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brance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished
Irish poet, composed the following lines :
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,

Every note which he lov'd awaking-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had lived for his love-for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

From her own lov'd island of sorrow!

THE

ART OF BOOK-MAKING.

THE

ART OF BOOK-MAKING,

« If that severe doom of Synesius be true—'It is a greater offence to steal dead men’s labour, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ?,

Burton's ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries

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