Wizard. LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer; Draw, dotard, around thy old, wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wiz. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, Loc. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan ; - Wiz. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day; Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; Yon sight that it freezes my spirit to tell. Loc. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale; So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe, And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing, that night, on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud, in her fullness of heart. Stay, stay with us. Rest; thou art weary and worn! VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. PRIDE of the British stage, Our memory of the past; His was the spell o'er hearts Full many a tone of thought sublime, Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse, the charm Or Hotspur kindled warm. And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone, The Graces give their zone. High were the task - too high, But who forgets that white, discrowned head, glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, In doubt more touching than despair, If 'twas reality he felt? Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen. WILLIAM HAZLITT. William Hazlitt was born in Shropshire in 1778, the son of a Unitarian clergyman. He first attempted painting, but afterwards turned his attention to literary and artistic criticism, and lived by his contributions to journals and reviews. His style is forcible and often picturesque; but he frequently fails to carry conviction, from his want of moderation and judgment. The first specimen here printed furnishes a case in point. The doctrine has a certain truth, but is not wholly true; the lesson of the article is a useful one, but the statements must be received with grains of allowance. His best known works are Table Talk, in two volumes, and The Round Table. He wrote also an elaborate Life of Napoleon, in four volumes; A View of the English Stage; Lectures on the English Poets, and on the Elizabethan Age; Characters of Shakespeare's Plays, and many other treatises. They are all distinguished by great critical ability, and have been collected in a series of volumes, edited by his son. He died in 1830. An edition of his miscellaneous essays, &c., was published in five volumes, Philadelphia, 1848. ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED. [From Table Talk.] You might as well as the paralytic to leap from his chair and throw away his crutch, or, without a miracle, "to take up his bed and walk," as expect the learned reader to lay down his book and think for himself. He clings to it for his intellectual support; and his dread of being left to himself is like the horror of a vacuum. He can only breathe a learned atmosphere, as other men breathe common air. He is a borrower of sense. He has no ideas of his own, and must live on those of other people. The habit of supplying our ideas from foreign sources "enfeebles all internal strength of thought," as a course of dram-drinking destroys the tone of the stomach. The faculties of the mind, when not exerted, or when cramped by custom and authority, become listless, torpid, and unfit for the purposes of thought or action. Can we wonder at the languor and lassitude which is thus produced by a life of learned sloth and ignorance, by poring over lines and syllables that excite little more idea or interest than if they were the characters of an unknown tongue, till the eye closes on vacancy, and the book drops from the feeble hand? I would rather be a wood-cutter, or the meanest hind, that all day "sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and at night sleeps in Elysium," than wear out my life so, 'twixt dreaming and awake. The learned author differs from the learned student in this that the one transcribes what the other reads. The learned are mere literary drudges. If you set them upon original composition, their heads turn, they know not where they are. The indefatigable readers of books are like the everlasting copiers of pictures, who, when they attempt to |