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A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonoured, s:ill divine !
Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory—a frail child of dust!

One more passage, for the sake of its striking metaphor :

Hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close ; where passed the shaft no trace is found,
As from the wing no stain the air retains.

Our last selection is from his Love of Fame, which Johnson so highly eulogizes :

What will not men attempt for sacred praise ?
The love of praise, howe’er concealed by art,
Reigns more or less, and glows in every heart :
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ;
The modest shun it but to make it sure.
O’er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells-
Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells.

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It aids the dancer's heel, the writers head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead :
Nor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and Aatters on our tombs.

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Thus conclude we our second evening's entertainment with the Minstrels ; and since it has been questioned, from his gravity, whether the author of The Night Thoughts was ever Young, we shall regard him as the last of the old poets. With regret we bid adieu, then, to these great masters of the lyre, whose magnificent melodies, quaint imagery, and rich cadences, fall upon the ear like a benediction

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Justly has it been said, that with them “the imaginative ruled and reigned; poetry lived much in the upper air, and, like the lark, sang best as it soared to heaven.” A high, chivalrous spirit marked the Elizabethan age of song; its pomp of diction and stateliness of measure often challenging the curious interest of the reader, by the subtle obscurity and inversion of its style, as well as by its rich cadences. What a galaxy of illustrious names then shed lustre upon literature and life! It was, indeed, the golden age of letters, with its registered glories in philosophy, science, and song. It was the age of contemplation and devotion to study, as ours is of action. Although poets are mortal, poetry is immortal; the muse's priesthood still lives in a line of illustrious succession, “to enrich her galleries with glowing and beautiful creations, embodied in deathless and glorified forms :” and the noble inheritance is ours to stimulate us in the highways of wisdom and virtue. We need not, therefore,

“Sigh the old heroic ages back ; These worthies were but brave and honest men; Let us their spirit catch,-pursue their track ;

Striving, not sighing, brings them back again."

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Gray, Akenside,

Jones, Berkeley, Irving, Allston, Dana, Percival, Sigourney, Pierpont, Drake, Sprague, Brooks, Payne, Burgoyne, Darwin, Woodworth, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Darley, Sheridan, Logan, Leyden, Beattie, Chatterton,

Wolfe, Wilde, Halleck.

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GRAY, who was “sat

urated with the finest essence of the Attic muse,” has given us some grand

stanzas, in his Ode founded upon the Welsh tradition, that when Edward the First conquered Wales, he ordered the bards to be put to death. These are the opening stanzas :

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!

Confusion on thy banners wait ;
• Though fann’d by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state

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