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ried with the vanity of knowledge, and tormented with the sleepless agonies of doubt the sickness of a heart bruised and buffeted by all the demons of presumption-the wild and wandering throbs of a soul parched among plenty, by the blind cruelty of its own dead affectionsthese dark and depressing mysteries all maddening within the brain of the Hermit Student, might have suggested other accompaniments to one who had looked less deeply into the nature of Man-who bad felt less in his own person of that which he might have been ambitious to describe. But this great master of intellect. was well aware to what thoughts, and what feelings, the perplexed and the bewildered are most anxious to return. He well knew where it is, that Nature has placed the best balm for the wounds of the spirit-by what indissoluble links She has twined her own eternal influences around the dry and chafed heart-strings that have most neglected her tenderness. It is thus, that his weary and melancholy sceptic speaks-his phial of poison is not yet mingled on his table-but the tempter is already listening at his ear, that would not allow him to leave the world until he should have plunged yet deeper into his snares, and added sins against his neighbour, to sins against God, and against himself. I wish I could do juss tice to his words in a translation, or rather that I had Coleridge nearer me.

Would thou wert gazing now thy last

Upon my troubles, Glorious Harvest Moon!
Well canst thou tell how all my nights have past,
Wearing away, how slow, and yet how soon!

Alas ! alas! sweet Queen of Stars,
Through dreary dim monastic bars,
To me thy silver radiance passes,
Illuminating round me masses
Of dusty books, and mouldy paper,

That are not worthy of so fair a taper.
O might I once again go forth,
To see thee gliding through thy fields of blue,
Along the hill-tops of the north ;-

O might I go, as when I nothing knew,
Where meadows drink thy softening gleam,
And happy spirits twinkle in the beam,

To steep my heart in thy most healing dew.

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