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Like a ruffled nightingale,

Balanced upon dewy wings,

Through the palace weeps the tale,

Leaving tears, where'er she sings; And around the icy dead

Maids are winding,

Kingly robes of mocking lead,

And with leafy garlands binding

The unresisting careless head :
Gems are flashing, garments wave
Round the bridegroom of the grave.
Hark! A shout of wild surprise.

A burst of terrible amaze!
The lids are moving up his eyes,

They open, kindle, beam, and gaze

Grave, thy bars are broken,

Quenched the flames of pain,

Falsely fate hath spoken,

The dead is born again.

As when the moon and shadows' strife

On some rebellious night,

Looks a pale statue into life,

And gives his watching form the action of their light,

So stilly strode the awakened one,

And with the voice of stone,

Which troubled caverns screech,

Cursing the tempest's maniac might,

He uttered human speech.

"Tremble, living ones, and hear,

By the name of death and fear,

By lightning, earthquake, fire and war,

And him whose snakes and hounds they are,

From whose judgment seat I come,
Listen, crouch, be dumb.

My soul is drowned beneath a flood
Of conscience, 'red with Sabra's blood,
And from yon blue infinity,

Doomed and tortured I am sent

To confess the deed and fly;

Wail not for me-yourselves repent;

Eternity is punishment;

Listen, crouch, and die."

With that word his body fell,

As dust upon the storm,

Flashlike darkened was his form;

While through their souls in horror rang,

The dragon shout, the thunderous clang

Of the closing gates of hell.

The following narrative is given by Meric Casaubon, as an extract from the diary of a friend, (perhaps his father, for his expression is, my F.) who seems to have heard it related by Bishop Andrewes

Kalend. August. Narrabat hodiè mihi rem miram, Reverendiss. Præsul, Dom. Episcop. Eliensis: quam ille, acceptam auribus suis a teste oculato et auctore, credebat esse verissimam. Est vicus in urbe Londino, qui dicitur, Vicus Longobardorum. In eo vico parœcia est, et ædes parœcialis, in qua fuit Presbyter, homo summæ fidei et notæ pietatis, . . . . An. 1563, quo anno si unquam aliàs, pestis grassata est per hanc urbem Londinum. Narravit igitur hic parrochus et passim

....

aliis, et ipsi quoque Dom. Episcopo sibi hoc accidisse. Erat illi amicus in suâ parœciâ insignis, vir, ut omnes existimabant, probus et pius. Hic, peste correptus, advocavit presbyterum illum amicum suum ; qui et ægrotanti affuit, et vidit morientem, nec deseruit nisi mortuum; ita demum repetiit domum suam. Post horas satis multas a morte hujus, cum ipse pro mortuo esset relictus in cubiculo; uxor illius idem cubiculum est ingressa, ut ex arcâ promeret lodicem, ut est moris. Ingressa, audit hanc vocem, operi intenta; "Quis hic est ?" Terreri illa, et velle egredi, sed auditur iterum vox illa; "Quis hic est ?" Ac tandem comperto esse mariti vocem, accedit ad illum ;—" quid,” ait, “Marite ; tu igitur mortuus non es? Et nos te pro mortuo compositum deserueramus." Ego vero," respondit ille," verè mortuus fui: sed ita Deo visum ut anima mea rediret ad corpus. Sed tu uxor," ait, habes cibi parati, da mihi; esurio enim."

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se, pullum gallinaceum, et nescio quid aliud: sed omnia incocta, quæ brevi esset paratura." " Ego," ait ille, moram non fero; panem habes," ait, "et caseum?" Quum annuisset, atque petiisset afferri, comedit, spectante uxore: deinde advocato Presbytero, et jussis exire e cubiculo omnibus qui aderant: narrat illi hoc. "Ego," ait, "vere mortuus fui; sed jussa est anima redire ad suum corpus, ut scelus apperiram ore meo, manibus meis admissum, de quo unquam cuiquam nota est suspicio. Priorem namque uxorem meam ipse occidi manibus meis, tanta vafritie, ut omnes res lateret." Deinde modum perpetrati celeris exposuit; nec ita multo post expiravit, et vere tum mortuus est. The naïveté of this narration is well followed up by Meric's assuring the reader that there is an absolute necessity for making it " an article of his faith; yet," says he, "I thought them very probable, because believed by such a man." For this singular instance of believing by proxy, see Casaubon's preface to "A true and faithful relation of what passed for many years between Dr. John Dee and some spirits." Folio, 1659.

264

ON THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE ARTS,

THE Roman Emperor, who offered a reward to whoever should invent a new pleasure, was not deserving of the reproaches which have been heaped on his memory. Confined within innocent limits, the inventor of a new pleasure would be really a benefactor to the human race. Man was not made to be always toiling and turmoiling; his mind is framed for higher things than the mere consideration of how he is to gain a subsistence: his thoughts cannot always dwell on one object. Variety of occupation is as necessary to our mental as to our physical faculties; the mind is, not less than the body, broken down by the constant recurrence of the same employment. He who would keep alive the better qualities of his nature, he who does not wish to see perish his fancy, his imagination, nay, even his kind feelings for his fellow-creatures, must occasionally turn away from the straight-forward path of life, to gather the flowers that grow by his road-side; he must sometimes stop to admire the distant prospect opening to his view, the retiring glade that excites but to mock his curiosity, though conscious that the majestic oak, which spreads its branches over the plain, will never give shelter to his cattle; that the wandering stream, whose sparkling waters light up the whole landscape, will never turn his mill, nor give fertility to his fields.

Usefulness is not the only measure of worth. The objects that surround us have a value independent of their utility. As men cannot be always employed in the duties of life, and as the restlessness of our nature forbids positive idleness, where innocent pleasures are not to be had, more guilty pastimes will surely usurp their place. It is in a barbarous state of society that drunkenness, incontinence, ferocity of temper, and all the evils arising from their indulgence, most prevail. The arts tend to soften our disposition, to

improve our character, to purify our lives, by procuring an innocent amusement for our leisure. This is, in most cases, their highest merit, and it is no slight one; it is one they share in common with literature. Few men are wiser or better for the books they have read: an ounce of experience, it has been truly said, is worth a pound of learning. Slight, indeed, is the claim that literature can set up to the improvement of the human race; and that which can be advanced by the fine arts is still smaller. They are not our tutors, our advisers, they are only the companions of our idle hours. They, in reality, only keep us from grosser pleasures, by procuring a more refined species of sensual enjoyment. The man who has stood for hours before a picture of Raffaelle or Correggio, if he have taste to relish their beauties, will have enjoyed a high gratification, but the powers of his mind will not have been enlarged, nor will his virtue have been strengthened. His time, however, has been innocently employed; his mind, whilst thus occupied, has given no harbour to bad thoughts.

To this absence of all positive utility, may indeed be ascribed the attachment which all bear to the fine arts. They never engage our attention but when our mind is at ease; they are our listless moments which we devote to their admiration; we give ourselves up more readily to their fascination, because they can make no direct claim on us. They are the companions of our leisure hours, who are always more dear to us than those of our toils. They may have more of our respect and gratitude, who have promoted our success in life, but our kindliest feelings are always for those who have shared our amusements. What the artist thus loses in dignity, he will gain in profit.

We pay most reaWhere professions are

dily for what is of least real utility. left entirely free, the priest, on whose exertions we are taught to believe depends our eternal happiness, is always the worst

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