« AnteriorContinuar »
'Tis the Punch, so clear and bland,
Growing brisk and stout with age.
N. B. The Arabians, notwithstanding the sober precepts of their prophet, are supposed to have discovered distillation, as the word Alcohol plainly indicates. The Dodo is a clumsy good sort of a bird, the Lord G- -h of the feathered creation, whose conciliatory politics have nearly, if not quite, occasioned its extinction.
SUMMER MORNING LANDSCAPE.
THE eyelids of the morning are awake;
The dews are disappearing from the grass;
The sun is o'er the mountains; and the trees,
Moveless, are stretching through the blue of heaven,
The shadows of the twilight fleet away,
As in Medina's mosque Mahomet's tomb.
Up from the coppice, on exulting wing,
Mounts, mounts the skylark through the clouds of dawn,
The clouds, whose snow-white canopy is spread
Athwart, yet hiding not, at intervals,
The azure beauty of the summer sky;
And, at far distance heard, a bodyless note
Pours down, as if from cherub stray'd from Heaven!
Maternal Nature! all thy sights and sounds
Now breathe repose, and peace, and harmony.
Revealing, on its conscious countenance,'
Of dark-green copse-wood, dark, save, here and there,
With quicken'd wing, in silence re-ascends.-
And now the wood engirds me, the tall stems
High stretching; like a good man's virtuous thoughts
Sweet minstrel of the morn? Behold her nest,
How sweet, contrasted with the din of life, Its selfish miseries, and ignoble cares,
Are scenes like these; yet, in the book of Time,
But Peace unfurl'd her ensign o'er the world;
Far different are the days in which 'tis ours
Wisdom and worth no more are chiefest deem'd
No loftier attributes, the supple knees
That centuries, in their lapse, should nothing bring
Thou, Nature, ever-changing, changest not-
And spring, and summer's heat, and winter's cold-
On Eden's bloomy bowers, and sinless man,
And thus the months shall come, and thus the years
Farewell, ye placid scenes! amid the land
The morning is the self-possession'd hour-
Of Banquo's mirror, in succession pass!
And first of all, and fairest, thou dost pass
The brightness of the morn in other scenes?
Which now I gaze on; but which, wanting thee,
HUSKISSON'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
We do not remember ever to have seen the country looking more beautiful than it did during the month of May, or than it continues to do now that it is Midsummer. It was altogether such a month of May as we read of in the old poets. Dædala Tellus is an expression of which we now thoroughly understand and feel the beautiful spirit. Thomson's Seasons by no means do justice to Spring and Summer-at least those of 1828 have far transcended his richest descriptions, which absolutely seem poor, tame, and wishy-washy, when com pared with the glowing and glorious originals. Our face and frame have undergone a change most pleasing to ourselves and others; the crowfeet at the corner of our eyes have disappear ed; spectacles we have laid aside; our forehead is without a wrinkle'; cheeks full-complexion clear-lips ruddy-nose not so-pricked-up ears quite pinky-and our queue, or tail, bobbing upon our shoulders (not so narrow as many suppose) as we walk along, with all the vigour and alacrity of a Jack-Tar's tie in a jig. As we walk along? Yes! For, would you believe it, for the first time these twenty years, the gout has left his card, pour prendre congé," at our feet; we have kicked our cloth-shoe to the devil and over the back-of-beyond, like an old bauchle; our crutch is now at this blessed moment not for use but ornament; we can shew a toe with any man of our years, weight, and inches, in all Britain; and intend accompanying that active old Irishwoman, Mrs M'Mullan, on her next match of a hundred miles within the twenty-four hours. No such instance of the renewing of youth has been_exhibited by any other Eagle of modern times.
and gloomiest weather would probably, to a person of our political temperament, have felt warm and bright, as the Liberals were seen slinking be hind the horizon-nothing left of them but so many jellies, which are popularly supposed to be shot-stars. Politics are a subject on which we never speak
seldom think-and still seldomer write. But it would appear that when we do think on politics we think deeply; and as deep thoughts generally are allied to deep feelings, our emotions on the late "occasion" have been profound partly tragic and partly comic, such as are beautifully expressed by those two fine lines:
Says a smile to a tear
On the cheek of my dear!" Perhaps not one of all our many hundred thousand readers had ever seen a gentleman kick himself out of a company. They may, one and all of them, have seen a gentleman kicked out of a company by another gentle man; but there is nothing particu larly laughable in that on the contrary it is, what the Americans would call, tedious. Mr Huskisson has proved himself a man of a very original mind- -a man of genius-by anticipating and preventing, and improving upon, the ancient practique. He foresaw the foot of Wellington slowly uplifted; turned suddenly and shortly round upon himself, and with pump applied to his own posteriors, absolutely kicked himself out of the Cabinet, with apparently the most perfect resignation.
Of all things in this world, the most difficult to us is the writing of a letter. Yet, when we have occasionally overcome the difficulty, and got through a letter, we find it the easiest thing in the world to understand what we, the writer, would be at; nor does it ever enter our heads to maintain that yes means no, that we have said no when we said yes, or that black and white are convertible terms. Not so with Mr William Huskisson. He is as bad a letter-writer as you may meet with during the 22d of June; but though clumsy, he is clear; intelligible to all mankind but himself; and his text London, 1828.
With all possible affection and respect for the seasons of spring and summer, candour obliges us to confess that the effects on our health and happiness little short of magic, to which we have now alluded, have, we verily believe it, been produced partly by the change in the atmosphere, and partly by the change in the Cabinet. The coldest