Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing
Touched that small Arcadian king.
His sinless subjects wandered free-
Confusion without anarchy.
Happier he upon his throne,
The breezy hill-though all alone-
Than the grandest monarchs proud
Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.
For he ne'er trembles for his fate,
Nor groans beneath the cares of state.

On a gently rising ground
The lovely valley's farthest bound,
Bordered by an ancient wood,
The cots in thicker clusters stood;
And a Church uprose between,
Hallowing the peaceful scene.
Distance o'er its old walls threw
A soft and dim cerulean hue,
While the sun-lit gilded spire
Gleamed as with celestial fire!

I have crossed the ocean-wave
Haply for a foreign grave-
Haply never more to look
On a British hill or brook-
Haply never more to hear
Sounds unto my childhood dear ;-


Yet if sometimes on my soul

Bitter thoughts beyond control Throw a shade more dark than night,

Soon upon the mental sight
Flashes forth a pleasant ray
Brighter, holier, than the day;

And unto that happy mood

All seems beautiful and good.

Though from home and friends we part,

Nature and the human heart

Still may sooth the wanderer's care,
And his God is every where !

Seated on a bank of green,

Gazing on an Indian scene,

I have dreams the mind to cheer,

And a feast for eye and ear.
At my feet a river flows,
And its broad face richly glows
With the glory of the sun,
Whose proud race is nearly run.
Ne'er before did sea or stream
Kindle thus beneath his beam,
Ne'er did miser's eye behold
Such a glittering mass of gold!
'Gainst the gorgeous radiance float
Darkly, many a sloop and boat,
While in each the figures seem
Like the shadows of a dream ;
Swift, yet passively, they glide
As sliders on a frozen tide.

Sinks the sun-the sudden night
Falls, yet still the scene is bright.
Now the fire-fly's living spark
Glances through the foliage dark,
And along the dusky stream
Myriad lamps with ruddy gleam


On the small waves float and quiver,
As if upon the favored river,

And to mark the sacred hour,
Stars had fallen in a shower.
For many a mile is either shore
Illumined with a countless store
Of lustres ranged in glittering rows;
Each a golden column throws

To light the dim depths of the tide ;
And the moon in all her pride,
Though beauteously her regions glow,
Views a scene as fair below*.

Never yet hath waking vision.
Wrought a picture more Elysian;
Never gifted poet seen
Aught more radiant and serene !
Though upon my native shore
Mid the hallowed haunts of yore
There are scenes that could impart
Dearer pleasure to my heart,
Scenes that in the soft light gleam
Of each unforgotten dream,
Yet the soul were dull and cold
That its tribute could withhold
When Enchantment's magic wand
Waves o'er this romantic land!
Cossipore, Nov. 1839.

This description has reference to the night of some religious festival.

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POPE left by his will, the care of his manuscripts, first to Lord Bolingbroke, and, in the event of his death, to Lord Marchmont, undoubtedly expecting, says Dr. Johnson, that they would be "proud of the trust and eager to extend his fame." It appears, however, that some time after Pope's death, Dodsley solicited preference as the publisher, and was told that the packet of papers had not been even looked at, and "whatever was the reason," adds Johnson, "the world has been disappointed of what was reserved for the next age." It is reasonable to suppose that amongst the manuscripts of Pope there must have been many interesting and valuable papers, but nothing of any value has yet appeared. Pope gave Bolingbroke the option of preserving or destroying the manuscripts, and it is probable, from the circumstances I am about to mention, that he chose the latter alternative. They never got into the possession of the Earl of Marchmont. A work entitled "A Selection from the Papers of the Earls of Marchmont," and published in 1831, by Sir George Rose, contains two letters from Lord Bolingbroke that are calculated to injure materially the memory of Pope, if they are not very closely and candidly considered. They are on the subject of Pope's Satire on the Duchess of Marlborough, included in his Epistle " On the Characters of Women," under the name of Atossa. To refresh

the memory of the reader I shall here subjoin it.

But what are these, to great Atossa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:

Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is whate'er she hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddying brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade,
The wisest fool much time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratify'd except her rage.

So much the fury still outran the wit,
The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,

But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursued,
Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude :
To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate :
Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!
But an inferior not dependent? worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live:
But die, and she'll adore you--then the bust
And temple rise-then fall again to dust.
Last night her lord was all that's good and great;
A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of followers! without one distress
Sick of herself, through very selfishness!
Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir:
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, heaven directed, to the poor.

When Pope first published the Epistle, in which this character now occurs, he informed the public in an advertisement, that it contained no character drawn from the life, an assertion which Johnson insinuates Pope did not wish to be believed. In a note to the poem also, Pope stated that it was imperfect, because a portion of his subject was vice too high to be then exposed. It is certain that the characters of Atossa, Philomedé and Cloe, the only ones which are supposed to apply to particular individuals, were subse

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