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The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,
Their murm'ring labours ply,
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possess'd ;*
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Their's buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new;

And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train. Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band, Ah! tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,5
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody madness laughing wild,
Amidst severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of death,

More hideous than their queen :
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage;
Lo, poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand;
And slow consuming age.

To each his sufferings; all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies;
Thought would destroy their Paradise-
No more ;-where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

1. The establishment to which Eton owes all its importance is its College, founded by Henry VI. in 1440. That monarch, by whom it was liberally endowed, intended it principally for the education of "poor and indigent boys" destined for the Church.

2. Why in vain ?

215

GRAY.

3. The exact meaning of careless here?

4. What is less pleasing when possessed? 5. "I do not know that anv poet, ancient or modern, has given so complete a picture of the passions in so short a compass." --- Wakefield. 6. What queen?

V. THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

"WHATEVER We see on every side, reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night succeed each other; the rotation of seasons diversifies the year; the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines, and sets; and the moon every night changes its form.”Johnson.

FAINTLY flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,

Keep thy calm unruffled way:
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air.
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.

Roses bloom, and then they wither;
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die :
Shapes of light are wafted hither-
Then, like visions, hurry by:
Quick as clouds at evening driven
O'er the many-coloured west,

Years are bearing us to heaven,

Home of happiness and rest.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

VI. THE RAINY DAY.

"MAN's strength is in his war with obstacles.”—Bulwer.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

LONGFELLOW.

TO THE SUN DIAL.

VII. TO THE SUN DIAL.

217

"AN Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that TIME WAS HIS ESTATE; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with noxious plants, or laid out for show rather than for use."-Johnson.

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My ear is pained, my heart is sick,
When all beside is silent round,
To hear the clock's unvaried click
Repeat its melancholy sound.

"Tis irksome in the dead of night

To have Time's progress thus made known,
And his irrevocable flight

Proclaimed in such a sullen tone.

To know that thus in darkness fly
Boons far beyond the gift of kings;
That moments-hours-are gliding by,
Which bear no record on their wings.-

Nothing to show their lapse redeemed
From dull Oblivion's barren void;
But idle, useless, unesteemed,

Have found and left us unemployed.

Better I love-since time must pass-
To witness in the light of day
The noiseless sand-grains in the glass
By slow succession drop away.

With still more joy to thee I turn,
Meet horologe for bard to love,

Time's sweetest flight from thee I learn,

Whose lore is borrowed from above.

The worldly use of time may need

Less cumbrous things its course to tell,—
I love thy massive tome to read,

To read-and-feel its voiceless spell.
I love in some sequestered nook
Of antique garden to behold
The page of thy sun-lighted book
Its touching homily unfold.

On some old terrace-walk to greet
Thy form, a sight which never cloys,
Is more to thought than drink and meat-
To feeling than Art's costliest toys.
These seem to track the path of time
By vulgar means which man has given ;

Thou simple, silent, and sublime,

But show'st thy shadowy sign from Heaven.

BERNARD BARTON.

VIII. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

"In general, night is a very advantageous time for those who love to meditate, and to use self-examination. The tumult and dissipation, in which we commonly live during the day, leave us but too little time for recollection, for detaching our affections from the earth, and for occupying ourselves seriously about our latter end, and the duties of our station. The tranquillity of the night invites us to, and assists us in, these serious occupations. We may then, without interruption, converse with our hearts, and acquire the important science of selfknowledge. Our souls may collect all their powers, and direct them to the objects which relate to our eternal happiness. We may then banish the evil impressions which are received from the world, and get our souls fortified against the seducing examples of the age. This is the time in which we may meditate on death without distraction, and employ ourselves in the great concerns of the eternal world. The tranquil solitude of our closets is favourable to religious thoughts, and will inspire us with an ardent desire, to be more and more occupied in this sacred work."-Sturm.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul,' that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall;

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