Restlessness.

Qual d' acqua chiara il tremolente lune
Dal sol percossa, o da nothurni rai,
Per gli ample tetti va con lungho salto,
A destra ed a sinistra, e basso ed alto."

ARIOSTO. Orl. F. viii. 71.

"Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc,
In partesque rapit varias, perque omnia versat:
Sicut aquæ tremulum labris ubi lumen ahenis
Sole repercussum, aut radiantis imagine lunæ,
Omnia pervolitat late loca, jamque sub auras
Erigitur, summisque ferit laquearia tecti.”*

I am as restless as a roving bee,

VIRGIL En. viii. 20.

That droppeth plumb-down, with an angry bellow,
When in a flower, no pollen, golden-yellow,

Nor wax, his thighs to burthen heavily,

Nor store of mellow honey to set free,

Finding, he swings him to its neighbouring fellow.
I am as restless as an Ocean billow;

Or a wind-shaken leaflet on a tree;

Restless, as are the rainbow-coloured rays,
Which from a crystal prism a child sets dancing;
Or as weird moonlight, which along the walls,
And cieling, swift as flashing lightning plays,
A fitful phantom, when its tremulous glancing
On water, troubled in a basin, falls.

*Ariosto copies from Virgil, who took the simile from Apollonius Rhodius. See Dante, c. 15. Bohn Ed. 234. et ibi notas. See also Tasso Gerus. lib. c. 4. st. 33.

Boyhood.

"Bid the morn of youth

Rise to new light; and beam afresh the days
Of innocence, simplicity, and truth,

To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways.
What transport to retrace our boyish plays;
Our easy bliss when each thing joy supplied;
The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze
Of the wild birds!" THOMSON,

"Tornami al tempo allor che lieta e sicolta
Al cieco ardor m era la briglia e 'l freno,
Rendimi 'l volto angelico e sereno,
Ondi ogni seco ogni virtu sepolta,
Ei passi sparsi e con fatica molta
Che non si lente a chi à d'anni pieno,
Tornami l'acqua, e 'l fuco in mezzo seno."

"On my way

Visions of childhood often have beguiled

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:

Ah! could I be once more a careless child." COLERIDGE.

Oh! for my Boyhood back again, that I
Might once more find a voice in every stream,
A language in the rustling leaves, the scream
Or song of birds; an utterance on high
From star to star; a meaning in the sigh
Or roar of winds; in its own dewy gleam
A joy felt by the flower: a smile i' the beam
Of sunshine through woods quivering restlessly:
When life lay like a fairy lake, all dight

In morning's rosy hues and golden light,

Where-through, sheer down, with one bold plunge I fain Would dive; down, down, through the translucent waves, To catch the fair nymphs in their agate caves :—

Oh! for my dreamy Boyhood back again !

The Better Part.

"The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, drink, and sleep,-to be exposed o darkness and light-to pass round in the mill of habit, and turn thoughtinto an implement of trade-this is not life. In all this but a poor fraction of the consciousness of humanity is awakened, and the sanctities still slumber which make it worth while to be. Knowledge, Truth, Love, Beauty, Goodness, Faith alone can give vitality to the mechanism of existence. The laugh of mirth that vibrates through the heart-the tears that freshen the dry wastes within-the music that brings childhood back-the prayer that calls the future near-the doubt which makes us meditate-the death that startles us with mystery-the hardship which forces us to strength-the anxiety that ends in trust-are the true nourishment of our natural being."-JAMES MARTINEAU.

"On s' eveille, on se leve, on 1 s' habille, et l' on sort,

On rentre, on dine, on soupe, on se couche, et l' 'on dort."

;

PIIS.

To drink, eat, sleep, ; to sleep, to eat, to drink
These are that part of Life which man doth share
With the brute beast of earth, and bird of air,
Between their nature and his own the link :
But the divine, mysterious power to think;
The love of all things great, and good, and fair;
Courage, that prompts to suffer or to dare,
Nor lets us under heaviest trials sink;
Sorrow, that chastens the presumptuous heart;
Sweet sympathy, that makes the whold world kin;
Task-master want, that whetteth labour's knife;
Doubt, that bursts superstition's chain apart;
And pure-eyed child-like faith, that conquereth sin-
These are the heavenly particles of Life.

Hidden Sorrow.

Se a ciascun l' interno affanno
Si leggesse in fronte scritto,
Quanti mai, che invidia fanno,
Ci farrebbero pietá !

Si vedria che i lor nemici

Hanno in seno; e si riduce
Nel parere a noi felici
Ogni lor felicità.—METASTASIO.
D'ogni pianta palesa l' aspetto

Il difetto, che il tronco nasconde,
Per le fronde, dal frutto, o dal fior.
Tal d' un' alma l' affanno, sepolto
Si travede in un riso fallace;

Che la pace mal finge nel volto

Chi si sente la guerra nel cor.-METASTASIO.
"O! misero colui che i giorni conta

E pargli l'un mill 'armi, e indorno vive,

E sero in terra mai non si raffronta

E cerca il mar e tutto le sue rivi.." PETRARCH.

"Ma spesso el folle volgo, al volgo ignaro

Convien ch' altri consenta

E meste rida, dove si ride e gode

E pianger allor che piu felice siede

Io del mio duol quest' uno effetto ho caro

Ch' alcun di fuor non vede

Che l'alma attrista, e i suoi desir non ode." M. ANGELO.

To hide a secret sorrow in the heart,

That gnaws and tears with the relentless beak

Of the Promethean vulture, yet to speak

No grief to one dear sympathizing heart

Which fain would share, if it might know, the smart :

To set watch on the tearful eyes; to seek

To seal each chink through which the truth might leak,

Or the swift arrows of suspicion dart;

To smile, as some fair flower doth radiant bloom,
Though deadliest poison lurk within its root :-
This is more hard to bear, than keenest pang
Disease can work on us with ravin fang;

Than poverty, or madness' self can shoot

'Gainst man; or man know on this side the tomb.

“God- us Ayde."

"When the bells of Rylstone play'd
Their sabbath music, “God us ayde,'
That was the sound they seem'd to speak;
Inscriptive legend, which I ween

May on those holy bells be seen." WORDSWORTH.

Where Bolton Abbey rose above the plain,
Ere great Eliza, in the olden time,

Siezed them and slew, for their rebellious crime,
My sires, not noble, but without a stain

In blood, or on their scutcheon lived, a train
Of gentlemen: from childhood to their prime,
From prime to age, they heard the festive chime
Of Rylstone ring; "God ayde us," their refrain
'Tis graven on the rim of those old bells
By Strid, where still the poem'd memory dwells
Of the White Doe, and Emily, the Maid:
My father bore the motto on his shield;
It is my war-cry on Life's battle-field,

Heard high above the tumult :-"God us ayde!”