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There is grandeur--there is grandeur
When the red sun disappears,
And the mourning face of heaven
Waxeth bright with starry tears.
Yea, above, below is grandeur,
When the dazzling day comes down,
Till each distant atom sparkles

Like some passing seraph's crown.
There is grandeur in the valley,
When along the shores of light
Floats a sea of twilight vapour,
Till the pine grove, tall and taper,
Wears the gloom of coming night;-
And the silent blast descendeth,
Swimming skimming through the haze,
Till the tasselled grass-stalk bendeth
As if trodden by your gaze;,
While across the ripening meadow
Fleeth shadow after shadow ;-
Gloomy spirits seem they passing,
O'er the sward their sadness tracing,
Where each unseen light-foot plays.
Oh! there's beauty-oh! there's beauty,
Seek we, turn we where we will,-
But a vision haunts my spirit

Of sublimer beauty still.

Be it mine to live and listen,

Where the stormy echoes ring,—

When the angel of the tempest

O'er these waters flaps his wing;

And the waves, like white-robed choristers,
Wild hallelujahs sing,—

Wild hallelujahs utter,

Or their deeper worship mutter
To the All, of all revered,
Underneath each kingly column

Stark and grizzled,

Of the stately, stern and solemn,
Huge and mystic, wild and weird,
Caverned, clouded, cleft and seared
Temple of the Form of wonder,
By the mystic sons of thunder

Amid storm and darkness reared.



"The most valuable collections of catches, rounds, and canons, for three or four voices, were cautiously circulated during the Protectorate; and deep in the retirement of many such a house as Woodstock the prayers for the Restoration and the practice of profane music, were kept up together."

"The merry monarch loved a tune, and small blame to him."-Quarterly Review.

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Hot and sudden swoop'd Rupert's horse
Down on the villanous Roundhead churls,
But they left young Arthur a mangled corse,
With the red mire clotting his chesnut curls :

Only son of an ancient race

As any that dwells in England's realm-

Ah, a shadow sleeps on Sir Everard's face

When he thinks of his soldier's snow-plumed helm.


Madrigal music fills the room

With a spring-like beauty and delicate grace:
Vanishes half their weary gloom

As Harry St. Osyth's manly bass

And Maud's soprano and Amy in alt

Mingle like streams on a verdurous shore :

But memory sets them once at fault

As they think of the tenor that's heard no more.


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Under the moon as the twilight breeze

Ripples the water in pulses of light,

We stand on the bridge by the sycamore trees, And list to the voices that float through the night :

Under the elm row misty and dark

Murmurs of melody rise from the bank,

Sprinkled with many a dim red lamp:

Hark! mid the foliage blossomed with June

Tinkles a serenade under the moon.


Under the moon in the village street
Gossiping groups in the shadows meet;
Seated at dusky doorways there,
Red-lipped maidens taste of the air:
Whispering now of their lovers' eyes,
Blue as the beautiful summer skies;
Whispering now of their flatteries sweet,
As autumn's fruitage drop'd in the heat;
Until they cadence a trembling tune,
Soft as their pulses, under the moon.


Under the moon on the cool sea shore
The wind walks over the spacious floor,
Kissing the snowy bosom'd sails,
Daintily dipping through azure vales,
And over the crisp foam bearing along
The musing mariner's midnight song;
As by the rising helm with hands
Lit in the compass lamp he stands,
Thinking of those he left at noon,
Sad on the green shore under the moon.


Under the moon by the dusty road
Pace we on to the old abode;
Over its sycamore'd roof and walls
The listless splendour floating falls;
Peering into the casement nook,
Piled with many a brown old book:
Spirits are they whose pages teem

With thoughtful ditty and pictured dream ;
Spirits amid whose silence soon

Our own shall slumber, under the moon.

T. J.


ALL young men conscious of possessing or who think they possess talents above mediocrity are ambitious; but only a few-a very few-succeed in realizing their youthful aspirations. To most of them the gates of advancement refuse to turn on their golden hinges. Of the rest, the majority, if they do get an entrance, are so soured by the repeated refusals of the churlish porter whom men call Fate or Luck, that they have no spirit remaining to enjoy those Elysian plains which they had so often dreamed of; or having lost zest for the pomp of those marble halls, the revels of which they so often longed to enjoy, though the gate be open, they do not wish to enter, and prefer setting up their tabernacle outside the adamantine walls. But there are still in all ages, a few who rise to the summit

of their most extravagant hopes, who even win an entrance before the chills of age have deprived them of the power of enjoyment, or who, carrying the zest of youth with them throughout life, strive as eagerly and enjoy as keenly in the frosts of December as amidst the blossoms of May.

