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right to it; in the second, of the distribution of wealth among individuals, and between them and the governThere is nothing very new in this arrangement; nor is there any thing very new in the internal arrangements of these two grand divisions, except that in the first book he postpones the consideration of the right to wealth till after the investigation of its origin, instead of assuming it to be already understood, as has been done by other Economists-a matter in regard to which we have already expressed our opinion. In the rest of the first book, and in the whole of the second, he has strictly observed the arrangement now generally adopted.
confines itself to the discussion of the origin, distribution, and availability of a nation's wealth. Without correct ideas on these points, a legislator blunders in the dark. He, on the other hand, who would regulate the whole of a nation's concerns on an acquaintance with these matters alone, betrays his ignorance of other and equally essential branches of knowledge. But who would reject a valuable medicine because a quack has occasionally done harm by prescribing it where it was inapplicable? It has been further objected to this science, that there is not one of its principles which is not at present warmly controverted. This uncertainty, however, is not to be sought in the science itself, but in the confused heads of those who write With regard to the manner in which Mr Read has and talk about it.. In these blessed days of press-freedom, executed his task, we find in the first part of the work a every body writes, and almost every body prints. It can- great deal of unnecessary redundancy-as, for example, not fail, therefore, that, on a subject of such immediate in his definition of wealth, which, with its illustrations, interest, many who have but a smattering of the matter, extends to eleven pages, and contains nothing that has not and many who have not even that, must have their say. been already said both better and more briefly. He is But the haziness and inconsistency of their conceptions also apt to pass into digressions quite irrelevant to the must not be attributed to the science, of which it is but subject in hand, and which materially retard the progress justice to form our notions by taking it as it stands in the of the investigation. The second book is almost entirely works of its masters. Lastly, it has been objected, that taken up with controversy, which we can by no means many of the most plausible and seemingly most firmly-approve of in an institutional work. It misleads the established principles of political economy have failed as mind from the object immediately in hand, by diverting soon as an attempt was made to put them into practice. it from the consideration of broad and general principles, The answer to this is, that, changed though the social and breaking down its attention among a thousand petty system of Europe be since the Reformation, many of the details. Nor do we think that he treats Messrs Ricardo old institutions are still influentially alive; and that this and Malthus with that courtesy which the talents and renders impossible the full application of the economical high rank of these gentlemen in the science demand, be doctrines. The mere practical man, who would seek to their doctrines right or wrong. Nor are they to be conbring them into operation in all their extent, betrays there- futed by statements of alleged statistical facts, in support by his ignorance of the actual state of society. He for- of which no evidence is produced. gets, as Locksby would say, to allow for the wind.
On the whole, this is the work of a man of great nala-tural shrewdness, who might be able to discuss some isolated question with spirit and success, but who is by no means adequate to the task of a systematic and exhaustive investigation. His arrangement is not new, nor have we found one new principle established in the whole of it. Even his vaunted enquiry into the origin of the right to property is not brought to bear upon the subsequent disquisitions. Throughout the book we find the most acute remarks placed in immediate conjunction with the most laughable puerilities. It is an example at once of the necessity of training a mind from childhood to systematic investigation, in order to ensure success in science; and of the insufficiency of what is generally called " strong common sense" for this purpose, when unsupported by more comprehensive and penetrating intellectual powers.
In this notice we have omitted many meritorious bourers in the field of political economy, either because they confined their attention to some isolated question, or because they were useful merely as redacteurs. To have mentioned them all, would have extended our sketch to an undue length. We have been induced to take the retrospect, as the best method of placing us in a situation to judge of the value of the work whose title stands at the head of the article-a task to which we now proceed.
Mr Read prefaces his labours with a complaint of the indefinite and uncertain nature of the science as it at present stands an allegation which we have already shown to be without foundation. The possible limits of the science are already almost completely investigated, and what has been ascertained, is by the better class of writers clearly and explicitly stated. But assuming for a moment that Mr Read's view of the matter is correct, let us see what remedy he proposes. "Political Economy The Waverley Novels. New Edition. Vols. Five and
Cadell & Co.
