grey streaks of the setting sun magnificence are gone : the crown of autumn is reflect their sombre tinge on the floor; we

dim and shadowy; a grandeur sits on her brow; crowd around the hearth. Ere long, and the

our feelings are touched with a solemn awe; door opens, and our revered parent enters; how soon the hours fly away! many have been the eternity; our thoughts of the infinite existence;

our pulse beats slower; our visions are of scenes of holy love witnessed there. The re

the sweet scent of flowers comes no more upon membrance comes over us as some delicious the breeze; the honeysuckle, and the rose, and dream of the better land.

the violet are in the dust; the foliage of dark Some few of Grahame's minor poems are pro- forests has perished; Death nips the fair face ductions of exquisite beauty. What sweeter

of creation. “ A sad autumn-mist settles like a than this description of spring :

pall over the exhausted fields :" Earth becomes Oh, how I love with melted soul to leave

“immeasurable gravestone." The black The house of prayer, and wander in the fields

clouds roll over the sky; they come sooner, Alone! What though the opening spring be chill !

they tarry later; the winds moan and moan, as What though the lark, checked in his airy path, Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,

if the world was dying; the leafless oak bends; That still o'ertops the blade! What though no branch

the sun sets in sullen and gloomy splendour ; Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,

solitude hastens on every moment; the golden That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!

waving corn is gathered in; the harvest-home What though the clouds oft lower! their threats but end In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds

has been celebrated :Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt

The ruddy haws The merle's dulcet pipe-melodious bird !

Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends

one

Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs,

thou art, oh child of clay, trouble will come With auburn branches, dipping in the stream,

upon thee: thou shalt" awaken to a new That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow The leaf-strewn banks.

world, and shalt find that world enshrouded

in woe. Winter comes on with his crest of sheeted

Thou mayst indeed dream sweetly away the snow, the sleet drives down, the rivers are long summer time; but trouble will grasp thine frozen, the leafless branches of the trees make hand and shake thee out of sleep. The bright wintry music:

creation then all ebon night: no smile of tenHow dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep der love. But cheer thee, child, there is yet The stillness of the winter Sabbath day;

another and another world, and that is free from Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, Each hollow pathway level with the plain;

care and trial. No anxiety then, no trouble : Hid are the bushes, save that here and there

all that will have been left behind : no shrinkAre seen the topmost shoots of briar or broom.

ing of the flesh, no trembling of the spirit to High-ridged the whirl'd drift has almost reached

meet approaching woe: none, none in that
The powdered key-stone in the churchyard porch:
Mute hangs the hooded bell--the tombs lie buried- dewy land! No wishing that time might stay
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

its flight; that it might encircle thee for ever, The silence is almost vocal: the wintry scene settled, moveless ; engirt thee, nerveless stili is before us; we feel the biting air: yonder and wingless; that circumstances might not stands the church ; its very key-stone is white change but remain as now, dismal as they are, with the drifted snow; the tombs lie partly yet remain lest worst come and swallow up the hidden; no sound-no foot-fall rises on the ear; soul: ah no! brother, into that quiet home the sky is heavy with large white flakes ; the trouble cannot enter. Bear thee up couragesun is overshadowed; it has lost its golden ously: the stream is flowing onwards and soon beams, and has become dusky red.

the shore of the happy will be reached : then Grahame's Biblical Pictures are very fine;

trouble for ever hence ! they display much grandeur, combined with

There are times, indeed, when light is in the much simplicity. We have room only for one:

heavens and glory streams from every object; it is on the words of our Saviour, when told that times, when the heart is not afraid, when it his mother and brethren were without, desir- feels assured that the whole hemisphere will ing to speak with him :"

be as one living sapphire, brighter than the

waters of the sea. In those moments, the soul " Who is my mother or my brethren ?"

