ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. crushed him. He was old, altered, frightful. His body seemed paralyzed. His stiffened lips attempted an unmeaning smile. His eyes were glassy and dim; he was now only Lelio, the shadow of a lover and a prince." The Marquise paused; then, while her aspect changed like that of a ruin which totters and sinks, she added: "Since then I have not heard him mentioned." The Marquise made a second and a longer pause; then, with the terrible fortitude which comes with length of years, which springs from the persistent love of life or the near hope of death, she said with a smile: "Well, do you not now believe in the ideality of the eighteenth century?" BURIAL ANTHEM. [Rev. Henry Hart Milman, born 10th February, 1791; died 24th September, 1868. He was eminent as a historian and a poet. Fazio, a tragedy, was his first work of any importance, and appeared in 1815. In 1820 he published the Fall of Jerusalem, a sacred poem, and subsequently wrote the History of Christianity, History of the Jews, &c.] Brother, thou art gone before us, And from care and fear released, The toilsome way thou'st travell❜d o'er, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. Sin can never taint thee now, Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, And the weary are at rest. "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," Where the wicked cease from troubling, ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. [Mrs. Anne Grant, of Laggan, born in Glasgow, 21st February, 1755; died in Edinburgh, 7th November, 1838. Her father, Duncan Macvicar, held a commission in the army, and served some time in America. Having returned to this country, he was in 1773 appointed barrack-master of Fort Augustus, Inverness-shire. Here his daughter married the Rev. James Grant, minister of the neighbouring parish of Laggan. In 1801 Mrs. Grant was left a widow with eight children, and in She then turned to account straitened circumstances. her literary abilities, and produced several poetical and prose works, the most successful of which were, Poems on Various Subjects, 1803; Letters from the Mountains, 1806; and Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, 1811. She was awarded a pension of £50 a year by government in 1825.] Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns Thy tender buds supply her food; Flower of the desert though thou art! Their food and shelter seek from thee; Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom Flower of the wild! whose purple glow Nor garden's artful, varied pride, Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Flower of his dear-loved native land! Alas, when distant, far more dear! Looks homeward through the blinding tear, THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. [Jane Taylor, born in London, 23d September, 1783; died at Ongar, Essex, 12th April, 1824. She was a member of a literary family. Her father, who was minister of an Independent congregation, was the author of several works; her mother produced several useful books for domestic guidance; her brother, Isaac Taylor, LL.D., obtained distinction as a writer on metaphysical and religious subjects; and her sister Ann was, in conjunction with Jane, the author of many poems and hymns for children. The chief works of Jane were: Display, a Tale; Essays in Rhyme on Morals and Manners, and under the signature Q. Q. she contributed to the Youth's Magazine a series of moral sketches and tales, which obtained the highest praise. The following is one of the series.] An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family were stirring, suddenly stopped. Upon this the dial-plate, if we may credit the fable, changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke: "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking.' Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of striking. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands." Very good," replied the pendulum: "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me,-it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards year after year as I do." "As to that," said the dial, is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?" 66 "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it | 'Exactly so," replied the pendulum; "well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop." The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied: "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favour to give about half-adozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?" " The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. 'Now," resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions.” Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that though you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in.” "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus." Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen-shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night. STANZAS TO AN OLD FRIEND. Tandemque nobis exsulibus placent Relicta. CASIMIR. Come, here's a health to thee and thine; Trust me, whate'er we may be told, Few things are better than old wine, When tasted with a friend that's old; We're happy yet; and, in our track, New pleasures if we may not find, There is a charm in gazing back On sunny prospects left behind. Like that famed hill in western clime, With purple gleam the evening air; So there's a joy in former days, In times, and scenes, and thoughts gone by, As beautified their heads they raise, Bright in Imagination's sky. Time's glass is fill'd with varied sand, With fleeting joy and transient grief; We'll turn, and with no sparing hand, O'er many a strange fantastic leaf; And fear not-but, 'mid many a blot, There are some pages written fair, And flow'rs that time can wither not, Preserved, still faintly fragrant there. As the hush'd night glides gentlier on, Our music shall breathe forth its