has been hitherto designated as the science which treats of the production and distribution of wealth, and it has been totally overlooked that this includes the demonstration of right to wealth. It is here, therefore, for the first time, treated as an investigation concerning right to wealth, (or property;) and this innovation, while it gives a more important and a more definite object to the science, presents it under a new and totally different aspect from that in which it has hitherto appeared, and causes it to assume
WE are not among those who make it a rule to pick volumes, and transfer them to our pages. out all the notes and new matter which appear in these We have no though we had, we are strongly inclined to suspect that taste for thus licking the paws of a literary lion; and,
the circulation of these volumes exceeds even that of the LITERARY JOURNAL, so that the task would be compara
an entirely new shape." The assertion contained in the tively profitless. The work goes on steadily, and is al
ways handsomely printed and neatly illustrated; though we think that some of the frontispieces might be better than they are.
passage in Italics is incorrect. The necessity of a previous knowledge of the abstract doctrines of right to property, in order to a thorough understanding of the discussions of Political Economy, has been admitted by every writer on the subject, from Quesnay downwards. But this knowledge must be derived from the study of rational jurisprudence; and we see no benefit to be obtained from confounding two sciences, which, however they may bear upon and mutually illustrate each other, are essentially distinct.
Let us proceed, however, to look not at what our author has promised, but what he has really performed. His work is divided into two books. In the first, he treats of the origin of wealth, and the natural grounds of
Six. The Antiquary. Edinburgh.
The Log-Book, or Journal of a Voyage betwixt Leith and
THIS is an amusing enough collection of odds and ends, besides comprising some information which will be useful to the voyager. We think we could glance over this LogBook when lying sea-sick in our berth, and disposed to read nothing else. Steam is destroying the romance of the sea, but there is still something poetical in the movements of a Leith and London smack.
Marsh's Improved Family Journal and Memoranda, for drawn up in the street, containing the friends of my be
1830. London. William Marsh and Alfred Miller. Edinburgh. Constable & Co.
loved master, and deputations from public bodies, who have come to enquire after his health.
THIS is an exceedingly useful and desirable publication. We recommend it heartily to all careful housewives, and bachelors of limited incomes.
Author of Waverley. Certainly no occurrence, since the conclusion of the late war, has occasioned such a sensation in the country as the illness of the EDITOR. The bulletins which we have issued every three hours do not seem to be considered minute enough. I wish, my good Peter, that you could only persuade his friends and the public in general, that every thing which can be done for mortal man shall be done for him. Sir Astley Cooper and Mr Abernethy have both come, of their own accord, from London, and they are at this moment closeted with the first physicians and surgeons of Edinburgh.
Peter (with tears in his eyes.) I shall do all in my power. But I can little console others, when I stand so much in need of consolation myself.
[Looks towards a table on which there is a case of liqueurs. The Author of Waverley pours out a glass of noyau, and hands it to Peter. He drinks it in silence, looks at his master, bursts into tears, and Exit.
THE EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS;
A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.
"Stulta, jocosa, canenda, dolentia, seria, sacra,
SCENE. The EDITOR'S Bed-chamber. The EDITOR is discovered in a magnificent bed, wearing a rose-coloured night-cap, which casts a delicate tinge over his naturally pale complexion. On one side of the bed is seated the Author of Waverley, and on the other the original Editor of the Edinburgh Review. The room is partially darkened; but, through the crimson damask window-curtains, a softened light is admitted. The furniture is of the most splendid description; and several tables are seen covered with every species of delicacy. Elevated upon a tasteful marble pedestal, and under a large glass case, are the EDITOR'S SLIPPERS. The EDITOR appears to be asleep. There is a long pause, during which the Author of Waverley and the original Editor of the Edinburgh Review exchange many anxious looks.
Author of Waverley. For three days and three nights have we watched thus; and for three days and three nights has he lain speechless and almost motionless.
Ed. of Edin. Review. I fear much that the world is about to lose him. I think that, even in the serenity of his noble countenance, I can discover the gradual approach of the shadow of death.
Author of Waverley. Nay, I have better hopes. Has he not himself declared, in his own powerful words, that he will never die? We dare not disbelieve him.
Ed. of Edin. Review. But consider the tremendous nature of the accident he has met with. To tumble over the three Falls of Clyde in succession, and yet, after being hurried down with the rapidity of lightning from Boninton to Stonebyers, to be taken out alive, was itself almost miraculous. That he can ultimately survive is surely an impossibility.
