"Alas! my dear! not all our care and art Can tread the maze of man's deceitful heart: Look not surprise, nor let resentment swell Those lovely features, all will yet be well; And thou, from love's and man's deceptions free, Wilt dwell in virgin state, and walk to heaven with me."

The maiden frown'd, and then conceived "that wives

Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives,
As angry prudes who scorn'd the marriage-chain,
Or luckless maids who sought it still in vain."
The friend was vex'd; she paused, at length
she cried,

"Know your own danger, then your lot decide;
That traitor, Beswell, while he seeks your hand,
Has, I affirm, a wanton at command;
A slave, a creature from a foreign place,
The nurse and mother of a spurious race;
Brown, ugly bastards-(Heaven the word forgive,
And the deed punish!)-in his cottage live;
To town if business calls him, there he stays,
In sinful pleasures wasting countless days;
Nor doubt the facts, for I can witness call
For every crime, and prove them one and all."
Here ceased th' informer; Arabella's look
Was like a schoolboy's puzzled by his book;
Intent, she cast her eyes upon the floor,
Paused-then replied-

"I wish to know no more: I question not your motive, zeal, or love, But must decline such dubious points to prove : All is not true, I judge, for who can guess Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress?

He brought a slave, perhaps, to England's coast,
And made her free; it is our country's boast!
And she perchance too grateful-good and ill
Were sown at first, and grow together, still;
The colour'd infants on the village green,
What are they more than we have often seen?
Children half-clothed who round their village

stray,

In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they
Will the dark color of their fate betray:
Let us in Christian love for all account,
And then behold to what such tales amount."

"His heart is evil," said th' impatient friend.
"My duty bids me try that heart to mend,"
Replied the virgin: "we may be too nice,
And lose a soul in our contempt of vice;
If false the charge, I then shall show regard
For a good man, and be his just reward:
And what for virtue can I better do
Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true?"

She spoke, nor more her holy work delay'd; ́ 'Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid: "The noblest way," she judged, "a soul to win, Was with an act of kindess to begin,

To make the sinner sure, and then t' attack the sin." *

*As the author's purpose in this tale may be mistaken, he wishes to observe, that conduct like that of the lady's here described, must be meritorious or censurable, just as the motives to it are pure or selfish; that these motives may in a great measure be concealed from the mind of the agent; and that we often take credit to our virtue for actions which spring originally from our tempers, inclinations, or our indifference. It cannot therefore be improper, much less immoral, to give an instance of such self-deception.

WILLIAM BLAKE was born in London, November 28, 1757. His father was a hosier; but seeing the boy's aptitude for drawing, he apprenticed him to an engraver. At the age of twenty-one Blake began to make engravings for the booksellers. Three years later he published a small volume of poems, which was not very successful. He had written verses from childhood, and he always believed that his artistic work was executed under inspiration from departed poets and painters.

In 1782 he married Catherine Boucher, who could not read or write, but who proved a most efficient helper in the preparation of his peculiar works. Blake invented a method of printing and illustrating his own poems, by a sort of etching on copper which left the letters and figures raised as in an electrotype plate. His wife assisted at the printing, and bound the sets in thin volumes. In some, he tinted the pictures. The first book he issued in this way was "Songs of Innocence," (1789), 27 pages, 5 by 7 inches. In 1794 he added " Songs of Experience," with sixty etchings; and the peculiar originality of the work attracted considerable attention. His price for a tinted set was twenty guineas. A portion of his mechanical process, which he kept secret, he said was revealed to him by his brother, the remainder by Joseph of Nazareth.

In a similar style he illustrated several works of other authors, among them Blair's "Grave" and Young's "Night Thoughts." His drawings numbered about five hundred; the "Inventions for the Book of Job" are considered the best. He believed that he conversed with the spirits of Moses, Homer, Dante, Milton, and other illustrious persons, and that some of them empowered him to engrave their portraits. Be

sides these, he produced a number of portraits that are purely fantastic, such as "The Man who built the Pyramids," "The Ghost of a Flea," and "Nebuchadnezzar Eating Grass." His "Gates of Paradise," "Urizen," and "Visions of the Daughters of Albion and America," are greatly admired. He intended to emigrate to America, but was deterred by a vision.

