There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar; No more to part, to mingle tears no more! And, as the softening hand of Time endears The joys and sorrows of our infant-years, So there the soul, released from human strife, Smiles at the little cares and ills of life; Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers; As at a dream that charm'd her vacant hours!

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend To watch the silent slumbers of a friend; To hover round his evening-walk unseen, And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, And heaven and nature open'd to their view! Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees A smiling circle emulous to please; There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, And bless the scene they loved in life so well!

Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care; With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know The humble walks of happiness below; If thy blest nature now unites above An angel's pity with a brother's love, Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, Correct my views, and elevate my soul; Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Devout yet cheerful, active yet resign'd; Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, Whose blameless wishes never aim'd to rise, To meet the changes Time and Chance present, With modest dignity and calm content. When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, Thy meek submission to thy God express'd; When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? The sweet Remembrance of unblemish'd youth, The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!

Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!

NOTES.

Note 1, page 2, col. 2.

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear.

I came to the place of my birth and cried, "The friends of my youth, where are they?"-And an echo answered " Where are they?"-From an Arabic MS.

Note 2, page 3, col. 1.

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!

When a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of Rome, expressed a desire to possess some relic of its ancient grandeur, Poussin, who attended him, stooped down, and gathering up a handful of earth shining with small grains of porphyry, "Take this home," said he, " for your cabinet; and say boldly, Questa è Roma Antica."

Note 3, page 3, col. 1.

The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep. Every man, like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to some spot of earth, by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually stealing over him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is here alluded to.

When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, "What!" they replied, "shall we say to the bones of our fathers, Arise, and go with us into a foreign land?"

Note 4, page 3, col. 1.

So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu.

See Cook's first voyage, book i, chap. 16. Another very affecting instance of local attachment is related of his fellow-countryman Potaveri, who came to Europe with M. de Bougainville. See les Jardins, chant ii.

Note 5, page 3, col. 2. So Scotia's Queen, etc.

Elle se leve sur son lit, et se met à contempler la France encore, et tant qu'elle peut.-BRANTOME Note 6, page 3, col. 2.

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire.

To an accidental association may be ascribed some of the noblest efforts of human genius. The Historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire first conceived his design among the ruins of the Capitol; and to the tones of a Welsh harp are we indebted for the Bard of Gray.

Note 7, page 3, col. 2. Hence home-felt pleasure, etc

Who can sufficiently admire the affectionate attachment of Plutarch, who thus concludes his enumeration of the advantages of a great city to men of letters? "As to myself, I live in a little town; and I choose to live there, lest it should become still less." Vit. Dem.

Note 8, page 3, col. 2. For this young Foscari, etc.

He was suspected of murder, and at Venice sus. picion is good evidence. Neither the interest of the Doge, his father, nor the intrepidity of conscious innocence, which he exhibited in the dungeon and on the rack, could procure his acquittal. He was banished to the island of Candia for life.

But here his resolution failed him. At such a distance from home he could not live; and, as it was a criminal offence to solicit the intercession of a foreign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a letter to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted it to a wretch whose perfidy, he knew, would occasion his being remanded a prisoner to Venice.

Note 9, page 3, col. 2.

And hence the charm historic scenes impart:

Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us in

the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and far from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which

has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona JOHNSON.

Note 10, page 3, col. 2.
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.

chateau at Richelieu, he sacrificed its symmetry to preserve the room in which he was born.-Mém. de Mlle de Montpensier, i, 27.

An attachment of this nature is generally the characteristic of a benevolent mind; and a long acquaint

ance with the world cannot always extinguish it. "To a friend," says John, Duke of Buckingham, "I will expose my weakness: I am oftener missing a pretty gallery in the old house I pulled down, than pleased with a saloon which I built in its stend, though a thousand times better in all respects." See his Letter to the D. of Sh.

This is the language of the heart; and will remind the reader of that good-humored remark in one of Pope's letters - "I should hardly care to have an old post pulled up, that I remembered ever since I

Note 11, page 3, col. 2.

'T was ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb.

Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the religions enthusiast. Silius Italicus performed annual ceremonies on the mountain of Posilipo; and it was there that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspirato, resolved to dedicate his life to the Muses.

Note 12, page 3, col. 2.

So Tully paused amid the wrecks of Time. When Cicero was quæstor in Sicily, he discovered the tomb of Archimedes by its mathematical inscriphon-Tusc. Quæst. v. 3.

Note 13, page 3, col. 2.

Say why the pensive widow loves to weep.

The influence of the associating principle is finely exemplified in the faithful Penelope, when she sheds tears over the bow of Ulysses. Od. xxi, 55.

Note 14, page 3, col. 2.

If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild.

The celebrated Ranz des Vaches; "cet air si chéri des Suisses qu'il fut défendu sous peine de mort de le jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qu'il faisoit fondre en larmes, déserter ou mourir ceux qui l'entendoient, tant il excitoit en cux l'ardent désir de revoir leur patrie."-ROUSSEAU.

The maladie de pays is as old as the human heart. JUVENAL's little cup-bearer

Suspirat longo non visam tempore matrem,
Et casulam, et notos tristis desiderat hædos.

And the Argive, in the heat of battle,
Dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.
Note 15, page 4, col. 2.

Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm.

This emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly passed the summer in a small villa near Reate, where he was born, and to which he would never add any embellishment, ne quid scilicet oculorum consuetudini deperiret SURT. in Vit. Vesp. cap. ii.

Nor did the Poet feel the charm more forcibly than his Editor. See HURD'S Life of Warburton, 51, 99. The Author of Telemachus has illustrated this

subject, with equal fancy and feeling, in the story of Alibée, Persan.

Note 16, page 4, col. 1. Why great Navarre, etc.

That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the Fourth of France, made an excursion from his camp, during the long siege of Laon, to dine at a house in the forest of Folambray; where he had often been regaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new checse; and in revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure.-Mém. de Sully.

Note 17, page 4, col. 1.
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind.

Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself with building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is deservedly celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man to reassume the reins of government, and the Imperial purple. He rejected the temptation with a smile of pity, calmly observing, "that if he could show Maximian the cabbages which he had planted with his own hands at Salona, he should no longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power." GIBBON.

Note 18, page 4, col. 1.

Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne. When the emperor Charles V. had executed his memorable resolution, and had set out for the monastery of St. Justus, he stopped a few days at Ghent, says his historian, to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his early youth.-ROBERTSON. Note 19, page 4, col. 1.

Then did his horse the homeward track descry. The memory of the horse forms the groundwork of a pleasing little romance of the twelfth century, entitled, "Lai du Palefroy vair." -See Fabliaux du

cumdedit-Hist. August. 54.

And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he built his magnificent palace on the site of the old family

Va mansueto alla Donzella,

ARGUMENT.

Yet, all forgot, how oft the eye-lids close,

How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie,

Civil Dissension-Retirement from active Life

Old Age and its Enjoyments-Conclusion.

And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent, The boy at sun-rise whistled as he went, An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean, Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green; The man himself how alter'd, not the scene! Now journeying home with nothing but the name; Wayworn and spent, another and the same!

For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

No eye observes the growth or the decay:

And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

And we shall look to-morrow as to-day:

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow grey!

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

She'll see so soon amidst another race,

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,

Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine:
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
"'"T was on these knees he sate so oft and smiled."
And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is Human Life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening-fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire;
And the green earth, the azure sky admire.
Of Elfin-size-for ever as we run,
We cast a longer shadow in the sun!

And now a charm, and now a grace is won!
We grow in wisdom, and in stature too!
And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view,
Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

How would she shrink!-Returning from afar,
After some years of travel, some of war,
Within his gate Ulysses stood unknown
Before a wife, a father, and a son!

And such is Human Life, the general theme.
Ah, what at best, what but a longer dream?
Though with such wild romantic wanderings fraught,
Such forms in Fancy's richest coloring wrought,
That, like the visions of a love-sick brain,
Who would not sleep and dream them o'er again?