Author of Waverley. I will not think so; for have not the ablest surgeons in the country declared, that with the exception of the os talaria in the left foot, there is not a single bone in his body broken? Besides, it is not likely that a being of his high destiny should have his career so speedily ended.
Ed. of Edin. Review. Hark! he is muttering something through his broken and feverish slumbers.
Author of Waverley. The sounds, though they convey no meaning, are full of a mysterious sublimity. How finely marked under the coverlet are the outlines of his majestic form! Look, too, at the features of his expressive face, which, though even unilluminated by the play of soul, are, nevertheless, more interesting than any I ever remember to have beheld.
Ed. of Edin. Review.
"Wouldst thou see THE EDITOR right, Go see him in bed by the morning light; In the pride of his strength he is all too gay, And his eye would blind like the orb of day." [The Author of Waverley bows. Enter Peter, the EDITOR's confidential servant. Peter. A line of carriages, nearly a mile long, has
Ed. of Edin. Review. I have been watching the EDIthink there is a change operating for the better. TOR for the last five minutes, and, as far as I can judge, I
Peter. A crowd of persons has broken into the house. There is a panic through the whole city. An impression' has gone abroad that the EDITOR is dead, and all business is at a stand. The deputation from the Faculty of Advocates is already attempting to force its way up stairs.
Ed. of Edin. Review. This must not be permitted,
Poor dumb creatures! had ye words to express your feel-
Author of Waverley. Do you then really believe, Peter, that these SLIPPERS are endowed with the senses of living things?
Peter. I have good reason to believe it, sir. I have together astonish you were I to recount them. Perhaps een proofs of their love for the EDITOR which would alyou will scarcely credit it when I declare to you, that unless when they are put under this glass case, they invariably place themselves, of their own accord, immediately beside the EDITOR's bed. It is all one where I leave them at night;-in the morning they are sure to be at their old post, so that as soon as he rises he cannot help putting his feet into them. Nay, I have known him declare, and I would as soon doubt my Catechism as his word, that once when he lay awake about midnight, he heard them endeavouring to leap up to his bed, and always falling back again, like trouts into the water, with a small shuffling noise.
Author of Waverley. This is indeed very strange, Peter. Re-enter original Editor of Edinburgh Review, hastily. Ed. of Edin. Review. The Director-general, who has this moment come in, has been so much agitated that he has gone into strong hysterics. The Ettrick Shepherd, who left Mount Benger at five, and has galloped the whole way, is eating some cold beef in the dining-room, and weeping like a child. Mr M'Corkindale, of the house of Messrs Ballantyne & Co., declares, that though he has superintended the printing of the Edinburgh Review, Blackwood's Magazine, the Waverley Novels, and almost every work of eminence that has of late years issued from the Scottish press, he never printed any thing with so much delight as the LITERARY JOURNAL, and that if the EDITOR expires, he will never be able to hold up his head again. Mr Murray, of the Theatre-Royal, together with Messrs Pritchard and Stanley, protest that
they are perfectly incapable of performing until they hear better tidings, and I have seldom seen even counterfeit grief so violent as their real grief. The literary men, and the booksellers and publishers from all quarters, form a dense crowd without, as far as the eye can reach.
Author of Waverley. I shall speak to them from one of the front windows, and attempt to soothe their trou[Exit. bled minds.
Ed. of Edin. Review. Mr Macdonald, the sculptor, has so earnestly requested permission to be allowed to take a cast of the EDITOR'S face should he cease to breathe, that I could not altogether refuse him, and have promised him Go down, Peter, at all events, admission to this room.
and conduct him up as quietly as possible.
Ed. of Edin. Review. I am now alone with the greatest man of his age; and his gigantic might is stretched Will he recover, before me in unconscious listlessness. and again scatter his brilliant thoughts like sunlight over the world? or will he sink into the arms of death, and give a new dignity to the grave? If he dies, what will become of the fresh impulse he has given to the literary taste of his country? The Quarterly, and what was once my Edinburgh Review, have fallen into the sere and yellow leaf,* and the LITERARY JOURNAL has risen like a Phoenix from their ashes, a bright and beautiful bird, clear of eye and strong of wing. Surely it can never come down thus speedily from its height of glory!
