Conjecture, he his fabric of the Heavens
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move
His laughter at their quaint opinions wide
Hereafter; when they come to model Heaven
And calculate the stars, how they will wield
The mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive
To save appearances; how gird the sphere
With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er,
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb;

Already by thy reasoning this I guess,
Who art to lead thy offspring and supposest
That bodies bright and greater should not serve
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journies run,
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
The benefit: consider first, that great
Or bright infers not excellence; the Earth
Though, in comparison of Heaven, so small,
Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
More plenty than the sun that barren shines;

What if the sun

Be centre to the world;" &c. &c. *

It has been well remarked, too, that "the ideas of the ancients were too exact and definite, too much attached to the material form or vehicle by which they were conveyed, to admit of those rapid combinations, those unrestrained flights of fancy which, glancing from heaven to earth, unite the most opposite extremes, and draw the happiest illustrations from things the most remote ;" and on this account, the mythology of the Greeks seems to have been of greater service to the sculptor than the poet.

What endless subjects for illustration too does science open up! Some of the most splendid figures, that are to be found in the whole range of literature, have been derived from this source. On this we might enlarge; but as the fact is so obvious, we shall only mention one or two examples which may not be familiar to some of our readers. "Jesus," says Jeremy Taylor, 66 was like the Rainbow which God set in the Heavens as a sacrament to confirm a promise and establish a grace; he was half made of the glories of the light, and half of the moisture of a cloud; in his best days he was but half triumph and half sorrow."-To illustrate the nature of the associating principle, Akenside uses the following image,

"Twas thus, if ancient Fame the truth unfolds,
Two faithful needles, from the informing touch
Of the same parent-stone, together drew

Its mystic virtue, and at first conspir'd
With fatal impulse quivering to the Pole;

Then, though disjoin'd by kingdoms, though the main

• We would also refer to Young's Night Thoughts. Night IX.

Roll'd its broad surge betwixt, and different stars
Beheld their wakeful motions, yet preserv'd
The former friendship, and remember'd still
The alliance of their birth; whate'er the line
Which once possess'd, nor pause nor quiet knew
The sure associate, ere with trembling speed
He found its path, and fix'd unerring there.
Such is the secret union, when we feel

A song, a flower, a name, at once restore

Those long-connected scenes where first they mov'd
The attention.

What can be finer than this illustration of faith? "Religion," says Mr. Coleridge, "passes out of the ken of reason only where the eye of reason has reached its own horizon; and faith is then but its continuation: even as the day softens away into the sweet twilight, and twilight, hushed and breathless, steals into the darkness. It is night, sacred night! The upraised eye views only the starry heaven which manifests itself alone, and the outward beholding is fixed on the sparks twinkling in the awful depth, though suns of other worlds, only to preserve the soul steady and collected in its pure act of inward devotion to the great I am and to the filial Word," &c. Again the same author, speaking of the object of miracles, observes, "It was only to overthrow the usurpation exercised in and through the senses, that the senses were miraculously appealed to by our Saviour. Reason and religion are their own evidence. The natural sun in this respect is a symbol of the spiritual, ere he is fully arisen, and while his glories are still under veil, he calls up the breeze to chase away the usurping vapours of the night season, and thus converts the air itself into the minister of its own purification."

"We met—we gazed, I saw and sighed,

She did not speak and yet replied;

There are ten thousand tones and signs

We hear and see, but none defines—

Involuntary sparks of thought,

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought,

And form a strange intelligence,

Alike mysterious and intense,

Which link the burning chain that binds,

Without their wills, young hearts and minds;

Conveying as the electric wire,

We know not how, the absorbing fire."

It may farther be inquired, what effect has an acquaintance with science and mathematics in particular, on the poet himself? Here it may readily be allowed, that habitual and paramount attention to them must necessarily be unfavourable, for the same thing happens in arts which depend on principles less opposed than those of passion and abstract reason. It is even said of Mozart that "his hands were so wedded to the piano that he could use them for nothing else." What constitutes the poet? is the first question. Now, without insisting on any theory of imagination, we may be certain of this-that sen

sibility is not all-nay, that no talent is useless to him, that while the greatest talent may be improved by particular exercises adapted to it, sensibility only requires not to be impaired, and that it is for the most part impaired rather by suppressing it, when it is appealed to, than by intervals of repose for want of an object. Mathematics, therefore, if cultivated to a moderate extent, may be useful to the poet, as they give a general activity to the mind. They may improve his talents for observation, or, as the Phrenologist would express it, his "knowing faculties," which are as necessary for describing nature with effect, as for understanding cones and sines and tangents. They may prevent him from degenerating into that vague and indiscrimi nate admiration which is apt to evaporate in epithets and superlatives, and reminds us of the French poets or the gallant John Buncle, who thought each of his numerous wives not only better than the former, but the very best creature in the world.

They may indeed arm his mind against that surprise which may be created by what has nothing except novelty to recommend it; but they can only give greater intensity to those high and engrossing impulses which are inseparable from the contemplation of intrinsic beauty.

