Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

66

"the Rectory of B is vacant; give it to me and that will be wit;" 'prove it," said his Lordship, and you shall have it; "it would be a good thing well applied," repli

Rev. Dr. Mountain, who had rais-
ed himself by his remarkably fa-
cetious temper from being the son
of a beggar, to the see of Durham.
The Doctor wittily replied, "Had'st
thou faith as a grain of mustard ed the Chaplain.
seed, thou would'st say to this
Mountain (at the same time lay-
ing his hand on his breast),
be removed, and cast into the
sea (see).” His majesty laugh-
ed heartily, and forthwith con-
ferred the preferment on the face-
tious doctor.

A medical mistake.-Doctor

A Toast.-A Chaplain to a governor of Bengal, more remarkable for the goodness of his heart than the brilliancy of his wit, being one day, at the table of his patron, asked for a toast, with much simplicity exclaimed"alas! and a lack-a-day! what can I give "Nothing better,' retlemen, a bumper to the parson's plied the governor: Come, gen---a lass and a lack a day.'

[ocr errors]

toast--.

[ocr errors]

-A lack of rupees is one hundred thousand pounds.

Vaughan, who, thirty years ago, resided in Union-court, Broadstreet, was called, one evening, to visit a gentleman ill with fever. The doctor, though one of the sprucest beaux of that day, was nearly seventy years of age, and Foote being once annoyed by quite purblind. "Put out your a poor fiddler " straining harsh tongue, my friend," said he to the discord" under his window, sent patient; and, applying his finger him out a shilling, with a request to the patient's unshaved chin in-that he would play elsewhere, as stead of his tongue, cried out one scraper at the door was suffi"Give him some drink! give him cient. some drink! his tongue's as rough as a nutmeg grater!"

The Muff and Tippet.-The following mistake is said to have The Rev. Mr. Colton, in his been made a few days since, by a "Many Things in few words," child of 3 years old, at a village in is often happy in his illustrations Cumberland:-A lady passed the by apt quotations. Thus-" Wit door with her muff and tippet; the is one of the few things which has child never having seen such orbeen rewarded more often than it naments cried out, "Mother, mohas been defined." A certain Bi-ther, here is a woman with a dog shop said to his Chaplain, "What in her arms, and its tail round her is wit?" The Chaplain replied | neck."

Poetry.

AN EASTERN DAY.

In imitation of Thomas Moore, Esq.

Then the day!-oh! when radiance is

purest of beam,

When the sky is all light, what a heaven does it seem!

IF the heart ever loves to repose in the Like a calm, sunny islandless ocean dreams

above,

Of Paradise, pictured in flowers and Hang the pure chrystal clouds of those regions of love.

beams

If the glimpses of bliss, all delight, all Nor does Earth less enchantingly

shine-at this hour

Elysian, E'er flashed on the soul in its loveliest The humming-bird shoots from the

[blocks in formation]

With a bound, such as Fancy must Whilst the falling of waters-green

rising of hills,

every where make When its pulse to new beauties is And the soul-melting odours that sumsweetly awake, mer distils,

To the land let it fly, where true love- Combine all their beauties, and sweetly liness blesses impart

The heart that will haunt her, the A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the

smile that caresses!

heart.

"Tis the clime of the East! Oh! how And the evening :-how beauteous bright to behold when brilliancy dies

All the mildness of morning now melt In a milder luxuriance o'er Easterly skies,

into gold!

Each shadowy tint that the night left To behold the sweet pillow on which behind, it reposes Now brightens, like Hope, on the fears In the west, tinged with lilies halfof mankind; mingled with roses. And the daylight is hailed by the Like the soft shining maid that is languidly stealing

nightingale's hymn, And the purple pomegranate, looks All the ore of the heart, in th' endarkly and dim; chantment of feeling;

The camel, just roused, now awakes So the calmness of evening, more tenderly glows,

from the dells, Whilst Echo repeats his light tinkling Than the radiance of pomp that a dayof bells : beam bestows, And the Jessamine odours that rise Oh, how lovely looks light' and its from the bowers, shadows how tender, And the hues of new beauty, all glow- When fades into twilight this farewell ing in flowers, of splendor! All breathe, and all smile, as if they Like the music that fancy will oftentimes hear,

had been born

To welcome, in bliss, the delights of In her dreams of delight, indistinctly more dear ;..

the morn.