Re-enter Peter, leading in Mr Macdonald on tiptoe. Mr Macdonald (approaching the bed, and gazing with marked delight upon the EDITOR.) What a model for my Achilles! How finely does that noble form combine the majestic strength of an Ajax, with the delicate beauty of a Patroclus! In the countenance I discover the dignity of the Olympian Jove, with the softer loveliness of the Nothing Apollo Belvidere, or the Adonis of Canova. could reconcile me to his death, but the certainty of thereby obtaining a cast of so invaluable a face.
Peter (gently touching Mr Macdonald on the shoulder, and pointing to the SLIPPERS.) Look there!
Author of Waverley. How is the EDITOR? Do you think his strength is rallying?
Mr Macdonald. Ha! these are, indeed, interesting. Beside them, how does the celebrated glass slipper of Cinderella sink into insignificance! Many a lovely little foot have I seen gently insinuated into one of the Morocco pianellas of Italy; yet never did I envy the fate of a slipper so much as at this moment,-for genius immortalizes all that it touches.
Enter Dr Abercrombie, Sir Astley Cooper, and
Dr Abercrombie (feeling the EDITOR's pulse.) It beats at the rate of about five pulsations in the minute.
Sir Astley Cooper. I think we ought to proceed to the amputation of the talarius.
Mr Abernethy. Let us save it, if possible. After the most minute examination of the heel and ankle, I think the bone may be set.
[Sir Astley Cooper lifts up the EDITOR's left foot very gently, and bends over it with great caution. The EDITOR draws up his leg with a slight convulsive twitch, and, pushing it out again with a similar twitch, tumbles Sir Astley Cooper over on the floor. Mr Abernethy (smiling.) I am afraid we must leave the talarius alone, Sir Astley. It does not appear that the strength of the leg is much impaired.
Author of Waverley. It seems to me that the crisis has come. There is a very visible change in the patient. See! he has opened his eyes; and, Heaven be praised! there is the light of life and of mind in them!
Dr Abercrombie (feeling the EDITOR's pulse.) The blood The nature of the pulse is rushing back into the heart. is quite changed. It now beats at the rate of four hundred and seventy in the minute,—clear, distinct, strong, and pleasurable pulsations.
Re-enter the Author of Waverley.
Author of Waverley. The booksellers and publishers are perfectly clamorous, and will not be satisfied. They seem to think that from some paltry feelings of envy and jealousy we shall not take proper care of the Editor. and Mr Black is positively looking white with agitation; Mr White declares he will do us brown if we do not restore him to health; Mr Miller, with tears in his eyes, calls him the flower of living authors; Mr Chambers protests against his being confined to his chambers any longer; Mr Tait loudly demands a tête-à-tête; Mr Smith says we keep him intentionally under lock and key; Messrs Constable and Co. pronounce us worse than common police-officers; Mr Lothian, to heighten the tumult, calls out that the Editor is worth the three Lothians; Mr Boyd, in his usual gentlemanly way, says he is contented to "bide his time," but that if he be not restored to perfect health, he will give us "a Roland for an Oliver;" Mr Carfrae is more obstreperous still, for he declares we Mr are selling ourselves, and offered to knock us down. Blackwood alone preserved his temper, and I thought I could even discover a quiet smile on his benevolent countenance. In this state of matters what is to be done?
Ed. of Edin. Review. Go down, Peter, and beseech the gentlemen below to use their influence towards pacifying [Exit Peter. * Quere Blue and yellow leaf ?"—Printer's Devil
Sir Astley Cooper. In that case, I do not think there is any farther occasion for our services; and though there is no Editor on earth I have so great a respect for as the one now before me, I shall certainly take care how I handle any of his brethren in future.
[Exeunt Sir Astley Cooper, Dr Abercrombie, and Mr Abernethy.
Ed. of Edin. Review. Behold! he has of his own accord put his hand up to his nightcap, and pulled it off his head. See how his dark luxuriant tresses, having escaped from under it, fall down in rich folds upon his shoulders. Re-enter Peter.
Peter. Messrs Curry and Co. have arrived from Dublin, Messrs Robertson and Atkinson from Glasgow, and Mr Lewis Smith from Aberdeen, in a state of mind bordering upon frenzy.
Author of Waverley. Tell them that the EDITOR has this moment come out of his trance, and that his recovery is now certain.
Peter (bursting into tears.) Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!
Ed. of Edin. Review. There is one thing surprises me. I have not heard that the fair sex have been making any enquiries after the Editor.