fears not; feels that within, which by God's He spake, and looked on them who sat around With a meek smile of pity blent with love,

grace, shall burn for ever. Sweet, delicious hope, More melting than e'er gleamed from human face, would that it might last! Yet no; the spirit As when a sunbeam, through a summer shower,

must struggle or else where would be the Shines mildly on a little hill-side flock; And with that look of love, he said, “Behold

increase of its strength ? it must pass the night My mother and my brethren: for I say,

all solitary and alone, beneath the ebon ceiling, That whosoe'er shall do the will of God,

cheered only by the flickering glare of the He is my brother, sister, mother,--all !”

beacon-fire, ere the beautiful dawn is seen
Grahame also published British Georgics, gilding the mountain-tops, and shedding opal
which, although possessing passages of great loveliness into the plains below. Ah, one
beauty, is somewhat dull and wearisome. His seems, in certain seasons, like some Titanic
Sabbath, however, is an assemblage of exquisite being struggling with huge masses of blackness,
sketches, displaying the skill of the artist with and thick palpable clouds; but then comes the
the warmth and feeling of the poet. It is a fine pure still ether of eternity, and the calm un-
composition, and must hold a high place in the ruffled quietude of serene repose.
regard and love of every Christian. Many have This cannot continue long. Time's shadows
been the seasons it has beguiled with its sweet and anxieties want some master vision to light
descriptions; and often again will its scenes them into beauty. We get entangled, and then
arise before the mental eye, in times of distress cast down; the whole existenceseems enwrapped
and anguish, to soothe, exalt, and purify. in strange, unearthly darkness. Would that

it might discern the day! but alas, no; we
must toil, toil on, trying to hew down some
huge mountain that outshuts the clear silvery

heavens, and there is the sound of hammer and
HAZLITT.

of axe, but no sound of joy, and no success,

but the success of despair ; for the vast mount TROUBLE, yes, trouble will encircle thee, uprises in its immensity, and we toil, toil on, companion. It will meet thee in every turn all lonely and all weeping. Ah, it is a mysof life. Trouble, trouble shall cast its dark terious pass for the soul to be brought to—a dim mazes around thy heart: no blessed dreams of dark state, like “the valley of the shadow of beauty then, no sweet scented hope, no silver death.” We dare not hope, for it would be joy. The cold bleak clammy chill, as of death, mockery; we dare not wish, for it would be shall environ thee. It shall throw a melancholy blasphemy: we are desireless, and yet ever gloom over the gentle stars of night: no and anon we hear the songs, so liquid and eternal eventide of gems" then! There shall

so sweet, on the further side of the mountain, be confusion in the soft heavens, no liquid and ever and anon come the soft chime of strain, no subtle hymn, no tone as of Memnon's blessedness and the realization of all beauty, lyre: ah no! trouble shall shut out the universe and we look up, and again toil, toil on. Thus the of God. One black pall over earth and sky; spirit struggles onwards till the break of uniblackness deeper than Hades. No matter who versal day, and the hymn of universal love,

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one

and the smile of universal peace, and the glory hymning its praise, he would mourn its apof universal happiness burst upon the entranced proach. Knowest thou that, reader? soul !

And then onwards in the world, his lectures, Thus doubtless did Hazlitt feel, and hadst his publishing, the cool and contemptuous thou been by him, he would thus have talked reception; how different from his youthful with thee. He knew the coldness of the world. vision ! But he will bear it still; one friend He had to encounter the bitter scoffs of men. and another will come and throw sunlight His golden dreams of youth were soon scattered, upon his way. and he had to meet the sneers of those around. But not always thus. There are moments He could bear much, he did bear much, bear when the heart must be alone; when it will it manfully—but sometimes grief would over- dwell alone. No approach of man then; no come him, and his noble spirit felt broken. tread of unhallowed step.