What is it that distinguishes those favorites of nature from the rest of her children? What is the secret of that fascination before which even the powers of nature seem to yield? We speak not of those who are born with the silver spoon, who have been brought up in the marble palaces, and have sported as children in the Elysian fields, but of the few among the outer tenants, the cottars and squatters of the great common, who force their entrance into the palace grounds. There can be no mistake as


Contributions to the Edinburgh Review, by Henry, Lord Brougham, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France, and of the Royal Academy of Naples. In 3 vols. and Glasgow: Richard Griffin and Co., Publishers to the University of Glasgow, 1856.

to the badge which distinguishes these men-it is intellect. They are all men of strong reasoning faculties. This is the sine qua non. Men of brilliant imagination often get the start at first, but unless intellect obtain the mastery they lose their way or loiter behind. Nor is the man of fine feelings and generous heart more likely to succeed; he may conciliate friendship and love, but he will be pushed aside by harder natures, and most likely will retire in disgust from the struggle.

But though superior intellectual. powers are absolutely essential to the man who would win the prizes of public life, these powers must be of a peculiar order. The meditative intellect will not do. Its possessor is too much inclined to stand apart and contemplate the struggling crowd, and as he advances in life the prizes of ambition lose their attraction, and thought like virtue is to him its own reward. Neither will the man of subtile analysing mind be more likely to succeed, for he loses time in attempting to extricate the infinite complexities of human affairs, and before he has half finished his laborious examination the moment of action is past. It is, therefore, the practical intellect which characterises the successful man of ambition. An intellect capable of directing all its energy, and of carrying along with it the energy of other men, towards some definite end-a mind which expresses itself in action and in business, which is actuated by a desire for results rather than for principles, for the concrete rather than the abstract.

But in addition to this intellectual basis, certain moral qualifications at first sight apparently incompatible are indispensable. For first, the ambitious man must be at once patient and restless. He must work perseveringly to attain his end, but he must not be satisfied with it when attained. Content is fatal to his career --he must ever look mainly to the future, and to the moon for his reward. Secondly, he must be obstinate and he must be pliant-obstinate, to keep to his purpose; pliant, to be able to avail himself of the sinuosities of life. Thirdly, he must be conciliating and imperative, for he must use the arts both of persuasion

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and command. And, lastly, he must be honorable, and yet not over scrupulous-honorable, that his party may trust in him; not over scrupulous, that he may, when the crisis comes, carry out some coup d'etat which will do the work of years, and compensate for the shortness of life. The morality of a delicate woman of an amiable man would be fatal to great success. It is true there are instances of men who have won their spurs with spotless shield-the preux chevaliers of nature-but these are the Miltons, the Chathams, the Wellingtons; men of a different clay from ordinary humanity, spirits of some other world who have been sent here through some freak of nature. But for the common run of ambitious men prudery is failure, and the Jesuit principle is a necessary element in the system of their lives-a principle which, although utterly without defence in foro conscientia, is pretty sure of an acquittal before the tribunal of the world, if it has only been lucky enough to retain Success as its advocate.

It will be said, why then should men try to rise to the dignities of life, if, in order to succeed, they must stain the purity of the ermine of their souls? We answer, far be it from us to ask any one so to strive. Let him keep his ermine pure and white if he can, in the position in life in which he was born. This is the teaching of St. Paul. But let him not complain if he do not attain what he does not strive for. The good things of this life are not promised to the pure. In Utopia it is otherwise-the good always prosper and the wicked are unsuccessful-but in this nether world it is as frequently the reverse, arising from that unfitness of things which must ever co-exist with a state of probation; and it is a moral teach ing as dangerous as it is unsound, which holds out the rewards of this world as inducements to virtue. Virtue is a road neither to riches nor distinction. He who would win the world's prizes must use the world's weapons. He must labour, he must scheme, and above all he must dare.

But it does not necessarily follow that the ambitious man is lost in the theological sense. ""Twas by ambition that the angels fell," but through

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