But we may perhaps have presumed too much on the patience of our readers, and it is more than time for us to conclude.

YOUNG Leila! the river is laughing in light,
For Luna is kissing its waters to-night:

And her white feet are treading the brae by its side,
Where her garment of glory is lav'd by the tide.
Whose bosom is glassing a beautiful world,

Where her robes seem to wave like a pennon unfurl'd
In the depth of its silence all lovely and lone-
As the pale apparition of one that is gone!—

II.

Young Leila! there's music to-night on the stream,
And its tones die away as a voice in a dream—

Or the low winds of eve when they swoon on the strings
Of the harp that is breathing unspeakable things!—
And now the light pinnace is nearing the shore;
And no murmur is heard save the dash of the oar,
For the soft strain is hush'd, and the breezes lie still
In their starry-roof'd homes on the top of the hill!—

III.

Young Leila! thy spirit is ever with me
In the musings of gloamin' while fancy is free,
And oft 'mid the turmoil of sorrow and care
It comes as the breathing of piety's prayer;
And hope, the sweet singer, is aye in its train,
To lift up the heart of the weary again;
And to give it revealings of joyance and power
Till the world is forgot in the calm of the hour !—

IV.

Young Leila! thy lattice is bathed in light,
Where ye sit in the heaven of thy beauty to-night,
And my love-laden thoughts are winging to thee,
Like the dove to the ark o'er the waste of the sea;
And I may not depart from the spell of thine eyes
That do holily gaze on the face of the skies,
Till thy lips gently whisper thou❜lt ever be true,
And thy white hand is put forth to bid me Adieu !

THE VACANT CHAIR.

Continued from page 45.

TIME stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to listen; "Oh no! no!" cried the mother again and again, with increasing anguish-"It is not the foot o' my own bairn," while her keen gaze still remained rivetted upon the door, and was not withdrawn nor the hope of despair relinquished till the individual entered, and with a silent and ominous shake of his head betokened his fruitless efforts. The clock had struck twelve; all were returned save the father. The wind howled more wildly-the rain poured upon the windows in ceaseless torrents-and the roaring of the mountain rivers, gave a character of deep ghostliness to their sepulchral silence. For they sat each rapt in forebodings, listening to the storm, and no sounds were heard save the groans of the mother-the weeping of her children-with the bitter and broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her father's bosom, refusing to be comforted.

At length the barking of the farm dog announced footsteps at a distance; every ear was raised to listen, every eye turned to the door; but before the tread was yet audible to the listeners-"Oh, it is only Peter's foot," said the miserable mother, and weeping, arose to meet him.

"Janet! Janet!" he exclaimed as he entered, and threw his arms around her neck-" what is this come upon us at last!"

He cast an inquisitive glance, dismal as the ghost of death, around his dwelling, and a convulsive shivering passed over his manly frame,

as it again became involuntarily rivetted on the death-like and vacant chair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the company separated not, and low sorrowful whispers mingled with the lamentations of the parents.

"Neighbours" said Adam Bell—" the morn is a new day, and we will wait to see what it may bring forth; but in the mean time let us read a portion o' the divine word, and kneel together in prayer, that whether or not the day dawn cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement, the Sun of Righteousness may arise wi' healing in his wings upon the hearts o' this afflicted family, and upon the hearts o' all present."

"Amen!" responded Peter, wringing his hands, and his friend, taking down the "Ha' Bible," read the chapter wherein it is written, "It is well for me that I have been afflicted, for before I was afflicted I went astray."

The morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn farewell, all the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned every one to their own house, and the disconsolate father, with his servants, again renewed his search among the hills and surrounding villages.

-Days, weeks, months and years rolled by. Time had subdued the anguish of the parents into a holy calm, but their lost first-born was not forgotten, although no trace of his fate had transpired. The general belief was that he had perished in the breaking up of the snow; and the few in whose remembrance he still lived spoke merely of his death, as a very extraordinary circumstance, remarking that he was "a wild venturesome sort o' lad."

Christmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliott still kept it in commemoration of the birth-day of him who was not. For the first few years after the loss of their son, sadness and silence characterised the party who sat down to dinner at Marchlaw, and still at Peter's right hand was placed the vacant chair. But as the younger branches of the family advanced in years, the remembrance of their brother became less poignant; Christmas was with all around them a day of rejoicing, and they began to make merry with their friends, while their parents partook in their enjoyment with a silent smile, half of approval, and half of sorrow.

Twelve years had passed away-Christmas had again come-it was the counterpart of its fatal predecessor-the hills had not yet cast off their summer verdure-the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none of its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though it participated in its gladness-and the clear blue sky was tranquil as the sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many visitors had again arrived at Marchlaw.

The sons of Mr. Elliott and the young men of the party were assembled upon a level green near the house, amusing themselves with throwing the hammer, and other Border games, while himself and the elder guests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the sheep-farmer whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic fellow of two and thirty, bore away in every game the palm from all competitors. More than once, as Peter beheld his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of youth glowing in his

VOL. I.

H