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The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

10 Last came Joy's ccstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed :
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amid the festal-sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing :
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound),

And he, amid his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

OXXX. - THE CHURCH-YARD.

KARAXSIN. NICOLAI KARAMSIN, a Russian historian and man of letters, was ima 1786, and died in 1826, His writings are numerous both in prose and ver, but his principal work, which was received with great favor by his countı nex. was a “History of Russia," In twelve volumes.

First VOICE. | How frightful the gravel how deserted and rear! With the howls of the storm-wind - the creaks of the bier

And the white bones all clattering together!

SECOND VOICE. 2 How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep: Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,

And flowerets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE 3 There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,

And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE. 4 How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb: No tempests are there: — but the nightingales come,

And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

FIRST VOICE. 6 The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave,

Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

SECOND VOICE. 6 There the cony at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above,

Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

FIRST VOICE. 7 There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death ;

The trees are all barren and bare !

SECOND VOICE.
B O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

FIRST VOICE. 9 The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears,

He is launched on the wreck-covered river !

Second VOICE. 10 The traveller, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,

And sweetly reposes forever.

CXXXI. — TACT AND TALENT.

LONDON ATLAS. TALENT is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable: tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all

the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging 5 taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch ; it is the inter

preter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his

way into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows 10 him his way through the world.

Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum ; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him

respected ; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 15 For all the practical purposes of life, taet carries it

against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough

to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, 20 night after night, with its successful farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together : so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are

not successful. 5 Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned

curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees

from attorneys and clients Talent speaks learnedly and 19 logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world

wonder that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry ; it makes no false steps; it hits the right

nail on the head ; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and, 15 by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows.

Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers ;

talent may obtain a living, tact will make one ; taient gets 20 a good name, tact a great one ; talent convinces, tact con

verts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession.

Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds its way; talent commands, tact is obeyed ; talent is hon25 ored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment.

Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes ; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact has a knack

of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of 30 movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the

pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling ; it never ranks in the

awkward squad ; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind 35 side. It puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no

air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.

CXXXIV. — THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

S. FERGUSON. [This spirited poem appeared originally in “Blackwood's Magazine.” Mr. Ferguson resides in Dublin, and has written several ballads and lyrical poems of considerable merit.

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now :
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare;
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe;
It rises, roars, rends all outright - 0 Vulcan, what a glow!
"T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright; the high sun shines not so:
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show:
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe:
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil - all about the faces fiery grow –
66 Hurrah !” they shout, “leap out— leap out!” bang, bang, the

sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow :
And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant“ Ho!

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load ! *
Let 's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;

* Lay on load – strike heavy blows

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