Peter. O, sir! do not say that! If you but knew all ! There are already seven basketfuls of three-cornered notes and billet-doux, written on pink paper, yellow paper, and all sorts of paper, down stairs in the hall; and the number of ladies who are at this moment like to break their hearts about him exceeds all computation.
Ed. of Edin. Review. This is as it should be. Hark! What sounds are these?
[A melodious chorus is heard, as if sung by unseen beings hovering in the apartment. Author of Waverley." Gay creatures of the element!" Peter. It is often thus. Scarcely a week elapses without his having such mysterious visitations. All the unseen spirits love him. Hark! again!
[The notes gradually swell and become distinct, and at length the words of the song are plainly heard.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
We come we come from the east and west,
We have brought thee gifts from the north and south,
To add new fire to the words of thy mouth,
Arise! arise and receive each gift!
GREAT EDITOR IN THY SLIPPERS?
Ed. of Edin. Review. Huzza! huzza!
its details; but it will be at once perceived that it is imposssible for us to vouch for this from personal knowledge. The cause of the very dreadful state to which we were reduced for several days, was an accident of rather an appalling nature which overtook us. It is just about a fortnight since, that, after wandering through the delightful parks of Allanton, and admiring what the genius of transplantation, and the taste of Sir Henry Steuart, have there done, we crossed the country to Lanark, and for the first time visited the Falls of Clyde. The night had been stormy, and the river was a good deal swollen ; but the morning broke out blue and beautiful. Having traversed the grounds of Lady Mary Ross, and arrived at the highest Fall, which is Bonniton Linn, we walked up to the brink of the foaming precipice, and looked over. Do not suppose for a moment that our head grew giddy; our head never grows giddy. But suddenly we felt the edge of the rock giving way, and the effort we made to regain a firmer footing loosened it altogether. Down we went into the cataract! The sounds of the words, whizz! swash! swump! hiss! frore! snore! gore! convey a faint idea of the sensation created by the rush of waters into our soul. Down we went through the rapid stream, tumbling and rolling like a piece of broken cork, yet not insensible. When we happened for a moment to get upon our back, we recollect distinctly that there glanced by us, with the rapidity of lightning, high rugged rocks, overhung with mountain-ash and fir, and brush wood, and far far above a momentary glimpse of sky flashing like a shattered mirror. Then over we went again upon our face, and water, mixed with pebbles and sand, rushed into our mouth and eyes; and in our agony we tried to give utterance to some human sound, and once or twice we sent forth a deafening roar that echoed up the precipices and frightened the birds out of their nests. But in vain! Away we went by the woods of Corehouse; and just as we tumbled over Cora Linn, we recognised Lord Corehouse and a party of ladies, all smirking and smiling, who had come to the old mill to take a look at the Fall. They did not observe us, and away we flew over the Linn, and the shock nearly put an end to us. We remember nothing distinctly that followed for a long while; yet we have a faint recollection of floating past the mills at New Lanark, and wishing we had been born a spinner. We had recovered our senses a little by the time we came to the Bridge, and were surprised to find a kind of dreamy and almost pleasing drowsiness stealing over us. The water flows smoothly from the Bridge to the Fall of Stonebyers; but as our strength was no longer sufficient to contend with the current, gentle as it was, we resigned ourselves to our fate, whilst, by some strange hallucination, our situation began to appear almost agree
We fear that some may doubt the truth of our assertion, when we state, that as we floated down be
tween the bridge and Stonebyers, we actually composed a sonnet, the words of which we have now forgot, although we are still certain of the fact. From the moment we rolled over Stonebyers Fall, recollection forsook us entirely, and we remember nothing that happened for many days afterwards, till we started up as if from the grave, and found ourselves in our own bedchamber. We are informed that we were picked up, and carried to Hamilton, where we lay for dead for some time; but that as vital heat never forsook our body, our friends would not despair. They had us conveyed to our own house; and there, by their indefatigable attention, as we verily believe, and not by any supernatural agency, as is generally surmised, we have been finally restored to our wonted health. This is the sum and substance of our recent adventure; and having now dwelt long enough on what concerns ourselves alone, we are anxious to dedicate the whole of our renewed vigour (and we feel at this moment stronger than ever we did in our lives) to the cause of our country, or, in other words, to the best interests of our readers and contributors. To business, therefore
Most beloved reader! we speak to thee once more in our own person. The above scene was committed to writing by one of those who took an active share in it, and we have no doubt that it is entirely accurate in all
But softly, gently rise from the earth,
As full as the heave of a maiden's breast, When the first sigh of love is starting to birth, And sweetly disturbing her bosom's rest; Softly, gently, rise from the bed Where the young May gowan hath laid its head, Hath laid its head, and slept all night, With a dewy heart so pure and bright— Come with its breath, and the tinge of its blush, Come with its smile when the skies grow flush, Come, and I'll tell thee the secret way
What an accumulated mass of papers! Let us dive into them at once, and make such a selection from them as will astonish the editors of the Annuals, and prove that we could, at a week's notice, produce a volume equal in interest to the best of them. This, we solemnly protest, is the simple truth; and we shall establish it to the complete satisfaction of every reader who will favour us with an hour of his time. Our resources grow upon us every day, and appear to be inexhaustible. Notwithstanding the quantity and quality of the prose and verse we are about to subjoin, we are obliged to withhold more than one-half of the articles we had laid aside for the present occasion; and we beg to state to many authors who may feel disappointed, that we have the greatest respect for their talents, and that we hope to make room for them another time.