strain, And tell of pleasures that are gone, And heighten those that yet remain : And that creative breath, divine, Shall waken many a slumbering thrill, And call forth many a mystic line Of faded joys, remember'd still. Again, the moments shall she bring When youth was in his freshest prime, We'll pluck the roses that still spring Upon the grave of buried time. There's magic in the olden song; Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears Which will steal down, our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years. And, as the mariner can find Wild pleasure in the voiced roar E'en of the often-dreaded wind That wreck'd his every hope before: If there's a pang that lurks beneathFor youth had pangs-oh! let it rise, 'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe The spirit of our former sighs. We'll hear the strains we heard so oft As summer dews on summer flowers; And as the stream, where'er it hies, Steals something in its purest flow, Those strains shall taste of ecstacies O'er which they floated long ago. E'en in our morn, when fancy's eye Glanced sparkling o'er a world of bliss, When joy was young, and hope was high, We could not feel much more than this: Howe'er, then, time our day devours, Why should our smiles be overcast? Why should we grieve for fleeting hours, Who find a future in the past? THOMAS Doubleday. LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. Oh, Death! if there be quiet in thine arms, But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, Nor pull me downwards to mortality, When it were fitter I should take a flight But whither? Holy Pity, hear, oh hear! And lift me to some far-off skyey sphere, Where I may wander in celestial light: Might it be so-then would my spirit fear To quit the things I have so loved, when seenThe air, the pleasant sun, the summer greenKnowing how few would shed one kindly tear, Or keep in mind that I had ever been? THOMAS CAMPBELL THE WINE-CELLAR. Facilis descensus Averni, In the deep discovery of the subterranean world, a shallow part would satisfy some inquirers, who if two or three yards were opened beneath the surface, would not care to rake the bowels of Potosi and regions towards the centre. -SIR THOMAS BROwne Men have always attached a peculiar interest to that region of the earth which extends for a few yards beneath its surface. Below this depth the imagination, delighting to busy itself among the secrets of Time and Mortality, hath rarely cared to penetrate. A few feet of ground may suffice for the repose of the first dwellers of the earth until its frame shall grow old and perish. The little coin, silent picture of forgotten battles, lies among the roots of shrubs and vegetables for centuries, till it is turned into light by some careful husbandman, who ploughs an inch deeper than his fathers. The dead bones which, loosened from their urns, gave occasion to Sir Thomas Browne's noblest essay, "had outlasted the living ones of Methusalem, and in a yard under ground, and thin walls of clay, outworn all the strong and spacious buildings above them, and quietly rested under the drums and tramplings of three conquests.' Superstition chooses the subterranean space which borders on the abodes of the living, and ranges her vaults and mysterious caverns near to the scenes of revelry, passion, and joy; and within this narrow rind rest the mighty products of glorious vintages, the stores of that divine juice which, partaking of the rarest qualities of physical and intellectual nature, blends them in happier union within us. Here, in this hallowed ground, the germs of inspiration and the memorials of decay lie side by side, and Bacchus holds divided empire with the King of Terrors. and would go through fire and water to serve you, want the delicate art to allay the petty irritations and heighten the ordinary enjoyments of life, and are quite unable to make themselves agreeable at a tête-à-tête dinner. Not so my companion; who, zealous, prompt, and consoling in all seasons of trial, had good sense for every little difficulty, and a happy humour for every social moment; at all times a better and wiser self. Blessed with good but never boisterous spirits; endowed with the rare faculty not only of divining one's wishes, but instantly making them his own; skilful in sweetening good counsel with honest flattery; able to bear with enthusiasm in which he might not participate, and to avoid smiling at the follies he could not help discerning; ever ready to indulge the secret wish of his guest "for another bottle," with heart enough to drink it with him, and head enough to take care of him when it was gone, he was (and yet is) the pleasantest of advisers, the most genial of listeners, and the quietest of lively companions. On this memorable day he had, with his accustomed forethought, given particular orders for our entertainment, and I hastened to enjoy it with him, little thinking how deep and solemn was the pleasure which awaited us. We arrived at the Coffee-house about six on a bright afternoon in the middle of September, and found everything ready and excellent: the turtle magnificent and finely relieved by lime-punch effectually iced; grilled salmon crisply prepared for its appropriate lemon and mustard; a leg of Welsh mutton just tasted as a "sweet remembrancer" of its heathy and hungry hills; woodcocks with thighs of exquisite delicacy and essence “deeply interfused" in thick soft toast; and mushrooms, which Nero justly called "the flesh of the gods," simply broiled and faintly sprinkled imperial auspices. Had Lord Byron been acquainted with the flavour of choice mushrooms, he would have turned to give it honour due after the following stanza, one of the noblest in that work which, with all its faults of waywardness and haste is a miracle of language, 1 This trait sufficiently accounts for the flowers which were seen scattered on the sepulchre of Nero when the As I sat indulging this serious