How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh,
When histories charm, to think that histories lie!
That all are grave romances at the best,

And M-sgr-ve's but more clumsy than the rest!
By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled,
We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild;
And Fox himself, with party pencil, draws
Monmouth a hero for the good old cause!'

Then, rights are wrongs, and victories are defeats,
As French or English pride the tale repeats;
And when they tell Corunna's story o'er,
They'll disagree in all but honouring Moore !
Nay, future pens, to flatter future courts,
May cite, perhaps, the Park-guns' gay reports,
To prove that England triumphed on the morn
Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn!

In science too-how many a system, raised
Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed
With lights of fancy and with forms of pride,
Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide!
Now Earth usurps the centre of the sky,
Now Newton puts the paltry planet by;
Now whims revive beneath Descartes' pen,
Which now, assailed by Locke's, expire again :
And when, perhaps, in pride of chemic powers,
We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours,
Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles,
And turns at once our alkalis to metals!

Or, should we roam, in metaphysic maze,
Through fair-built theories of former days,
Some D--mm-d from the north, more ably skilled,
Like other Goths, to ruin than to build,
Tramples triumphant through our fanes o'erthrown,
Nor leaves one grace, one glory of his own!

Oh, Learning Learning! whatsoe'er thy boast,
Unlettered minds have taught and charmed us most:
The rude, unread Columbus was our guide
To worlds which learned Lactantius had denied,

That flexibility of temper and opinion which the habits of scepticism are so calculated to produce are thus pleaded for by Mr. Fox, in the very sketch of Monmouth to which I allude; and this part of the picture the historian may be thought to have drawn for himself. One of the most conspicuous features in his character seems to have been a remarkable, and, as some think, a culpable degree of flexibility. That such a disposition is preferable to its opposite extreme will be admitted by all who think that modesty, even in excess, is more nearly allied to wisdom than conceit and self-sufficiency. He who has attentively considered the political, or indeed the

general, concerns of life, may possibly go still further, and may rank a willingness to be convinced, or in some cases even without conviction, to concede our own opinion to that of other nen, among the principal ingredients in the composition of practical wisdom.' The sceptic's readiness of concession, however, arises more from uncertainty than conviction, more from a suspicion that his own opinion may be wrong than from any persuasion that the opinion of his adversary is right. It may be so,' was the courteous and sceptical formula which the Dutch were accustomed to reply to the statements of ambassadors.--See Lloyd's State Worthies, art. Sir Thomas Wiat.

And one wild Shakspeare, following Nature's lights,
Is worth whole planets filled with Stagyrites!

See grave Theology, when once she strays
From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays!
How many various heavens hath Fancy's wing
Explored or touched from Papias down to King!1
And hell itself, in India nought but smoke,"
In Spain's a furnace, and in France-a joke

Hail, modest ignorance! thou goal and prize,
Thou last, best knowledge of the humbly wise!
Hail, sceptic ease! when error's waves are past,
How sweet to reach thy tranquil port at last,
And, gently rocked in undulating doubt,
Smile at the sturdy winds which war without!
There gentle Charity, who knows how frail
The bark of virtue, even in summer's gale,
Sits by the nightly fire, whose beacon glows
For all who wander, whether friends or foes!
There Faith retires, and keeps her white sail furled,
Till called to spread it for a purer world;
While Patience lingers o'er the weedy shore,
And, mutely waiting till the storm be o'er,
Turns to young Hope, who still directs his eye
To some blue spot, just breaking in the sky!

These are the mild, the blest associates given

To him who doubts, and trusts in nought but Heaven!

1 King, in his 'Morsels of Criticism,' vol. i., supposes the sun to be the receptacle of blessed spirits.

2 The Indians call hell the House of Smoke.' See Picart upon the' Religion of the Banians.'

The reader who is curious about infernal matters may be edified by consulting 'Rusca de Inferno,' particularly lib. ii. cap. 7, 8, where he will find the precise sort of fire ascertained in which wicked spirits are to be burned hereafter.

die,

And Hope fell sick as the witch drew

nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And teaches even our tears to keep

The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,

But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

Are lost when touched, and turned
to pain;

The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,
The tears they waken long remain.
But give me, give me, etc. etc.

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by ;

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won ;
This is love, careless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchilled, unmoved,
To love in wintry age the same
As first in youth we loved;

And raised the latch, where the To feel that we adore

young god lay;

To such refined excess,

'Oh ho!' said Love'is it you? good-That though the heart would break with

bye;'

So he oped the window, and flew away!

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like
mine;

And 'tis the light of laughing eyes
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to sorrow known;
But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,
That bliss may claim them for her

own.

Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens

woe

more,

As the heart, to be played with or The close he long wishel to his cheersullied by them;