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There listening, Lady! while thy lip hath sung
My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I've hung
On every mellow'd number! proud to feel
That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,
As o'er thy hallowing lip they sigh'd along,
Such breath of passion and such soul of song.
Oh! I have wonder'd, like the peasant boy
Who sings at eve his sabbath strains of joy,
And when he hears the rude, luxuriant note
Back to his ear on softening echoes float,
Believes it still some answering spirit's tone,
And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!
I dream'd not then that, ere the rolling year
Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here
In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world,
See all its store of inland waters hurl'd
In one vast volume down Niagara's steep,'
Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,
Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed
Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed!
Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide
Down the white Rapids of his lordly tide
Through massy woods, through islets flowering fair,
Through shades of bloom, where the first sinful pair,
For consolation might have weeping trod,
When banish'd from the garden of their God!
Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man,
Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy plan,
Can scarcely dream of; which his eye must see,
To know how beautiful this world can be!

But soft-the tinges of the west decline,
And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine.
Among the reeds, in which our idle boat
Is rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note
Dies, like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes;
Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,
And I can trace him, like a watery star,2
Down the steep current, till he fades afar
Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light,
Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night!
Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,

And the smooth glass-snake, gliding o'er my way,
Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form,
Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm,
Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze,
Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:—

di anime beate."-Pietro della Valle, Part. Second. Lettera 16 da i giardini di Sciraz.

1 When I arrived at Chippewa, within three miles of the Falls, it was too late to think of visiting them that evening, and I lay awake all night with the sound of the cataract in my ears. The day following I consider as a kind of era in my life, and the first glimpse which I caught of those wonderful Falls gave me a feeling which nothing in this world can ever excite again.

From the clime of sacred doves,1
Where the blessed Indian roves,
Through the air on wing, as white
As the spirit-stones of light,2
Which the eye of morning counts
On the Apallachian mounts!
Hither oft my flight I take
Over Huron's lucid lake,
Where the wave, as clear as dew,
Sleeps beneath the light canoe,
Which, reflected, floating there,
Looks as if it hung in air!'

Then, when I have stray'd awhile
Through the Manataulin isle,*
Breathing all its holy bloom,
Swift upon the purple plume
Of my Wakon-bird' I fly
Where beneath a burning sky,
O'er the bed of Erie's lake,
Slumbers many a water snake,
Basking in the web of leaves,
Which the weeping lily weaves !
Then I chase the flow'ret-king
Through his bloomy wild of spring;
See him now, while diamond hues
Soft his neck and wings suffuse,
In the leafy chalice sink,
Thirsting for his balmy drink;
Now behold him all on fire,
Lovely in his looks of ire,
Breaking every infant stem,
Scattering every velvet gem,
Where his little tyrant lip
Had not found enough to sip!
Then my playful hand I steep

Where the gold-thread' loves to creep,

1 The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove." Charlevoix, upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada. See the curious Fable of the American Orpheus in Lafitau, tom. i. p. 402.

2" The mountains appear to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones "-Mackenzie's Journal. 3I was thinking here of what Carver says so beautifully in his description of one of these lakes: "When it was calm and the sun shone bright, I could sit in my canoe, where the depth was upwards of six fathoms, and plainly see huge piles of stone at the botton, of different shapes, some of which appeared as if they had been hewn; the water was at this time as pure and transparent as air, and my canoe seemed as if it hung suspended in that element. It was impossible to look attentively through this limpid medium, at the rocks below, without finding, before many minutes were elapsed, your head swim and your eyes no longer able to behold the dazzling scene."

4 Après avoir traversé plusieurs isles peu considérables, nous en trouvâmes le quatrième jour une fameuse, nommée l'isle de Manitoualin.-Voyages du Baron de Lahontan, tom. i. lett. 15. Manataulin signifies a place of Spirits, and this Island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

To Colonel Brock, of the 49th, who commanded at the Fort, I am particularly indebted for his kindness to me during the fortnight I remained at Niagara. Among many 5" The Wakon-bird, which probably is of the same pleasant days which I passed with him and his brother-offi- species with the bird of paradise, receives its name from the cers, that of our visit to the Tuscarora Indians was not the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Waleast interesting. They received us in all their ancient cos-kon-bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great tume; the young men exhibited, for our amusement, in the Spirit."-Morse.

race, the bat-game, etc. while the old and the women sat 6 The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a consider in groups under the surrounding trees, and the picture alto-able distance by a large pond-lily, whose leaves spread gether was as beautiful as it was new to me. thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.

