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pendent of time and place. It is like a fairy enchanter, and can conjure up spring flowers in a wintry desert, and reflect a magic light on the dreariest moments of existence. It resembles, in some respects, a glorious instrument which requires but a single air-like touch and its “ linked sweetness, long drawn out,” enthrals the soul with ineffable delight. Its rich music is like a river “ that wanders at its own sweet will” through some romantic valley.

Mr. Rogers has beautifully described the associating principle;

“ Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain,

Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise !"

They who call themselves practical philosophers, and talk with contempt of the pleasures of imagination, are strangely ignorant of our nature. The literal forms an extremely small and by far the least precious portion of our enjoyments. The past and the future are but dreams. Even the present is rife with doubt, mystery and delusion, and the few dull objects that remain uncoloured with the hues of imagination are scarcely worthy of a thought. All men complain of the shortness of life, but a cold and dry philosophy would make it shorter still. It would confine its limits to the passing moment, that dies even in its birth ; for it is only in such a pitiful span that the little which is really literal in life can at all exist. That moment's predecessor is dead-its successor is unborn-and all that is actual or material in its own existence is as a drop in the ocean, or as a grain of sand on the sea-shore.

A supposed want of memory is often nothing more than a want of method. Desultory readers and thinkers generally complain of imperfect memories. The reason is, that their thoughts are in a state of chaos. Thus Montaigne, who was irregular and capricious in his studies, though his memory was probably natu

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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.

A MOONLIGHT ASSIGNATION.

[A FRAGMENT.]

“ 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.”

Moore.

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!

A LOVER'S THOUGHT.

"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!

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGES.

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.

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