A BRIDAL SONG. Roses, their sharp spines being gone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks, of odour faint; Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Oxlips in their cradles growing, All, dear Nature's children sweet, Not an angel of the air, The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor May on our bride-house perch or sing, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. DISPROPORTION OF MAN. God, that our imagination loses itself in this thought. Let man, having returned to himself, consider what he is, compared to what is; let him regard himself as a wanderer into this remote province of nature; and let him, from this narrow prison wherein he finds himself dwelling (I mean the universe), learn to estimate the earth, kingdoms, cities, and himself, at a proper value. What is man in the midst of the infinite? But to show him another prodigy equally astonishing, let him seek in what he knows things the most minute; let a mite exhibit to him in the exceeding smallness of its body, parts incomparably smaller, limbs with joints, veins in these limbs, blood in these veins, humors in this blood, globules in these humors, gases in these globules; let him, still dividing these last objects, exhaust his powers of conception, and let the ultimate object at which he can arrive now be the subject of our discourse; he will think, perhaps, that this is the minutest atom of nature. I will show him therein a new abyss. I will picture to him not only the visible universe, but the conceivable immensity of nature, in the compass of this abbreviation of an atom. Let him view therein an infinity of worlds, each of which has its firmament, its planets, its earth, in the same proportion as the visible world; and on this earth animals, and in fine mites, in which he will find again what the first have given; and still finding in the others the same things, without end, and without repose, let him lose himself in these wonders, as astonishing in their littleness as the others in their magnitude; for who will not marvel that our body, which just before was not perceptible in the universe, itself imperceptible in the bosom of the all, is now a colossus, a world, or rather an all in comparison with the nothingness at which it is impossible to Whoever shall thus consider himself, will be frightened at himself, and observing himself suspended in the mass of matter allotted to him by nature, between these two abysses of infinity and nothingness, will tremble at the sight of these wonders; and I believe that his curiosity being changed into admiration he will be more disposed to contemplate them in silence, than to investigate them with presumption. Let man contemplate entire nature in her height and full majesty; let him remove his view from the low objects which surround him; let him regard that shining luminary placed as an eternal lamp to give light to the universe; let him consider the earth as a point, in comparison with the vast circuit de-arrive? scribed by that star (sun); let him learn with wonder that this vast circuit itself is but a very minute point when compared with that embraced by the stars which roll in the firmament. But if our view stops there, let the imagination pass beyond: it will sooner be wearied with conceiving than nature with supplying food for contemplation. All this visible world is but an imperceptible point in the ample bosom of nature. No idea approaches it. In vain we extend our concep- For, in fine, what is man in the midst of tions beyond imaginable spaces; we bring nature? A nothing in comparison with the forth but atoms, in comparison with the re- infinite, an all in comparison with nothingality of things. It is an infinite sphere, of ness: a mean between nothing and all. Inwhich the centre is everywhere, the circum-finitely far from comprehending the extremes, ference nowhere. In fine, it is the greatest the end of things and their principle are for discernible character of the omnipotence of him inevitably concealed in an impenetrable secret; equally incapable of seeing the nothingness whence he is derived, and the infinity in which he is swallowed up. What can he do, then, but perceive some appearance of the midst of things, in eternal despair of knowing either their principle or their end? All things have sprung from nothingness, and are carried onward to the infinite. Who shall follow this astonishing procession of things? The Author of these wonders comprehends them; no other can. Through want of having contemplated these infinities, men are rashly born to the investigation of nature, as if they had some proportion with it. It is a strange thing that they have wished to comprehend the principles of things, and from thence even to reach a knowledge of all, by a presumption as infinite as their object. For it is unquestionable that such a design cannot be formed without a presumption or capacity infinite like nature. When we are instructed, we comprehend that nature, having engraved her image and that of her Author upon all things, they almost all participate in her double infinity. Thus we see that all the sciences are infinite in the extent of their researches; for who doubts that geometry, for example, has an infinity of infinities of propositions to exhibit? They are also infinite in the multitude and delicacy of their principles; for who does not see that those which are proposed as the ultimate are not self-sustaining, and that they rest upon others which, having still others for a support, never admit an ultimate? But we do with ultimates that appear to reason as we do in regard to material things, wherein we call that an indivisible point beyond which our senses perceive nothing more, although it is by its nature infinitely divisible. Of these two infinities of science, that of magnitude is much more obvious, and therefore it has happened to few persons to pretend to all knowledge of all things. "I am about to speak of all things," said Democritus. But the infinity in littleness is much less discernible. The philosophers have much sooner pretended to arrive at it; and here it is where they have all stumbled. It is what has given place to these very common titles, "Principles of things," "Principles of philosophy," and the like, as ostentatious in reality, although not in appearance, as this other which galls the eye. We naturally believe ourselves much more capable of reaching the centre of things than of embracing their circumference. The visible extent of the world obviously surpasses us; but as we surpass little things, we believe ourselves capable of possessing them; and yet it requires no less capacity to reach nothingness than to reach the all. It requires infinite capacity for either; and it seems to me that whoever should have comprehended the ultimate principles of things might also arrive at a knowledge of the infinite. One depends upon the other, and the one leads to the other. The extremes touch and unite by reason of their remoteness from each other, and are found in God and in God only. Let us know then our range; we are something and not all. What we have of being deprives us of the knowledge of first principles, which spring from nothingness, and the little that we have of being conceals from us the view of the infinite. Our intellect holds in the order of things intelligible the same rank as our body in the extent of nature. Limited in every way, this state which holds the mean between two extremes is found in all our powers. Our senses perceive nothing extreme. Too much noise deafens us; too much light dazzles us; too much distance or too much proximity impedes vision; too much length or too much brevity of discourse obscures it; too much truth astonishes us: I know those who cannot comprehend that when four are taken from nothing, nothing remains. First principles have too much evidence for us. Too much pleasure incommodes. Too much har mony in music displeases; too many benefits irritate: we wish to have wherewith to repay the debt. We feel neither extreme heat nor extreme cold. Excessive qualities are inimical to us, and not discernible; we no longer feel them, we suffer them. Too much youth and too much age obstruct the mind; too much or too little instruction. In fine, extreme things are for us as if they were not, and we are not in regard: they escape us, or we them. Such is our true state. This is what renders us incapable of certain knowledge and absolute ignorance. We drift on a vast ocean always uncertain and floating, driven from one extreme towards the other. Some term, whereat we think to fix ourselves and become settled, wavers and quits us; and if we follow it, it escapes our grasp, slips from us, and flies with an eternal flight. Nothing stops for us. This is the state natural to us, and yet the most contrary to our inclination: we burn with desire to find a firm seat and an ultimate constant basis, in order to build upon it a tower that shall reach to the infinite; but our whole foundation cracks, and the earth opens to the abyss. BLAISE PASCAL H THE FALCON. [Giovanni Boccaccio, born in Paris, 1313, died at Certaldo, Val d'Elsa, 21st December, 1375. He was the son of a merchant of Florence, and in that city he was educated. He may be regarded as the father of Italian prose; and he was the author of the first romantic and chivalrous poem written in the Italian language, La Teseide, the subject being the fabulous adventures of Theseus. From the Teseide Chaucer borrowed the materials of his Knight's Tale. The most important of Boccaccio's prose works is the Decameron, which was written at the desire of Queen Joan of Naples. It is a series of one hundred tales, supposed to be narrated by seven ladies and three gentlemen, who have fled to a country house to escape the plague which visited Florence in 1348. The intrigues of lovers form the chief element of the stories, and the details of the greater number display a licentious freedom of manners. Several of the tales, however, are pure and interesting plished was the collection of a valuable library of Greek and Latin classics. The library was unfortunately destroyed by fire about a century after his death.] One of the important labours which Boccaccio accom seen his falcon, he took a great longing for it, but was afraid to ask it of him when he saw how highly he prized it. This desire, however, so much affected the boy's spirits, that he fell sick; and his mother, who doated upon this her only child, became alarmed, and to soothe him, pressed him again and again to ask whatever he wished, and promised, that if it were possible, he should have all that he desired. The youth at last confessed, that if he had the falcon he would soon be well again. When the lady heard this, she began to consider what she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her, and had received from her nothing but coldness; and how could she ask the falcon, which she heard was the finest in the world, and which was now his only consolation? Could she be so cruel as to deprive him of his last remaining support?-Perplexed with these thoughts, which the full belief that she should have the bird if she asked it, did not relieve, she knew not what to think, or how to return her son an answer. A mother's love, however, at last prevailed; she resolved to satisfy him, and determined, whatever might be the consequence, not to send, but to go her self and procure the falcon. She told her son, therefore, to take courage, and think of getting better, for that she would herself go on the morrow, and fetch what he desired; and the hope was so agreeable to the boy, that he began to mend apace. On the next morning Monna Giovanna, having taken another lady along with her, went as if for amusement to the little cabin of Federigo, and inquired for him. It was not the birding season, and he was at work in his garden; when he heard, therefore, that Monna Giovanna was calling upon him, he ran with joyful surprise to the door. She, on the other hand, when she saw him coming, advanced with delicate politeness; and when he had respectfully saluted her, she said, “All happiness attend you, Federigo; I am come to repay you for the loss you have suffered from loving me too well, for this lady and I intend to dine with you in an easy way this forenoon." To this Federigo humbly answered: "I do not remember, Madam, having suffered any loss at your hands, but on the contrary, have reIt happened about this time that the hus-ceived so much good, that if ever I had any band of Monna Giovanna died, leaving a great worth, it sprung from you, and from the love fortune to their only son, who was yet a youth; with which you inspired me. And this generous and that the boy came along with his mother visit to your poor host, is much more dear to to spend the summer months in the country me than would be the spending again of what (as our custom usually is), at a villa in the I have already spent." Having said this, he neighbourhood of Federigo's farm. In this invited them respectfully into the house, and way he became acquainted with Federigo, and from thence conducted them to the garden, began to delight in birds and dogs, and having | where, having nobody else to keep them com There lived in Florence a young man, called Federigo Alberigi, who surpassed all the youth of Tuscany in feats of arms, and in accomplished manners. He (for gallant men will fall in love) became enamoured of Monna Giovanna, at that time considered the finest woman in Florence; and that he might inspire her with a reciprocal passion, he squandered his fortune at tilts and tournaments, in entertainments and presents. But the lady, who was virtuous as she was beautiful, could on no account be prevailed on to return his love. While he lived thus extravagantly, and without the means of recruiting his coffers, poverty, the usual attendant of the thoughtless, came on apace; his money was spent, and nothing remained to him but a small farm, barely sufficient for his subsistence, and a falcon, which was however the finest in the world. When he found it impossible therefore to live longer in town, he retired to his little farm, where he went a birding in his leisure hours; and disdaining to ask favours of any one, he submitted patiently to his poverty, while he cherished in secret a hopeless passion. pany, he requested that they would allow the labourer's wife to do her best to amuse them, while he went to order dinner. Federigo, however great his poverty, had not yet learned all the prudence which the loss of fortune might have taught him; and it thus happened, that he had nothing in the house with which he could honourably entertain the lady for whose love he had formerly given so many entertainments. Cursing his evil fortune, therefore, he stood like one beside himself, and looked in vain for money or pledge. The hour was already late, and his desire extreme to find something worthy of his mistress; he felt repugnant, too, to ask from his own labourer. While he was thus perplexed, he chanced to cast his eyes upon his fine falcon, which was sitting upon a bar in the ante-chamber. Having no other resource, therefore, he took it into his hand, and finding it fat, he thought it would be proper for such a lady. He accordingly pulled its neck without delay, and gave it to a little girl to be plucked; and having put it upon a spit, he made it be carefully roasted. He then covered the table with a beautiful cloth, a wreck of his former splendour; and everything being ready, he returned to the garden, to tell the lady and her companion that dinner was served. They accordingly went in and sat down to table with Federigo, and ate the good falcon without knowing it. When they had finished dinner, and spent a short while in agreeable conversation, the lady thought it time to tell Federigo for what she had come. She said to him, therefore, in a gentle tone, "Federigo, when you call to mind your past life, and recollect my virtue, which perhaps you called coldness and cruelty, I doubt not but that you will be astonished at my presumption, when I tell you the principal motive of my visit. But had you children, and knew how great a love one bears them, I am sure you would in part excuse me; and although you have them not, I who have an only child, cannot resist the feelings of a mother. By the strength of these am I constrained, in spite of my inclination, and contrary to propriety and duty, to ask a thing which I know is with reason dear to you, for it is your only delight and consolation in your misfortunes: that gift is your falcon, for which my son has taken so great a desire, that unless he obtain it, I am afraid his illness will increase, and that I shall lose him. I beseech you to give it me, therefore, not by the love which you bear me (for to that you owe nothing), but by the nobleness of your nature, which you have shown in nothing more than in your generosity; and I will remain eternally your debtor for my son's life, which your gift will be the means of preserving.' When Federigo heard the lady's request, and knew how impossible it was to grant it, he burst into tears, and was unable to make any reply. The lady imagined that this arose from grief at the thought of losing his favourite, and showed his unwillingness to part with it; nevertheless she waited patiently for his answer. He at length said, "Since it first pleased Heaven, Madam, that I should place my affections on you, I have found fortune unkind to me in many things, and have often accused her; but all her former unkindness has been trifling compared with what she has now done me. How can I ever forgive her, therefore, when I remember, that you, who never deigned to visit me when I was rich, have come to my poor cottage to ask a favour which she has cruelly prevented me from bestowing. The cause of this I shall briefly tell you. When I found that in your goodness you proposed to dine with me, and when I considered your excellence, I thought it my duty to honour you with more precious food than is usually given to others. Recollecting my falcon, therefore, and its worth, I deemed it worthy food, and accordingly made it be roasted and served up for dinner; but when I find that you wished to get it in another way, I shall never be consoled for having it not in my power to serve you." Having said this, he showed them the wings, and the feet, and the bill, as evidences of the truth of what he had told them. When the lady had heard and seen these things, she chided him for having killed so fine a bird as food for a woman; but admired in secret that greatness of mind which poverty had been unable to subdue. Then, seeing that she could not have the falcon, and becoming alarmed for the safety of her child, she thanked Federigo for the honourable entertainment he had given them, and returned home in a melancholy mood. Her son, on the other hand, either from grief at not getting the falcon, or from a disease occasioned by it, died a few days after, leaving his mother plunged in the deepest affliction. Monna Giovanna was left very rich, and when she had for some time mourned her loss, being importuned by her brothers to marry again, she began to reflect on the merit of Federigo, and on the last instance of his generosity displayed in killing so fine a bird to do her honour. She told her brothers, therefore, that she would marry since they desired it, but that her only choice would be Federigo THREE SONNETS. Alberigi. They laughed when they heard this, and asked her how she could think of a man who had nothing; but she answered, that she would rather have a man without money, than money without a man. When her brothers, December, 1585; died 4th December, 1649. He was who had long known Federigo, saw therefore how her wishes pointed, they consented to bestow her upon him with all her wealth; and Federigo, with a wife so excellent and so long beloved, and riches equal to his desires, showed that he had learned to be a better steward, and long enjoyed true happiness. THE KING OF THULE.1 There was a king in Thule Naught was to him more precious; When came his time of dying, The towns in his land he told, He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree, There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; He saw it plunging and filling, And never more drank he! 1 From the new translation of Goethe's Faust, by Bayard Taylor, published in Boston and London, 1871. Mr. Taylor, born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, 11th January, 1825, has earned renown as poet, traveller, novelist, and now as one of the ablest translators of Goethe. His aim was to reproduce in English the metrical peculiarities of the original German, whilst keeping faithful to the text; and the general verdict is that the attempt has been in every respect successful. [William Drummond, of Hawthornden, born 13th educated in Edinburgh and studied civil law in France. On the death of his father, 1610, he retired to Hawthornden, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. The lady he loved died on the eve of the day appointed for their marriage, and to that circumstance is attributed the melancholy strain of his sonnets, three of edited Drummond's works, and pronounced him equal which we give here. Philips, the nephew of Milton, to Tasso.] I. That learned Grecian, who did so excel And others see, know, love, in heaven's great height; II. My lute! be as thou wert when thou did'st grow Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? But orphan's wailings to their fainting ear, Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, III. What doth it serve to see the sun's bright face, The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace? |