Our pathway leads but to a precipice; (1)
And all must follow, fearful as it is!
From the first step 'tis known; but-No delay!
On, 'tis decreed. We tremble and obey.
A thousand ills beset us as we go.
-"Still, could I shun the fatal gulf"-Ah, no,
'Tis all in vain the inexorable law!
Nearer and nearer to the brink we draw.

Verdure springs up; and fruits and flowers invite,
And groves and fountains-all things that delight.
"Oh I would stop, and linger if I might!"-
We fly; no resting for the foot we find; (2)
And dark before, all desolate behind!
At length the brink appears but one step more!
We faint-On, on!-we falter and 'tis o'er!

Yet here high passions, high desires unfold,
Prompting to noblest deeds; here links of gold
Bind soul to soul; and thoughts divine inspire
A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire
That will not, cannot but with life expire!

Now, seraph-wing'd, among the stars we soar;
Now distant ages, like a day, explore,
And judge the act, the actor now no more;
Or, in a thankless hour condemn'd to live,
From others claim what these refuse to give,
And dart, like Milton, an unerring eye
Through the dim curtains of Futurity. (3)
Wealth, Pleasure, Ease, all thought of self resign'd,
What will not Man encounter for Mankind?

Behold him now unbar the prison-door,
And, lifting Guilt, Contagion from the floor,
To Peace and Health, and Light and Life restore;
Now in Thermopylæ remain to share
Death-nor look back, nor turn a footstep there,
Leaving his story to the birds of air;
And now like Pylades (in Heaven they write
Names such as his in characters of light)
Long with his friend in generous enmity,
Pleading, insisting in his place to die!

Do what he will, he cannot realize
Half he conceives the glorious vision flies.
Go where he may, he cannot hope to find
The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind.
But if by chance an object strike the sense,
The faintest shadow of that Excellence,
Passions, that slept, are stirring in his frame;
Thoughts undefined, feelings without a name!
And some, not here call'd forth, may slumber on
Till this vain pageant of a world is gone;
Lying too deep for things that perish here,
Waiting for life-but in a nobler sphere!

Look where he comes! Rejoicing in his birth,
Awhile he moves as in a heaven on earth!
Sun, moon, and stars the land, the sea, the sky
To him shine out as 'twere a galaxy!
But soon 'tis past-the light has died away!
With him it came (it was not of the day)
And he himself diffused it, like the stone
That sheds awhile a lustre all its own, (4)
Making night beautiful. 'Tis past, 'tis gone,
And in his darkness as he journeys on,
Nothing revives him but the blessed ray
That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay,
Sent from a better world to light him on his way.

How great the Mystery! Let others sing The circling Year, the promise of the Spring, The Summer's glory, and the rich repose Of Autumn, and the Winter's silvery snows. Man through the changing scene let me pursue, Himself how wondrous in his changes too! Not Man, the sullen savage in his den; But Man call'd forth in fellowship with men; School'd and train'd up to Wisdom from his birth; (5) God's noblest work-His image upon earth!

The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd; (6) The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes she clasps him. To her bosom press'd, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows;
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;

Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care.
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving, murmuring lips endeavor to repeat.

Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!

Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of Life. Careering round,
Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
"These are MY Jewels!" (7) Well of such as he,
When Jesus spake, well might his language be,
"Suffer these little ones to come to me!" (8)

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years; (9)
Close by her side his silent homage given
As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven;
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame,
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame,
At once lit up as with a holy flame!
He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire;
And soon with tears relinquish'd to the Sire,
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led,
Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead;
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire,
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire!
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate, (10)
Crown'd but to die-who in her chamber sate
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown,
And every ear and every heart was won,
And all in green array were chasing down the sun!

Then is the Age of Admiration (11)-Then
Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men,
Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round,
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground!
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire,
And high imagining and thought of fire!
Then from within a voice exclaims "Aspire!"
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass,
As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass;
They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed,
Of every age-the living and the dead!
Thou, all-accomplish'd Surrey, thou art known;
The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown!
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone!
And, with his beaver up, discovering there
One who lov'd less to conquer than to spare,