commit such an outrage! And then consider what a privation it must be for one who has been used all his life to spend his time in the open air, and to be well bathed, at least, once a week, to be cooped up in this accursed dungeon. And after the service I have gone through, what a mortification must it be to see a foppish pair of scoundrels put over my head, because they are more fashionable than we are. Must a worthy and estimable pair of shoes - yes, Sir, shoes deserve the name, must they be laid aside because they happen to have round toes, or a patch or two in the side? And then the things you wear at present! You'll repent it, Sir! You may depend upon it. I say no more, Sir. You'll repent it. You'll repent it.

such as

REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY,
October, 1827.

"How are the mighty fallen!"

Stranger, approach! approach, and lightly tread
Above the ashes of the mighty dead;

Learn, awe-struck here thine home, thy dwelling learn,
'Mid the cold dust, or 'neath the storied urn.

Can Jove's bright eagle, check'd in midway flight,
Descend, far swifter, to the shades of night?
Can darkness low'r o'er that all-gazing eye,

That loves to dare the splendors of the sky?

Yes, when the fateful Angel of Decay

Spreads his dark wing, and speeds his noiseless way,
In deadly silence dooms the murd'rous doom,

And calls his victim to the silent tomb.

Believe on this: and then believe, beside, That Pitt was mortal, and that Canning died! Death aim'd the stroke at him, at him alone, Claim'd him, the first, the noblest, for his own : Knew that, in Him, by one unerring dart,

He gain'd the fated goal, and pierc'd proud Britain's heart!

In more than eagle's flight he soar'd on high,

Yet soar'd to fall, and dazzled but to die!

'Mid the high Heavens dropp'd his mounting plume,
And fell, yet struggling, to the yawning tomb.
And was there none to aid, and none to save
His beaming radiance from the murky grave?
Ten thousand voices, that arise in woe-
Ten thousand streams of Grief and Pity flow-
Ten thousand sighs are heav'd, and tears are shed,
Yet HE lies number'd with the silent dead.

The light, that glitters 'ere it flits away,
And casts its brightest radiance on decay;
The sounds that soothe the mourner's thrilling ear,
The pomp and splendor of the tomb were here;
Now all have vanish'd, and one, one alone
Sheds the salt tear above thy burial stone!

Yet 'times the hallow'd anthem's notes arise,
And waft the Christian's worship to the skies ;
Though pealing organ fill the swelling dome,
No sound may reach thee in thy lonely home
And 'times the wand'rer pays thy glory here
The sad and silent tribute of a tear;

No voices round thee, nor the tear that flows.
Move thy calm slumber, break thy deep repose-
Burst through the iron fetters of the tomb,
Dispel its silence, and dissolve its gloom;
Bid England's sun again in glory rise,
And shed his radiance on the low'ring skies.
Ah no! the beam his parting splendor gave
Hath set for ever 'neath the rolling wave:
The tongue is silent, and the lip is cold-
Yon pallid hand no more the helm may hold !
The soul, that rov'd unwearied, unconfin'd,
May Death's cold grasp, and icy fetters bind?

O Britain, weeping o'er his ashes, prove

How true thy faith, how fond thy ceaseless love;
Yes, all combine the tears of friend and foe
Mingle their streams in one, in one, unceasing flow!
Brief is the tale the graven stones declare —
The name of him that sleeps and moulders there;
No sculptur'd urn, nor pomp of breathing bust,
Proclaim his glory, and enshrine his dust:

: 'tis to them, whose deeds might never raise
A living monument of deathless praise,

The fleeting honours of the tomb to claim,

And seek a meaner path, an humbler course to fame !

But he hath rais'd his monumental stone

In Mem'ry's soft and hallow'd shrine alone;
Hath writ, in characters of living flame,
On Britain's weal, on Britain's heart, his name.
Oft in the sculptur'd aisle and swelling dome,
The yawning grave hath giv'n the proud a home;
Yet never welcom❜d from his bright career
A mightier victim than it welcom'd here!
Again the tomb may yawn-again may Death
Claim the last forfeit of departing breath :
Yet ne'er enshrine, in slumber dark and deep,
A nobler, loftier, prey than where thine ashes sleep!

What a field for admiration is contained in those little oval cavities which are called the Eyes! it is there that the philosopher may revel in examining the wondrous mechanism of Nature; it is there that the man of sentiment may see beauty, in comparison with which, the efforts of art must sink into insignificance; it is there that the VOL. II.

G

lover may read the soul of his mistress, and perceive the first indications of reciprocal affection. How subservient to all the impulses of the mind, how prompt in expressing its internal movements, is the Eye: though the smallest and weakest of our organs, yet through it more ideas are conveyed to the seat of understanding, than by any of the rest. Except when closed in sleep, it never ceases from its functions, but is occupied in conveying images to the brain, in adding energy to our words, or in acting as an interpreter of the thoughts without them.

The motions and uses of this organ are so various and important, that I shall venture to speak of them under distinct heads. Let us begin with the Eye of the Poet.

"The Poet's Eye, in a fine phrenzy rolling,

Doth glance from Heav'n to earth, from earth to Heav'n."

Yes, it is the Poet's Eye that roams over the immensity of space; that seems to penetrate beyond the bounds of human vision, and to draw inspiration from those realms of light which are spread in glorious majesty above. Such is Gray's description of Milton.

"The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw, but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night."

The next position of the Eye, which I shall mention, is when it assumes a stern and fixed glare, to inspire awe in the mind of an enemy. Such is the glare of the hungry lion, when, crouching with his belly to the ground, he prepares to spring upon the traveller; and such was the Eye of Marius, when fixing his countenance on the Cimbrian slave, that came to be his executioner,

he exclaimed, "Man, hast thou the audacity to kill Caius Marius?"

The next is the Eye of Contemplation; with what devotion is it raised to Heaven! while the mind, forgetful of its care, and regardless of the joys or miseries of the world, holds sweet communion with the spirits that hover, unseen, around the dwellings of the virtuous, and is wrapt in the prospects of Eternity.

But whose Eye is that which is bent upon the ground, which seems unconscious of all passing objects? It is the Eye of Affliction; does it glisten with the falling tear, which speaks of a brother's or a parent's death, or is it fixed by that apathy which forbids the tear to flow? it tells of unpropitious love, of unrequited affection, of hopes annihilated by the grave.

What Eye is that which gazeth on vacancy; which seems ready to start from its socket; which glares with unearthly light upon the visions of a distempered mind? It is the Eye of Madness. Now rolling with hideous distortion it traverses the surrounding space, yet finds no object upon which to dwell; now it is fixed with phrenzied expression upon something which awakes the recollection of the past; at one time it roams through the Heavens with all the fire of frantic exultation, at another it is dimmed, and sinks to the ground with a look that tells of the despair that hangs heavy on the heart.

But let us turn from this contemplation, and gaze with rapture on the Eye of Love. That eye which Anacreon describes

ἅμα γλαυκὸν, ὡς ̓Αθάνας,
ἅμα θ' ὑγρὸν, ὡς Κυθήρης