What melancholy We wish you, reader, to see his heart: much reflections in looking on the days gone by; has been written on his intellect, and many contrasting the dream with the reality, his have been the magnificent adoration-hymns. vestal visions with the awaking out of sleep. But we would notice rather his feelings and What a world to what he had expected! He affections. We cannot tell why we would do could one time have given his heart to all ; this now; but perchance our soul feels some- now he closes it even to himself. He will what of those things he endured and suffered. think, he will love alone. And yet not even We would therefore let the mind take its own thus; the heart will overcome; and in overcourse; and you, reader, may find some sweet coming will feel happy. He can forgive his melancholy pleasure in listening to the pulsa- enemies when they say glorious things; forgive tions of this great man's bosom.

all the cruel scorn they had hurled at him; The clear taper-light shines upon us : every forgive them and praise them. This was noble, now and then the cinders fall, hollow-like, into this was generous; the voice of a large heart. the grate—a low melancholy sound. The night Perhaps no passages in his works are so is lonely and even the stars look dreary. We touching as those which refer to himself. And have left colder work to talk with you and our indeed with every great author is this the case. own feelings. Soon perchance and these walls How deeply striking are these openings up will have been left by us, and another student in the gigantic Carlyle, how tenderly touching will have followed. What will be his dreams ? in Richter. But far sweeter in Cowper. How Will he think as we have thought, of poets beautifully he tells over his trials ! None half and poetry? Then we shall be far away in so exquisitely. How sad the music of his some secluded cottage, rose-trailed, and encir- tongue and yet how delicious; it is like angel's cled by green-clad hills. How different our language; it is like the soft silvery minstrelsy studies then; and how much brighter our fire, of the stars or the vesper chime, a low chaunt casting its flame upon the old-fashioned books of spiritual sounds, a murmur as of early dawn and pictures and busts. Even then all will or dewy eve. And how enchanting are Bowles' be as quiet and as still as now; but the world reminiscences of childhood and youth! they will have been entered upon; and ofttimes flow as a placid stream. The hum of bee? ah, shall we recal our college life, our dreaming it is not so mellifluous ! Our heart is touched; the hours away, our musing on the lot of thoughts and feelings crowd back upon us. the noble and generous Hazlitt.

Reader, cling to this “isle of beauty" amid One fancies that he must have been thrilled the strange, jarring, bursting confusion of the with the wild and dreamy converse of Coleridge. world; it will heal and soothe thee. And Indeed his soul seems built up from childhood is it not worth thy love? Hast thou ever seen in beauty. How he loved painting, and how a bird sitting on a sweet green branch, with fondly, fervidly did he talk of its principles its wings all wetted by the shower, singing in after life. If you want to read the eloquent so softly in the returning sunshine? Ah, he on the art, read Hazlitt-essays which, says forgets the storm, or if he remembers, it is but Hunt, “throw a light on art as from a painted to gild the golden beams which have broken window.” One loves to hear him breathe out from yonder cloud with a more charming grace. his feelings and thoughts so exquisitely. And So then, bathe ever in the thought of byegone then his wanderings in the dim soft eventide years; recal those gushing affections which of summer; how often does he speak of them were thine in those quiet days. Thou wast in his works and his visits to the romantic happy then; be happy now! Forlorn and old family mansion of the St. Aubin's.” What desolate art thou? then lift thine eye above; a full heart he would have in strolling onwards a land of tenderness is there, and of the spirit's amid the stillness of nature between Wem holiest play. No, it is not a meagre, void and and Shrewsbury, the blue mountains of Wales empty clime, but the orange-tree grows, and seen in the distance; and then what imaginings the majestic cedar, and beneath its fair and of the future! Golden light would radiate far-branching trees stretch the homes of faith all things; the world would be naught save a and purity. Its intelligences love; they love. temple of beauty leading to divine and delici- Ah, no more separations; no more farewell ous happiness.

kisses and tearful embraces; no more deep Whoever has felt the heart throb, whoever bursting sobs; no more stifled agony; no more has felt the brain swim with yearning fond- gazing on the receding land until its dark and ness and confiding faith, will know what Hazlitt dim coast sinks away into the surrounding felt ere he entered upon life. How beautiful night; no more dismal plash of waters bearing the dawn then, so full of silvery sweetness; thee away from all thy heart holds dear; ah, but the dawn would change, and instead of no more farewells, but bright sunny rapturous

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