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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.
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
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.
“ Where is the nymph whose azure eye
Can shine through rapture's tear?
Hail to the lovely Queen of Night,
Now Solitude, meek timid maid !
Ye radiant stars ! and thou, sweet moon,
Or Echo's tremulous voice reply
But oh! your rays begin to fade,
The Spirit of Morn advances near,
Maid of my heart! oh, why so long?
Is it Fancy's vision wild ?
Oh, rapturous joy ! 'Twas her I love
A LOVER'S THOUGHT.
"Tis true that we no more may meet,
Our paths are far apart,
The dictates of thine heart ;-
We share love's golden dream,
The clouds, though parted, gleam!
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGES.
How fraught with music, beauty and repose,
* The Fire-fly.