So the whispers of melody-far, far Snowy-neck'd Maid! to thy couch I

[blocks in formation]

am creeping,

Awake not!-awake not!-be gen

[blocks in formation]

In the quick, twinkling motion that I will cut me a lock from the beautiful

plays upon stars :

And the pilgrim his beads at this holy

hour counts,

In the cool cedar groves, where the

Hyaline founts

Through beds of pure amber roll mellowly on,

In a sweet pensive murmur, when

daylight is gone;

tresses

Which shade the wide arch of thine ivory brow;

I will breathe on thy warm cheek my silent caresses,

For who would awaken thy lovliness

now!

I will gaze on the silky-lash'd eyelids that cover

The stars, which in innocence slumber beneath,

And beauteously wild, with their front- And oh! let me tenderly kiss like a

lets of pearls,

From their bright mountain homes

come the Jessamere girls.

Like the flower that till night all its

loveliness keeps,

And spreads its perfume, whilst each

other one sleeps;

So the young Indian maids to the

evening's gay duties

Spring forward at once in a line of young beauties,

And reveal, now and then, in the mirth of their dances,

The visions of love in the light of

their glances;

Whilst the timbrel, and tabor, and

nightingale's song,

Join Echo's wild melody all the night long.

ON A YOUNG LADY SLEEPING. Snowy-neck'd Maiden! how still are thy slumbers,

How sweet are the visions that steal o'er thy rest!

Thou sleep'st like a bird, when warbling numbers

[blocks in formation]

Good and bad join in telling the source of their birth,

Have ceased, and its head hangs re. The bad own their Edge and the good

clined on its breast.

own their worth.

[blocks in formation]

And Troy's proud walls lay smoking ing the following Query, if you

on the ground.

will allow it a place in your Enter

When hostile gods o'erthrew the Phry-taining Miscellany; by doing

[blocks in formation]

When Troy, by heav'n's high synod well of, generally characterises

was decreed

To fall, and Priam's perjur'd race to

bleed.

When Priam's house the price of sin

had paid,

And Ilion's glories in the dust were laid.

When Troy, abandon'd by celestial pow'rs,

Laid in the dust her venerable tow'rs. No. 2, Vol. I. June 16, 1824.

the man of sense?

TO A CORRESPONDENT.

We beg to acknowledge the receipt of ACADEMICUS's Letter. We are obliged to him for his encomiums and shall be happy to receive his promised favours.

[Printed and Published by F. Trash, Oxford

MEMOIRS OF SHAKSPEARE.

unabated ardour by the people, and are still read with animation

At their representation the appe

never disappointed. The changes of fashion have not cast him into the shades; the variations of language have not rendered him obsolete.

It seems to be a kind of respect by the scholar. They interest the due to the memory of excellent old and the young, the gallery and men, especially of those whom the pit, the people and the critic, their wit and learning have made famous, to deliver some account tite is never palled-expectation of themselves, as well as their works, to posterity. For this reason, how fond do we see some people of discovering any little personal story of the great men of antiquity! their families, the common accidents of their lives, and even their shape, make, and Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'ḍ features, have been the subject of critical inquiries. How trifling soever this curiosity may seem to be, it is certainly very natural; and we are hardly satisfied with His powerful strokes presiding truth

an account of any remarkable

"Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,

new;

Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,

And panting time toil'd after him in vain;

impress'd,

person, till we have heard him And unresisted passion storm'd the

very

clothes

described even to the
he wears.
As for what relates to
men of letters, the knowledge of
an author may sometimes conduce
to the better understanding his
book; and though the works of
Shakspeare may seem to many
not to want a comment, yet we
fancy some little account of this
great man may not be thought
uninteresting.

If ever there was a man born for immortality, it was William Shakspeare. He was, indeed, "not for an age, but for all time." The author of thirty-six plays, of which not fewer than twenty-two are still favourites with the age; his dramas, after a lapse of two

centuries, are still witnessed with

breast."

William Shakspeare was the son of Mr. John Shakspeare, and was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire, in April, 1564. His father, who was a considerable dealer in wool, had so large family, ten children in all, that though he was his eldest son, he could give him no better education than his own employment. He had bred him, it is true, for some time at a free school, where, it is probable, he acquired what Latin he was master of: but, the narrowness of his circumstances, and the want of his assistance at home, forced his father to withdraw him from thence, and unhappily prevented his further pro

E

« AnteriorContinuar »