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The breast that would not feel this calm profound,

that would not love this landscape fair,
Though in their mortal make beyond compare,
In spiritual life were senseless and unsound.
This glassy lake-the silent hills around-
The western clouds where rests, like woven air,
In tresses wild, the day god's golden hair-
All seem in sleep's divine enchantment bound.
Nor brute nor human form, nor cot nor cave,
Nor palace proud, nor sign nor sound of life
Is seen or heard ; not lonelier is the grave;
And yet this lovely solitude is rife
With food for living thought, and few would crave
A holier refuge from the loud world's strife.


But, ah ! no scene of loveliness


last ! The earth is all mutation. Sunny skiesThe meadows gay--the sleeping lake that lies A broad bright sheet of gold—are soon o'ercast. O’er all these silent hills loud gales bave past, And erelong shall return. The gorgeous dyes Of sun-set clouds,—the calm night's countless eyes, Shall vanish at the rude storm's trumpet-blast. 'Tis thus too with the soul. Eternal change Of mood and passion seems her lot below; Nature and man with kindred movement range From fair to foul, from happiness to woe, Again to light and joy-reversion strange And naught a long monotony may know.


Yet well and wisely hath the poet said,
That “all exists by elemental strife,
And passions are the elements of life*."
This moving world were as a dreamless bed-
Grave of the living-if stagnation dread
Held in its base enthralment Nature's realm,
And man's unslumbering soul. Though storms o'erwhelm
Life's scene awhile, eternal stillness dead
Were heavier fate for human heart to bear.
We know not what we ask; but, blind and weak,
Madly neglect the blessings that we share,
And hidden evils ignorantly seek.
Oh ! if his own fixed fate could man bespeak
How oft for change would rise the impatient prayer !


Like blossoms pale the vernal orchard strewing
The light foam sprinkles wide the billows green,
And fitting clouds, aerial sports pursuing,
Dapple and variegate the moving scene.

Through the stiff shrouds the gale is loudly singing,
The big waves revel round our oaken walls
That reel and tremble, as if hosts were flinging
The thundering cannon's rampart-shaking balls.

But here no human foes with fierce commotion
Now meet in deadly strife for mastery vain ;
The loud-voiced winds and vast uplifted ocean
Confess, with mighty mirth, their Maker's reign.




This is the holiest day of all the year
To thy fond mother's heart. Thy natal morn
Unchanged returns. Still hope's bright rays adorn
The laughing scene, and round thy path appear
The flowers of life's fresh spring. Thy ravished ear
Is filled with pleasant sounds, and feelings born
Of sinless dreams, from dismal thoughts forlorn
Protect thy trusting spirit. All things cheer
The guileless and the true.

Thine inward eye,
Undimmed by care or crime, may drink sweet hues
From every form, e'en where life's shadows lie.-
While all seems dark to souls that ne'er diffuse
A radiance of their own, the dreariest sky
A fancy pure with kindred light imbues !

SONNET-SUN-RISE. How gloriously yon migbty monarch rears, His proud resplendent brow-like Fame's first light Breaking oblivion's gloom! His tresses bright Inwreathe the rosy clouds. All nature wears A bliss-reviving smile.—The glittering tears, Shed by the pensive spirits of the night Like verdant meadows, vanish from the sight, Like rain-drops on the sea ! The warm beam cheers The drowsy herd, and thrills the feather'd throngs Of early minstrels, whose melodious songs Seem like a gush of joy. Now mortals send Their orisons above, while shrubs and flowers On whispering winds ambrosial odours blend, To charm and consecrate the morning hours !


Let Jealousy
Distill her bane to taint their growing loves !
Light up resentment ! fan the dangerous fire
With dark surmises, hints, invented tales,
'Till it burst all the tender bonds asunder
That knit their souls.-Virginia.

This jealousy
Is for a precious creature ; as she's rare,
Must it be great; and as his person's mighty,
Must it be violent; and as he does conceive
He is dishonored by a man which ever
Professed to him, why bis revenges must
In that be made more bitter.- Winter's Tale.

COLERIDGE gave it out as a discovery, that Othello was not jealous. This is either an idle truism or an outrageous paradox. If he meant that the Moor was not naturally suspicious, he merely echoed the general judgment; but if he really thought that the cunning insinuations of Iago instilled no jealousy into Othello's mind, and that it was not Shakespeare's intention to exhibit the progress and effects of that passion, his opinion is equally new and strange*.

It is true that the jealousy of the Moor is not of that despicable character which always anticipates evil, and is ever on the watch. He is not one of those sly and greedy listeners who, according to the vulgar proverb, never hear any good of themselves. He is not a Paul Pry. His is the jealousy of a fiery and impassioned nature that cannot brook a taint of dishonour either in love or

* Dr. Lowth observes, “ that the passion of jealousy, its causes, circumstances, progress, and effects, are more accurately, more copiously, more satisfactorily described in this one drama of pea than in all the disputations of philosophy.”


“ A savage jealousy that sometimes savours nobly."

Twelfth Night.

If his jealousy had been of that cast which characterizes mean and suspicious minds, instead of sympathizing with him in his afflictions, we should have regarded him with mingled hatred and contempt. His distress would have seemed a fitting punishment. Even if his jealousy had spontaneously arisen in his own heart, instead of its being forced upon him, as it was, by the circumvention of a fiend in human form, it would have greatly lessened our sympathy and respect. It is almost unnecessary to observe that it was not Shakespeare's desire to render him repulsive or contemptible, but on the contrary to compel us to love and honor him even while he is writhing with a passion which would have rendered a meaner nature intolerably hateful. Though he becomes the murderer of his spotless wife, he only deepens our pity. The more pure and precious was that angelic being, the heavier was his misfortune. We forget his guilt in bis agony. Who does not sympathize with that terrible straining of the heartstrings, when the sense of his wife's death comes suddenly home to his apprehension, while Amelia is knocking at the chamber. door?

“ If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife :
My wife! my wife ! what wife !--I have no wife.

O, insupportable ! O, heavy hour!" We never cease to remember, that it was the intensity of his love and the boundless confidence of his friendship that exposed him to the subtle treachery of Iago. We could not despise him for his credulity without insulting virtue. It is not the credulity of weakness like that of Roderigo, who by the dark-lantern

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