vein of reflec- popular indignation raged highest against his memory tion some years ago, when my relish of philo-the grateful Roman had eaten his mushroom under sophy and port was young, a friend called to remind me that we had agreed to dine together with rather more luxury than usual. I had made the appointment with boyish eagerness, and now started gladly from my solitary reveries pathos, playfulness, sublimity, and sense. to keep it. The friend with whom I had planned our holiday, was one of those few persons whom you may challenge to a convivial evening with a mathematical certainty of enjoying it; which is the rarest quality of friendship. Many who are equal to great exigencies, When Nero perish'd by the justest doom The nations free and the world overjoy'd, with cayenne. Our conversation was, of course, confined to mutual invitations and expressive criticisms on the dishes; the only table-talk which men of sense can tolerate. But the most substantial gratifications, in this world at least, must have an end: and the last mushroom was at length eaten. Unfortunately for the repose of the evening, we were haunted by the recollection of some highly-flavoured port, and, in spite of strong evidence of identity from conspiring waiters, sought for the like in vain. Bottle after bottle was produced and dismissed as "not the thing," till our generous host, somewhat between liberal hospitality and just impatience, smilingly begged us to accompany him into the cellar, inspect the whole of "his little stock," and choose for ourselves! We took him at his word; another friend of riper years and graver authority joined us; and we prepared to follow our guide, who stood ready to conduct us to the banks of Lethe. All the preparations, like those which preceded similar descents of the heroes of old, bespoke the awfulness and peril of the journey. Our host preceded us with his massive keys to perform an office collateral to that of St. Peter; behind, a dingy imp of the nether regions stood with glasses in his hands and a prophetic grin on his face; and each of us was armed with a flaming torch to penetrate the gloom which now stretched through the narrow entrance before us. We descended the broken and winding staircase with cautious steps, and, to confess the truth, not without some apprehension for our upward journey, yet hoping to be numbered among that select class of Pluto's visitors, "quos ardens evexit ad æthera virtus." On a sudden, turning a segment of a mighty cask, we stood in the centre of the vast receptacle of spirituous riches. The roof of solid and stoutly compacted brickwork, low, but boldly arched, looked substantial enough to defy all attacks of the natural enemy-water, and resist a second deluge. From each side ran long galleries, partially shown by the red glare of the torches, extending one way far beneath the busy trampling of the greatest shopkeepers and stock-jobbers in the world; and, on the other, below the clamour of the Old Bailey Court and the cells of its victims. What a range! Here rest, cooling in the deep-delved cells, the concentrated essences of sunny years! In this archway huge casks of mighty wine are scattered in bounteous confusion, like the heaped jewels and gold on the "rich strond" of Spenser, the least of which would lay Sir Walter's Fleming low! Throughout that long succession of vaults, thousands of bottles, "in avenues disposed," lie silently waiting their time to kindle the imagination, to sharpen the wit, to open the soul, and to unchain the trembling tongue. There may you feel the true grandeur of quiescent power, and walk amidst the palpable elements of madness or of wisdom. What stores of sentiment in that butt of raciest sherry! What a fund of pensive thought! What suggestions for delicious remembrance! What "aids to reflection!" (genuine as those of Coleridge) in that hock of a century old! What sparkling fancies, whirling and foaming, from a stout body of thought in that full and ripe champagne! What mild and serene philosophy in that Burgundy, ready to shed "its sunset glow" on society and nature! This pale brandy, softened by age, is the true "spirit" which "disturbs us with the joy of elevated thoughts." That hermitage, stealing gently into the chambers of the brain, shall make us "babble of green fields;" and that delicate claret, innocently bubbling and dancing in the slender glass, shall bring its own vinecoloured hills more vividly before us even than Mr. Stanfield's pencil! There from a timechanged bottle, tenderly drawn from a crypt, protected by huge primeval cobwebs, you may taste antiquity, and feel the olden time on your palate! As we sip this marvellous port,1 to the very colour of which age has been gentle, methinks we have broken into one of those rich vaults in which Sir Thomas Browne, the chief butler of the tomb, finds treasures rarer than jewels. "Some," saith he, "discover sepulchral vessels containing liquors which time hath incrassated into jellies. For besides lacrymatories, notable lamps, with oils and aromatic liquors, attended noble ossuaries; and some yet retaining a vinosity and spirit in them, which, if any have tasted, they have far exceeded the palates of antiquity;-liquors, not to be computed by years of annual magistrates, but by great conjunctions and the fatal periods of kingdoms. The draughts of consulary date were but crude unto these, and Opimian wine but in the must unto them." We passed on from flavour to flavour with our proud and liberal guide, whose comments added zest even to the text which he had to dilate on. A scent, a note of music, a voice long unheard, the stirring of the summer 1Old port wine is more ancient to the imagination than any other, though in fact it may have been known fewer years; as a broken Gothic arch has more of the Port reminds us of the obscure middle ages; but hock, spirit of antiquity about it than a Grecian temple. like the classical mythology, is always young. |