2 Anburey in his travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the St. Lawrence. Vol. í. p. 29.

3 The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

7 "The gold-thread is of the vine kind, and grows in swamps. The roots spread themselves just under the surface of the morasses, and are easily drawn out by handfuls

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Cull from thence a tangled wreath,
Words of magic round it breathe,
And the sunny chaplet spread
O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head,'
Till with dreams of honey blest,
Haunted in his downy nest
By the garden's fairest spells,
Dewy buds and fragrant bells,
Fancy all his soul embowers
In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers!

Oft when hoar and silvery flakes
Melt along the ruffled lakes;
When the gray moose sheds his horns,
When the track, at evening, warns
Weary hunters of the way
To the wigwam's cheering ray,
Then, aloft through freezing air,
With the snow-bird2 soft and fair
As the fleece that Heaven flings
O'er his little pearly wings,
Light above the rocks I play,
Where Niagara's starry spray,
Frozen on the cliff, appears
Like a giant's starting tears!
There, amid the island-sedge,
Just upon
the cataract's edge,
Where the foot of living man
Never trod since time began,
Lone I sit, at close of day,
While, beneath the golden ray,
Icy columns gleam below,
Feather'd round with falling snow,
And an arch of glory springs,
Brilliant as the chain of rings
Round the neck of virgins hung-
Virgins, who have wander'd young
O'er the waters of the west

To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charm'd, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh day-light o'er the water beams! Once more embark'd upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,^ While on its deck a pilot angel stood,

They resemble a large entangled skein of silk, and are of a bright yellow."-Morse.

I L'oiseau mouche, gros comme un hanneton, est de toutes couleurs, vives et changeantes: il tire sa subsistence des fleurs comme les abeilles; son nid est fait d'un coton trèsfin suspendu à une branche d'arbre.-Voyagés aux Indes Occidentales, par M. Bossu. Second Part, lett. xx.

280.

2 Emberiza hyemalis.-See Imlay's Kentucky, page 3 Lafitau wishes to believe, for the sake of his theory, that there was an order of vestals established among the Iroquois Indians; but I am afraid that Jacques Cartier, upon whose authority he supports himself, meant any thing but vestal institutions by the cabanes publiques" which he met with at Montreal. See Lafitau, Mœurs des Sauvages Americains, etc. tom. i. p. 173.

4 Vedi che sdegna gli argomenti umani;
Si che remo non vuol, nè altro velo,

Che l'ale sue tra liti si lontani.

Vedi come 'I ha dritte verso 'l cielo

And, with his wings of living light unfurl'd,
Coasted the dim shores of another world!

Yet oh! believe me, in this blooming maze
Of lovely nature, where the fancy strays
From charm to charm, where every flow'ret's hue
Hath something strange and every leaf is new!
I never feel a bliss so pure and still,

So heavenly calm, as when a stream or hill,
Or veteran oak, like those remember'd well,
Or breeze, or echo, or some wild-flower's smell,
(For, who can say what small and fairy ties
The memory flings o'er pleasure, as it flies!)
Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream
I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream;
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights
On Donnington's green lawns and breezy heights!
Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er
When I have seen thee cull the blooms of lore,
With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side,

A sister's idol and a nation's pride!

When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high,
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye
Turn to the living hero, while it read,
For pure and brightening comments on the dead!
Or whether memory to my mind recalls
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,
When guests have met around the sparkling board,
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd;
When the bright future Star of England's Throne,
With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,
Glorious but mild, all softness yet all fire !-
Whatever hue my recollections take,
Even the regret, the very pain they wake
Is dear and exquisite !-but oh! no more-
Lady! adieu-my heart has linger'd o'er
These vanish'd times, till all that round me lies,
Stream, banks, and bowers, have faded on my eyes.