Though Blake was one of the obscurest of all men of genius, the sale of his works decently supported him and his wife for forty years, and it is said that he was never in debt. He died in London, August 12, 1827. His last words, addressed to his wife, were: "My beloved, they are not mine; no, they are not mine." His widow died in 1831. They never had any children.

Blake's works are now comparatively scarce, and command fabulous prices. Flaxman, the sculptor, praised particularly his marginal designs for Young's "Night Thoughts." Charles Lamb wrote: "Blake is a real name, I assure you; and a most extraordinary man he is, if he is still living. He is the Blake whose wild designs accompany a splendid edition of Blair's 'Grave.' He paints in water-colors, marvellous strange pictures-visions of his brain-which he asserts he has seen. They have great merit. I must look upon him as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age." Mrs. Jameson said: "The most original, and in truth the only new and original version of the Scripture idea of angels which I have met with is that of William Blake, a poet-painter."

His life, by Alexander Gilchrist, with nearly all his poems and fac-similes of many of his works, was published in 1863, in two volumes; and a life, with a few fac-similes, by A. C. Swinburne in 1868.

Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Thus did my mother say and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy;
When I from black, and he from white cloud
free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

I WENT to the garden of love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gate of this chapel was shut,

And "thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the garden of love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briers my joys and desires.

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burned the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil! What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

CAN I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No! no! never can it be-
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all,
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear-

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast? And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away 9
Oh, no! never can it be-
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all; He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not nigh;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us His joy, That our griefs He may destroy. Till our grief is fled and gone, He doth sit by us and moan.

SONG.

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away,

And mournful lean despair Brings me yew to deck my grave; Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold; Oh, why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet! When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat! Then down I'll lie as cold as clay, True love doth pass away!

ROBERT BURNS was born near Ayr, Scotland, January 25, 1759. His father, who was the gardener of a country gentleman, had rented a few acres to cultivate for himself, and had built there a hut of clay and straw, in which the poet first saw the light. Robert was sent to school before he was five years old, and soon excelled in grammar, being pronounced "remarkable for the fluency and correctness of his expressions." The teacher took an especial interest in him, and freely lent him what few books he possessed. One of these, a life of Hannibal, gave the boy a taste for military life. He also acquired a plentiful supply of the literature of superstition. In his "Confessions" he says: "In my infant and boyish days I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. . She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp lookout in suspicious places; and though nobody can be more skeptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest compositions that I recollect taking pleasure in were The Vision of Mirza,' and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, 'How are thy servants blest, O Lord!'"

Though his attendance at school was much interrupted by the necessity of helping his father at the farm-work, Burns picked up a pretty fair education, and was by no means so innocent of book-knowledge as the popular ideas and expressions concerning him seem to imply. He mastered geometry by his father's hearth, and with the help of his good friend Murdoch, the schoolmaster, he acquired a fair knowledge of French, and read Fénelon's Télémaque. Other friends lent him the "Spectator," Pope's works, and some of Richardson's. His brother Gilbert says that "a small collection of letters by the most eminent writers," which fell by accident into Robert's hands, was an important help to him.

If there were no falling in love, there would be no such poets as Burns. He himself has told us how he first made the acquaintance of Cupid and the muses: "You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labors of harvest. In my

fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language; but you know the Scottish idiom-she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious pas-sion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below! How she caught the contagion I cannot tell you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, etc.; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labors; why the tones of her voice made my heartstrings thrill like an Æolian harp; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious rattan when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; and it was her favorite reel to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones composed by men who had Greek and Latin; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love! and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself."

When Burns was eighteen years of age, his father moved to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton. Here the poet, that was to be, still took his share of the farm work; but he carried a collection of songs when he “drove his team afield," and read them as he walked beside the cart. Here he began to be famous among the peasantry for his "book-knowledge," and he says he was made a general confidant, especially in matters pertaining to the tender passion.

Then he turned flax-dresser, and set up a small shop in the town of Irvine. Here he contracted his habits of intemperance, and while he was welcoming the new year with a carousal the shop was burned down.

In 1784 their father died, and Robert and Gilbert took upon themselves the support of the family, renting the neighboring farm of Mossgiel. There the whole family worked very hard for a very frugal subsistence.