Lod give us oven! be time like this clememels Sstrong minids great hearts, true faith and ready Men whom the lust of office does not Hill; men whom the epails of office econot buy unius Cunca Qwill; buy Men who possess puen solo pill boy he; Ніси гло єстватся перечеа свет And drum his treacher Fall men, sim Lands flatterns without winking! sim-crowned, who live cubene the fag In public duly concl in ferivate thinking: For the rubble with their then creeds, Their large frofessions Coned then little duds, Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedoms weeps Wrong rules the hund, and enacting usuce sleeps! Lustice лиго MEN OF GENIUS GENERALLY CHEERFUL. EN of truly great powers of mind have generally been cheerful, social, and indulgent; while a tendency to sentimental whining or fierce intolerance may be ranked among the surest symptoms of little souls and inferior intellects. In the whole list of our English poets we can only remember Shenstone and Savage-two certainly of the lowest-who were querulous and discontented. Cowley, indeed, used to call himself melancholy; but he was not in earnest, and at any rate, was full of conceits and affectations, and has nothing to make us proud of him. Shakspere, the greatest of them all, was evidently of a free and joyous temperament; and so was Chaucer, their common master. The same disposition appears to have predominated in Fletcher, Jonson, and their great contemporaries. The genius of Milton partook something of the austerity of the party to which he belonged, and of the controversies in which he was involved; but even when fallen on evil days and evil tongues, his spirit seems to have retained its serenity as well as its dignity; and in his private life, as well as in his poetry, the majesty of a high character is tempered with great sweetness, genial indulgences, and practical wisdom. In the succeeding age our poets were but too gay; and though we forbear to speak of living authors, we know enough of them to say with confidence, that to be miserable or to be hated is not now, any more than heretofore, the common lot of those who excel. The hand and head that penned and plan- "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, ned them, For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost; Lines to a ringlet or a turban, And trifles for the "Morning Post," And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That, if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome that they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus; From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and quæ genus; I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled! The church is larger than before; You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted for the gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat; you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose tone is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid? Look down And construe on the slab before you: Face and figure of a child, Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her; 4 Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still Of loud mirth that scorneth measure; In a bower of gentle looks, As a silver stream may run, As if drawn from thoughts more far He would sing of her with falls And if any painter drew her, He would paint her, unaware, And if reader read the poem, He would whisper: "You have done a And a dreamer, did you show him That same picture, would exclaim: And all voices that address her And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes And all hearts do pray: "God love her!" ELIZARETH BARRETT BROWNING. JAFFAR. AFFAR, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; All Araby and Persia held their breath. All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to How far for love a grateful soul could go, Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious Restored me, loved me, put me on a par Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of Might smile upon another half as great. The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." ing it High towards the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaf far!" LEIGH HUNT. |