rally a good one, was perplexed with vague and confused remembrances. Those who run from one subject to another of the most opposite and uncongenial kinds, receive of course,

but very imperfect and transitory impressions. Southey, though an imaginative writer, does not complain of want of memory, because he is singularly regular and methodical in his studies. Coleridge may have done so, because his thoughts were dream-like and indistinct; but he no doubt recollected the wildest visions and most romantic tales with greater strength and facility than the generality of mankind, though he could not perhaps have carried a domestic pecuniary account in his head from one street to another. When a man finds that he forgets those things in which he takes a deep interest and which other persons who take less interest in them remember, he may then—but not till then, complain of want of memory. But as no man can remember all things, he must be satisfied to confine the exertions of his memory within a chosen range, and to retain only those things which are the dearest to his heart and the most congenial to his mind.



" Where is the nymph whose azure eye

Can shine through rapture's tear?
The sun is sunk, the moon is high,
And yet she comes not here."


Hail to the lovely Queen of Night,
In all her chastened glory dight!
How sweet her mild yet regal mien !
How rich her realms of starry sheen !
No threatening shades her brows enshroud,
Her veil is of the fleecy cloud ;-
She rules o’er scenes of love and light,
Calmly blest and purely bright,
And the beam is soft of her pensive eye,
As she looks from her silver throne on high !

Now Solitude, meek timid maid !
Is stealing from the birchen glade,
And as she leaves her silent cell,
Beneath the light she loveth well,
She startles at the rustling trees,
And the plaintive voice of the sad night-breeze,
And the music wild of the restless stream
Glimmering in the lunar beam!

Ye radiant stars! and thou, sweet moon,
That oft have heard at night's still noon
Her vows of love, Oh, say

if e'er,
Ye aught could doubt that maiden fair,

Or Echo's tremulous voice reply
To sweeter sounds of melody!

But oh! your rays begin to fade,
And absent still the faithless maid
Than ye, proud host of stars ! more bright,
Or even thou, fair Queen of Night!

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The Spirit of Morn advances near,
And all the neighbouring grove doth cheer!
Before her form of holy light
Off glide the dream-like shades of night!

Maid of my heart ! oh, why so long ?
The nightingale hath ceased its song,
The speckled lark ascends the sky
To hail the morn's bright majesty,
The mavis and merle are gaily singing,
And the woods with their joyous matins are ringing!

Is it Fancy's vision wild ?
Is Reason from my soul exiled ?
Is it Hope's delusive beam ?
Is it Love's delirious dream ?

Oh, rapturous joy ! 'Twas her I love
Whose advent waked the vocal grove,
Whose form a fresh radiance of beauty adorning,
I deemed in my madness the spirit of Morning!


'Tis true that we no more may meet,

Our paths are far apart,
I may not hear thy lips repeat

The dictates of thine heart ;-
Yet though divided thus we stray,

We share love's golden dream,
As 'neath the same unbroken ray

The clouds, though parted, gleam!



How fraught with music, beauty and repose,
This holy time, and solitude profound !
The lingering day along the mountain glows;
With songs of birds the twilight woods resound.
Through the soft gloom, yon sacred fanes around,
The radiant fly* its mimic lightning throws;
Fair Gunga's stream along the green vale flows,
And gently breathes a thought-awakening sound !
Such hour and scene my spirit loves to hail,
When nature's smile is so divinely sweet-
When every note that trembles on the gale,
Seems caught from realms untrod by mortal feet-
Where everlasting harmonies prevail —
Where rise the purified, their God to greet !

* The Fire-fly.


How calm and beautiful! The broad sun now
Behind its rosy curtain lingering stays,
Yet downward and above the glorious rays
Pierce the blue flood, and in the warm air glow;
While clouds from either side, like pillars, throw
Their long gigantic shadows o'er the main ;--
Between their dusky bounds, like golden rain,
Though still the sun-beams on the wave below
A shower of radiance shed, the misty veil
Of twilight spreads around—the orient sky
Is mingling with the sea- -the distant sail
Hangs like a dim-discovered cloud on high,
And faintly bears the cold unearthly ray
Of yon pale moon, that seems the ghost of day!


Thou lovely child! When I behold the smile
Over thy rosy features brightly play,
As darts on rippling waves the morning ray,
Thy fair and open brow upraised the while,
Untouched by withering fears of worldly guile,
Nor taught the trusting bosom to betray,-
Thy sinless graces win my soul away
From dreams and thoughts that darken and defile !
Scion of Beauty! If a stranger's eye
Thus linger on thee--if his bosom's pain
Charmed by thy cherub looks forget to smart-
Oh! how unutterably sweet her joy!
Oh! how indissolubly firm the chain,
That binds, with links of love, thy Mother's heart !

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