IMPROMPTU,

AFTER A VISIT TO MRS.

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OF MONTREAL.

'Twas but for a moment-and yet in that time
She crowded the impressions of many an hour:
Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,
Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower,
Oh! could we have stol'n but one rapturous day,
To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we could look, and imagine, and say,
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then!

What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some more exquisite mode of re-

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T

WRITTEN

ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND,' IN
THE GULF OF ST LAWRENCE,
LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.
SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark,
Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark!
Her sails are full, though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!
Oh! what doth that vessel of darkness bear?
The silent calm of the grave is there,
Save now and again a death-knell rung,
And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung!
There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador;
Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost!

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew,
As ever yet drank the church-yard dew!

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,
And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on
Thou terrible bark! ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE,2

Well-peace to the land! may the people, at length, Know that freedom is bliss, but that honour is strength;

That though man have the wings of the fetterless wind,

Of the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet if health do not sweeten the blast with her bloom,
Nor virtue's aroma its pathway perfume,
Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight,
That but wanders to ruin and wantons to blight!
Farewell to the few I have left with regret,
May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget,
That communion of heart and that parley of soul,
Which has lengthen'd our nights and illumin'd our
bowl,

When they've ask'd me the manners, the mind, or

the mein

Of some bard I had known, or some chief I had seen,
Whose glory, though distant, they long had ador'd,
Whose name often hallow'd the juice of their board!
And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

I told them each luminous trait that I knew,
They have listen'd, and sigh'd that the powerful

stream

Of America's empire should pass, like a dream,
Without leaving one fragment of genius to say
How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd away!
Farewell to the few-though we never may meet
On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet
To think that, whenever my song or my name
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same

I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,

Ere hope had deceiv'd me or sorrow deprest!

But, DOUGLAS! while thus I endear to my mind

ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, OCT. 1804. The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,

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We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to Halifax, and I had been so spoiled by the very splendid hospitality, with which my friends of the Phaeton and Boston had treated me, that I was but ill prepared to encounter the miseries of a Canadian ship. The weather, however, was pleasant, and the scenery along the river delightful. Our passage through the Gut of Canso, with a bright sky and a fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic.

2 Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses. In truth, I should but offend the delicacy of my friend Douglas, and, at the same time, do injustice to my own feelings of gratitude, did I attempt to say how much I owe him.

I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye,
As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,
That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight,
And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.
Dear DOUGLAS! thou knowest, with thee by my side,
With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to
guide,

There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze,

Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore,
That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore.
Oh! think then how happy I follow thee now,
When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,
And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind
Takes me nearer the home where my heart is en-

shrin'd;

Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,

And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part!— But see-the bent top-sails are ready to swellTo the boat-I am with thee-Columbia, farewell!

3 Sir John Wentworth, the Governor of Nova Scotia, very kindly allowed me to accompany him on his visit to the College, which they have lately established at Windsor, about forty miles from Halifax, and I was indeed most plea-ling onwards, we should find the soil and the scenery imsantly surprised by the beauty and fertility of the country prove, and it gave me much pleasure to know that the wor which opened upon us after the bleak and rocky wilderness thy Governor has by no means such an "inamabile regnum" by which Halifax is surrounded. I was told that, in travel- as I was, at first sight, inclined to believe.

TO LADY H

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

Tunbridge-Wells, August, 1805.

WHEN Grammont grac'd these happy springs

And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,

The merriest wight of all the kings

That ever rul'd these gay, gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walk'd,
At eve, they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talk'd
And lovely Stewart smil'd like you!
The only different trait is this,

That woman then, if man beset her,
Was rather given to saying "yes,"
Because, as yet, she knew no better!
Each night they held a coterie,
Where, every fear to slumber charm'd,
Lovers were all they ought to be,

And husbands not the least alarm'd!
They call'd up all their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,

And lords show'd wit, and ladies teeth. As-"Why are husbands like the Mint ?" Because, forsooth, a husband's duty

Is just to set the name and print

That give a currency to beauty.