The piece with which we commence our selections is a poem by Alexander Maclaggan, whose history and circumstances are already known to our readers. It is, in our estimation, not only the best poem which he has yet produced, but one which would do no discredit to the Ettrick Shepherd himself; and we hereby ask him if he thinks it would? We know the Shepherd too well, not to be certain that he rejoices in genius wherever it may spring up; and if he does not read the following lines with pleasure, he could never have been the author of "Kilmeny :"
LOVE'S EVENING SONG.
Night's finger hath prest down the eyelids of day,
"Sing on, sing on, I'll bless thy strain,"My heart would re-echo most willingly, "Amen, sweet spirit, amen!"
I seek the green bank where the streamlet flows,
Oh! surely, ye heavens! some being of light
It knew on earth and loved the best;
For the thirst of my soul would gladly sip
Then breathe, sweet spirit, Oh! breathe on my lip, And teach me the thoughts of my soul to sing, For my words must be warm'd at a holy flame Ere I venture to name my true-love's name! I speak it not to the worldly throng,
I sing it not in the festive song,
But when clasp'd in the arms of the solemn wood, In the calm of morn and the stillness of even, I tell to the ear of solitude
The name that goes up with my prayers to heaven.
Come, Echo! come, Echo! but not from the caves Where gloom ever broods and the wild wind raves, Come not in the gusts that sweep over the graves, In the roar of the storm or the dash of the waves;
Thou must go to my love with my lowly lay;-
Let Mr Maclaggan, who has not concluded his fifth lustrum, go on steadily, and we have the best hopes of him.
Our next communication is from the ultima Thule of Lerwick, and not even from Lerwick, but from a still remoter spot, to which Lerwick is the nearest post-town. It is delightful to think, that even into these penitus orbe divisos districts, the LITERARY JOURNAL extends its vivifying and benignant influence. Our correspondent thus writes:"Sir, I possess not a book in the world—but my Bible; and, from one end of the year to the other, seldom procure the loan of one. I am shut up from the world, and know only the names, and that but of a few, of the authors, authoresses, and publications of the day. My hand shakes, and my eyes are dim,-not from age, but from sickness and misfortune. That one under such circumstances should think of becoming a contributor to the EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL, is folly indeed! What tempts me to trouble you, I cannot say. If you are a choleric man, you will be apt to get into a passion even in your SLIPPERS; but I hope for gentler things, though I am not so sanguine as to think that you will really publish my humble compositions." Here is, at once, the painful romance of a poet's fate, and the diffidence of a poet's nature. All the verses which accom panied this letter are excellent. We regret that we have room for only two specimens of the talents of one who seems destined to blush unknown and unseen. They are such as cannot fail to excite an interest in the author:
THE DYING GIRL'S SONG.
The morning light shall dawn,
They shall seek me through the flowery lawn,
By the ocean-shore, and the rushing river; But find me, never!
The evening shades shall close,
And the dews of midnight fall; And the sighing winds sink to repose,
By the murmuring waterfall;
And the stars in beauty, and beyond number, Beam where I slumber!