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Laura should think of being sage,
You know—she's of a certain age."

Her wonted wit began to fail, Her eye grew dim, her features pale; Her fame was past,-her race was done, Her lovers left her one by one ; Her slaves diminish'd by degrees, They ceas'd to fawn-as she to please. Last of the gay deceitful crew, Chremes, the usurer, withdrew; By many an art he strove to net The guineas of the rich coquette ; But (so the adverse fates decreed), Chremes and Laura disagreed; For Chremes talked too much of stocks, And Laura of her opera box.

Unhappy Laura ! sadness marred What tints of beauty time had spared ; For all her wide extended sway Had faded, like a dream, away ; And they that lov'd her pass'd her by, With alter’d, or averted eye. That silent scorn, that chilling air The fallen tyrant could not bear; She could not live, when none admir'd, And perish’d, as her reign expir’d.

I gaz'd upon that lifeless form, So late with Hope and Fancy warm ; That pallid brow—that eye of jet, Where lustre seem'd to linger yet; Where sparkled through an auburn tress The last dim light of loveliness, Whose trembling ray was only seen, To bid us sigh for what had been. Alas! I said, my wavering soul Was torn from woman's weak control; But when, amid the evening's gloom, I look'd on Laura's early tomb; And thought on her, so bright and fair, That slumber'd in oblivion there; That calm resolve I could not keep, And then I wept, -as now I weep.



So now the charmed book is ended, Mary!

The wand is broken, and the spell is o'er; And thou hast mused or smiled o'er witch and faery,

Till Fancy's imps familiar semblance wore. What though thy tongue's sweet song be distant far?

By that soft bosom, and that gentle eye,

I knew thee genuine child of poesy,
When erst thou toldst me of that twin-born star,

Divinest SPENSER! When did either seem

(As they to thee) two boats upon one stream, Wafting the rapt soul to some region fair, If meek-eyed Genius were not hov'ring there? Never! therefore, thrice-happy Maiden, wander on, Again the wand is whole, the spell is not yet gone !


Gales of th’ Atlantic! blithely are ye blowing!

What news bring ye from o'er the Ocean waste? Tides of th’ Atlantic ! fiercely are ye flowing !

Mysterious agents! whither do ye haste? Answer! for here I stand, as once of yore *

That glorious demigod, Alcmena's son,

Foild all his foes, and all his labours done,
Companionless, and listen’d to the roar
Of waves that seem'd to live, and gaz'd intent

Where the red Sun down in the west was setting,

And saw the vision, whose bright shape besetting The dreams of the Ligurian + him first sent Over the dim horizon! Matchless race! To seek the Great Light in his hiding place.

* Herculis Promontorium.-CAMDEN.

+ Columbus.


Here were a bower for Love! This balmy grot

Cresting the mountain summit, whiles around The thick oaks shut the world from this sweet spot,

The great sea rolls beyond with ceaseless sound ! On such an eve as this, O Mary, be

In such a place as this, and I will tell

My love with holier warmth, touch'd by the spell Intense of heaven, of air, of earth, and sea. Then should our love be glowing as yon sky,

Pure as the crescent in the dim twilight,

Eternal as the ocean in his might,
And we the Lovers joyously on high
Sitting above the world. But distant far
Art thou, and lonely, like the evening star.


And Time has spared no more! Those ruins gray

Left the sole vouchers for the house of prayer, To tell the pensive truant from his way

That voice of rapture once was breathing there! Strange! for the mountain rears its head as high,

The river murmurs in its course as clear;

E'en yet methinks a spirit lingers here;
And each lone fragment, as I wander by,
Speaks of a fall’n Religion. Awful thought !

To those who know how frail all earthly power,

When the dread summons of our latest hour Calls us away—to be as we have fought The fight of faith! But hark! the night-wind sings! Farewell! still record of forgotten things.

On the Practical Bathos.

“ To sink the deeper-rose the higher."- Pope.

ALTHOUGH many learned scholars have laboured with much diligence in the illustration of the Bathos in poetry, we do not remember to have seen any essay calculated to point out the beauties and advantages of this figure when applied to actual life. Surely there is no one who will not allow that the want of such an essay is a desideratum which ought, as soon as possible, to be supplied. Conscious as we are that our feeble powers are not properly qualified to fill up this vacuum in scholastic literature ; yet, since the learned commentators of the present day have their hands full either of Greek or politics, we, an unlearned, but we trust a harmless body of quacks, will endeavour to supply the place of those who kill by rule, and will accordingly offer, for the advantage of our fellow-citizens, a few brief remarks on the Practical Bathos.

We will first lay it down as a principle, that the impoodónyTov, as well in life as in poetry, is a figure, the beauties of which ar innumerable and incontrovertible. For the benefit of my fair readers (for Phoebus and Bentley forbid that an Etonian should here need a Lexicon) I will state that the figure arpoodónyTov is “ that which produceth things unexpected.” Take a few examples. In poetry there is a notable instance of this figure in the dipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, where the messenger who discloses to Edipus his mistake in supposing Polybus to be his father, believing that the intelligence he brings is of the most agreeable nature, plants a dagger in the heart of his hearer by every word he utters. But Sophocles, although he must be acknowledged a great master of the dramatic art, is infinitely surpassed in the use of this figure by our good friend Mr. Farley of Covent-Garden. When we sit in mute astonishment to survey the various pictures which he conjures up, as it were by the wand of a sorcerer, in a moment; when columns and coal-holes, palaces


and pig-sties, summer and winter, succeed each other with such perpetually diversified images ;-we are continually exclaiming, “Mr. Farley, what next?” Every minute presents us with a new and more perfect specimen of this figure. Far be it from us to speak disrespectfully of Sophocles, for whom, as in duty bound, we entertain a most sincere veneration; but he certainly must rank beneath Mr. Farley as a manager of the ampoodoxytov. One of the most striking examples in the present day which we can recommend to those who wish to apply this figure to the purposes of actual life, is, (may we say it without being accused of a political allusion ?) her Majesty Queen Caroline. That illustrious personage

in one beautiful passage (we mean her passage from Calais to Dover) has certainly proved herself a perfect mistress of the απροσδόκητον.

. Of this figure the Bathos must be considered a most elegant species. Again, for the benefit of our fair readers, we will observe, that the usual signification of the Bathos is the Art of Sinking in Poetry; but what we here propose to discuss is “ the Art of Sinking in Life;"—an art of which it may be truly said, that those who practise it skilfully only stoop to conquer.

It must be evident to every person who is at all conversant with the motives and origin of human opinions, that man is accustomed to regard with a feeling of animosity those who are pre-eminent in any science or virtue,

“Urit enim fulgore suo qui prægravat artes

Infra se positas.” But this invidious and hostile feeling vanishes at once, when we behold the object of it sinking suddenly from the dazzling sphere he originally occupied, and reducing himself to a level with ordinary mortals. The divine and incomparable Clarissa would never have been considered divine and incomparable, had she never been betrayed into a faur pas; and I question whether Bonaparte was ever looked

upon with so favourable an eye as when he afforded a specimen of the Bathos, in his descent from “ the Emperor of France” to “ the Captive of St. Helena."

But the strongest argument that can be used in recommendation

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