Instils that musing, melancholy mood, Which charms the wise, and elevates the good ;— * Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Each stamps its image as the other flies: Each, as the varied avenues of sense Control the latent fibres of the heart. ; There is a favourite passage from his Human Life, too good to pass over : The lark has sung his carol in the sky, The bees have hummed their noontide harmony; Still in Llewellyn-Hall the jests resound: Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; "'Twas on these knees he sate so oft, and smiled." He rests in holy earth, with them that went before! And such is human life; so gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! Rogers's Lines to a Butterfly are replete with grace and beauty : Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man: soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. We might cull many pearls of thought from this poet, but we have only space for the following The soul of music slumbers in the shell And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still. Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all the dull impertinence of life. Let us turn now, with LAURA A. BOIES, to a sweet domestic study that of Little Children:— There is music, there is sunshine, where the little children dwell,— skies : Lurking in each roguish dimple, nestling in each ringlet fair; own, And the magic of their presence round about our hearts is thrown. When they ask us curious questions in a sweet confiding way, strain, List we to its silvery cadence, and our hearts grow glad again. And again repeat the story-nothing but a little child? The same facile American pen thus daintily discourses on the Rain: Like a gentle joy descending, to the earth a glory lending, Fairer now the flowers are growing, Gladder waves the grain : Grove and forest, field and mountain, Bathing in the crystal fountain, Drinking in the inspiration, offer up a glad oblation All around, about, above us, Things we love, and things that love us, Bless the gentle rain. Beautiful, and still, and holy, like the spirit of the lowly, Comes the quiet rain: 'Tis a fount of joy distilling, and the lyre of earth is trilling,— Swelling to a strain : Nature opens wide her bosom, bursting buds begin to blossom, To her very soul 'tis stealing, all the springs of life unsealing, Singing stream and rushing river drink it in, and praise the Giver Of the blessed rain. We have already luxuriated over passages from the Pleasures of Imagination, and lingered lovingly amid the sweet images bodied forth by Rogers in the Pleasures of Memory: shall we now hold colloquy with CAMPBELL, and catch some glimpses of his bright visions of Hope? He thus announces his beautiful theme :— At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight; Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow * |