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excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps not un< willing to display their taste and sensibility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs were pulled out; smelling bottles were handed round; hysterical cries and sobs were heard; and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator concluded. Raising his voice, till the old arches of Irish oak resounded, "Therefore," said he, "hath it with all confidence been ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the name of the Commons' House of parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honors he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the common enemy and oppressor of all."

CXIX. -THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

TENNYSON.

[ALFRED TENNYSON, a much-admired living poet of England, was born about the year 1810. He has published two volumes of miscellaneous poetry; also The Princess, a narrative, in blank verse; a volume called In Memoriam, containing a succession of poems called forth by the death of a dear friend; and Maud, in which an unhappy love story is told in a broken and fragmentary way.

He is a man of rare and fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined, cultivated, and intellectual minds. The music of his verse is exquisite, and he has a rich and delicate taste in the use of language. He is a poet of poets; and, in general, is only fully appreciated by those who have something of the poetical faculty themselves. He is also more valued by women than by men, and by young men than by old. He is evidently a man of the finest and most sensitive organization, and his poetry is of the most intense and ethereal cast; such as fairies might write, if they wrote at all. He has an uncommon power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words. His pages are crowded with subjects for the artist. A portion of what he has written is rather remote from the beaten track of human sympathies and feelings; but that he has the power of writing popular poetry is shown by his well-known May Queen.

His volume called In Memoriam is a very remarkable book. It is a collection of one hundred and twenty-nine short poems, written in a peculiar and uniform metre, which were called forth by the early death of Arthur Henry Hallam, the eldest son of the historian, the intimate friend of Tennyson, and a young man of rare excellence of mind and character. Such a book will not be welcome to all minds, nor to any mind at all periods and in all moods; but it contains some of the most exquisite poetry which has been written in our times, and some of the deepest and sweetest effusions of feeling to be found any where.

The incident on which the following ballad is founded is said to have actually occurred in the history of a noble English family. It is one of the most pleasing, but not one of the most striking and characteristic of his poems. To comprehend his peculiar genius, one should read The Lotus Eaters, Ulysses, Locksley Hall, and The Two Voices.]

In her ear he whispers gayly,

"If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well."
She replies, in accents fainter,
"There is none I love like thee."
He is but a landscape painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his, without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,

And they leave her father's roof.
"I can make no marriage present;
Little can I give my wife;

Love will make our cottage pleasant,

And I love thee more than life."

They, by parks and lodges going,
See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing,

Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
"Let us see these handsome houses,
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.”
So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and hers;

Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great;
Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer;
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage, growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their days. O, but she will love him truly;

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns,
With armorial bearings stately,

And beneath the gate she turns, –

Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before;
Many a gallant, gay domestic
Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round, and kindly,
"All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free;

Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes

Her sweet face, from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes,

And her spirit changed within.

Then her countenance all over
Pale again as death did prove;
But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheered her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirit sank;
Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness,
To all duties of her rank:

And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such,
That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burden of an honor

Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured, "O, that he
Were once more that landscape painter,
Which did win my heart from me!”
So she drooped, and drooped before him,
Fading slowly from his side;

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh House, by Stamford town.
And he came to look upon her,

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CXX.-DIALOGUE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA.

CERVANTES.

[MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA was born in a small town near Madrid, in Spain, in October, 1547, and died in April, 1623. His life was one of poverty and suffering. He lost the use of his left hand in the great naval battle of Lepanto, fought against the Turks in 1571, and was for five years a slave in Algiers. He wrote many works; but that by which he is best known is his immortal romance of Don Quixote; almost the only book of Spanish origin which is universally read and admired, and to which allusions may be freely made, in any literature, with the perfect assurance of their being comprehended.

As is well known, the principal character, Don Quixote, is a Spanish gentleman whose head has been turned by reading romances of chivalry, and who, under the impulse of this delusion, sallies forth upon a tour of knight errantry. The humor of the work-besides the ridiculous adventures into which the knight is led-rests upon the contrast between the hero and his squire, Sancho Panza, a simple and prosaic peasant, who cannot comprehend his master's vagaries, and who has himself a vein of shrewd mother wit and native humor running through his mind. Besides its infinite wit, Don Quixote is full of good sense and practical wisdom, and abounds with passages of beautiful description, rich poetry, and high eloquence, and is written in a style of matchless excellence. Cervantes shows an admirable judgment in this respect; though Don Quixote is constantly falling into the most ludicrous mishaps, — though he is beaten, baffled, and mocked at,-yet such is his nobleness of nature, so lofty are his sentiments, so high is his courage, and so pure his disinterestedness, that we never lose our respect for him. Though often made ridiculous, he never becomes contemptible.

Don Quixote has been often translated into English, but never so well as it deserves. The following version, which has never before appeared in print, is by Mr. Ticknor, the author of the History of Spanish Literature, from which an extract is found on the two hundred and ninety-third page. Don Quixote has always promised Sancho Panza that if he served him faithfully he should be rewarded with the government of an island, as was often the case with the squires of knights errant in the romances of chivalry. They fall in with a powerful Spanish nobleman, who, to carry on the joke, actually does intrust Sancho with the government of a town, making him be lieve that it is an island. This dialogue is the conclusion of a conversation in which Don Quixote has been endeavoring to instruct his squire in the principles on which his trust should be administered.]

66 SIR," answered Sancho, "I see, indeed, that all the things you have told me are good, pious, and profitable; but of what use will they all be if I don't remember one of them? Very likely all that you said about not letting my nails grow too long, and marrying again if I get a chance, I shall not forget; but for all the rest of that stew, and gallimaufry, and medley, I shan't remember any more about it than about last year's

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