"Why is a garden's wilder'd maze

Like a young widow, fresh and fair?” Because it wants some hand to raise

The weeds, which "have no business there!"

And thus they miss'd and thus they hit,

And now they struck and now they parried,
And some lay-in of full-grown wit, .

While others of a pun miscarried.
"Twas one of those facetious nights

That Grammont gave this forfeit ring,
For breaking grave conundrum rites,

Or punning ill, or-some such thing;
From whence it can be fairly trac'd

Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it grac'd

The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then-to you

Oh, Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by H-the-te's eye of blue

To dedicate the important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give

Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles' loves in H-the-te live,
And Charles' bards revive in Rogers!

Let no pedantic fools be there,

For ever be those fops abolish'd,
With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, Heaven knows! not half so polish'd.

But still receive the mild, the gay,

The few, who know the rare delight

Of reading Grammont every day,

And acting Grammont every night!

ΤΟ

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,
The lip that's so scented by roses,

Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kisses

Have long set the loves at defiance,.
Now done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!
Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alonc o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments,
Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for

you to be buried in books-
Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks

Read more than in millions of pages!
Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above,
And music must borrow your sigh
As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ;
Oh! show but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and to count you endeavour;
But eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear that you'll love me for ever

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you-

A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!-if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my 1p thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts!

EXTRACT FROM "THE DEVIL AMONG
THE SCHOLARS."1

ΤΙ ΚΑΚΟΝ Ο ΓΕΛΩΣ,

Chrysost. Homil. in Epist. ad Hebræos

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The instant I have got the whim in,
Off I fly with nuns and women,
Like epic poets, ne'er at ease
Until I've stol'n "in medias res!"
So have I known a hopeful youth
Sit down, in quest of lore and truth,
With tomes sufficient to confound him,
Like Tohu Bohu, heap'd around him,
Mamurra' stuck to Theophrastus,
And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus!?
When lo! while all that's learn'd and wise
Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes,
And, through the window of his study
Beholds a virgin, fair and ruddy,

With eyes as brightly turn'd upon him, as
The angel's were on Hieronymus,
Saying, 'twas just as sweet to kiss her-oh!
Far more sweet than reading Cicero !
Quick fly the folios, widely scatter'd,
Old Homer's laurell'd brow is batter'd,
And Sappho's skin to Tully's leather,
All are confus'd and tost together!
Raptur'd he quits each dozing sage,
Oh woman! for thy lovelier page :
Sweet book! unlike the books of art,
Whose errors are thy fairest part;
In whom, the dear errata column
Is the best page in all the volume.4
But, to begin my subject rhyme—
'Twas just about this devilish time,
When scarce there happen'd any frolics
That were not done by Diabolics,

1 Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about any thing, except who was his father. "Nulla de re unquam præterquam de patre dubitavit." In vit. He was very learned-"Là dedans, (that is, in his head when it was opened,) le Punique heurte le Persan, l'Hébreu choque l'Arabique, pour ne point parler de la mauvaise intelligence du Latin avec le Grec," etc. See l'Histoire de Montmaur, tom. ii. page 91.

2 Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and quack Paracelsus. "Philippus Bombastus latet sub splendido tegmine Aureoli Theophrasti Paracelsi," says Stadelius de circumforanea Literatorum vanitate.-He used to fight the devil every night with the broad-sword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded the circumstance. (Sec Oporin. Vit. apud Christian. Gryph. Vit. Select. quorundam Eruditissimorum, etc.) Paracelsus had but a poor opinion of Galen. "My very beard (says he in his Paragrænum) has more learning in it than either Galen or Avicenna."

allowed to rend the Classics. 46

A cold and loveless son of Lucifer,

Who woman scorn'd, nor knew the use of her, A branch of Dagon's family,

(Which Dagon, whether He or She,

Is a dispute that vastly better is
Referr'd to Scaliger' et cæteris,)
Finding that in this cage of fools,
The wisest sots adorn the schools,
Took it at once his head Satanic in,
To grow a great scholastic mannikin,
A doctor, quite as learn'd and fine as
Scotus John or Tom Aquinas,2
Lully, Hales irrefragabilis

Or any doctor of the rabble is!

In languages,' the Polyglots,
Compared to him, were Babel sots;
He chatter'd more than ever Jew did,
Sanhedrim and Priest included;
Priest and holy Sanhedrim

Were one-and-seventy fools to him!
But chief the learned demon felt a
Zeal so strong for gamma, delta,

That, all for Greek and learning's glory,"
He nightly tippled "Græco more,'
And never paid a bill or balance
Except upon the Grecian Kalends,

From whence your scholars, when they want tick
Say, to be At-tick 's to be on tick!

1 Scaliger. de Emendat. Tempor.-Dagon was thought by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians husbandry. See Jacques Gaffarel's Curiosités inouies, Chap. i. He says he thinks this story of the sea-monster "carries little show of probability with it."

2 I wish it were known with any degree of certainty whether the Commentary on Boethius, attributed to Thomas Aquinas, be really the work of this Angelic Doctor. There are some bold assertions hazarded in it: for instance, he says that Plato kept school in a town called Academia, and that Alcibiades was a very beautiful woman whom some of Aristotle's pupils fell in love with. "Alcibiades mulier fuit pulcherrima, quam videntes quidam discipuli Aristote lis," etc.-See Freytag. Adparat. Litterar. Árt. 86. tom. i. Valla, upon his accurate knowledge of the Latin language: 3 The following compliment was paid to Laurentius Nunc postquam manes defunctus Valla petivit, Non audet Pluto verba Latina loqui. Since Val arrived in Pluto's shade,

His nouns and pronouns all so pat in,
Pluto himself would be afraid

To ask even "what's o'clock" in Latin!

These lines may be found in the Auctorum Censio of Du 3 The angel, who scolded St. Jerom for reading Cicero, Verdier (page 29,) an excellent critic, if he could have either as Gratian tells the story in his Concordantia discordantium felt or understood any one of the works which he criticises. Canonum, and says that for this reason bishops were not 4 It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all 'Episcopus Gentilium libros his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to non legat.-Distinct. 37. But Gratian is notorious for ly-laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek. "Master ing-besides, angels have got no tongues, as the illustrious Joachim," says he, "has sent me some dates and some raipupil of Pantenus assures us. OuX' WE KHI TOT, OUTs sins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon EXSIVOIS MAWTTα' ouf' av opgave Tis dar cosas. as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too -Clem. Alexand. Stromat. Now, how an angel could may have the pleasure of reading what he does not underscold without a tongue, I shall leave the angelic Mrs. stand."-"Græca sunt, legi non possunt," is the ignorant speech attributed to Accursius; but very unjustly-far from

to determine.

4 The idea of the Rabbins about the origin of woman is asserting that Greek could not be read, that worthy jurissingular. They think that man was originally formed with consult upon the law 6. D. de Bonór, possess. expressly says, a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appen-Græca literæ possunt intelligi et legi." (Vide Nov. Lib dage behind, and made woman of it. Upon this extraordi- ror. Rarior. Collection. Fasciculi IV.)-Scipio Carteromanary supposition the following reflection is founded:

If such is the tie between women and men,
The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf,
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again,
And he makes a deplorable ape of himself.
Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail,
Every husband remembers the original plan,
And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail,
Why he leaves her behind him as much as he can.

chus seems to think that there is no salvation out of the pale of Greek literature: "Via prima salutis Graia pandetur ab urbe." And the zeal of Laurentius Rhodomannus cannot be sufficiently admired, when he exhorts his countrymen "per gloriam Christi, per salutem patriæ, per reipublica decus et emolumentum," to study the Greek language, Nor must we forget Phavorinus, the excellent Bishop of Nocera, who, careless of all the usual commendations of a Christian required no further eulogium on his tomb than "Here lieth la Greek Lexicographer."

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