« AnteriorContinuar »
"A good character should not be rested in as an end, but employed as a means of doing still further good."
"I have read of an author of this taste that compares a ragged coin to a tatter'd colours."
Upon which Dr. Lowth asks, ought it not to be a mean? &c. "Means," is not the plural of the noun "mean," but, (notwithstanding etymological alliance) a different word. "Mean," is simply "medium ;"" means" is the instrument or agency for a -particular purpose. In like manner, if we withdraw the "s" from colours, we leave the word incapable of expressing the sense for "colours" (ensign) was never called "colour."
395. "Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so."
This is one, among many, of those delicate touches of nature that abound in Shakespear, and which I believe we shall in vain seek for in the works of any other poet; where an incident is introduced wholly immaterial to the plot or conduct of the scene, yet perfectly congenial to the character of the agent, and illustrative of it. Thus the impetuous Hotspur forgets the map, though no inconvenience is propos'd from the want of it; and here the sedate and philosophic Brutus, discomposed a little by the stupendous cares upon his mind, forgets where he had left his book of recreation.
10.-" Fearful bravery."
Fearful," (as Mr. Malone observes) in these works, as often relates to the action as to the passion of fear; but in this place I think Anthony means, not a bravery that is to excite dread, but an exterior or boastful bravery, that is to hide fear. "By this face," (he says) i. e. this outside, they think
"To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;
"But 'tis not so."
"For ever and for ever farewell Cassius!
The tenderness of Brutus here, and throughout his conduct, is no less admirable than his magnanimity.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING SERIES.
On Recollection of an Inscription-Post in a Cross Road near Ely.
ALTHOUGH no consecrated Earth contains,
Pillow'd beneath the green Turf's soothing hue,
And source of triumph to the scornful view,
Yet might his Heart, like thine, have learnt to know
Yet might he joy to see another blest ;
Then let his poor Remains uninjur'd rest,
And leave his Heart and Doom to Heaven's behest."
23 Apr. 1802.
TO MR. PRATT,
HIS POEM OF "THE POOR," &c.
HAIL'D be thy Muse ! for O whene'er she sings,
Around the chords, the sweet inspirers throng,
And to humanity the notes belong.
A social sense the thrilling sounds impart,
And while it moves our nature mends our heart,
S. W. Ļ.
* No one, it is trusted, will think this Sonnet a vindication or an apology for suicide. But the best writers, among whom may be ranked Montesquieu, Beccaria dei Delitti e delli Pene, and Eder on the Principles of Penal Law, have thought this mode of pointing out to scorn and contempt the Remains of the Delinquent, neither suitable to the dignity of Law, the feelings of Humanity, nor the interest of Society, To leave to the behests of Heaven, an A&t like this is to leave it with an impression sufficiently aweful. If this does not deter from suicide, vain and useless will be the stake and the Burial in a cross Road.
The generous heart-but for those breasts of steel
To gentle beings gentle means may prove
Yet still proceed, blest poet of the poor!
Written on a visit in Lincolnshire.
A STRANGER, Aislabie! with wand'ring feet,
Thy path-worn meadows and dark mantling groves, (Where oft at eve the maid and peasant meet)
Delighted ;-for congenial to his breast,
Thy landscape richly spreading o'er the sight; Thy wood-crown'd hills, with proudly towering crest Rearing toward Heaven sublime their daring height In leafy grandeur; while at distance seen, Mingle thy temple's turrets in the view, Upon whose burnish'd fane of golden hue The sun of evening darts his parting gleam.— How pleas'd the world's vain coil could I resign, Were thy sequestred shades and peaceful vale but mine. OCTAVIUS.
THE WANDERING SAVOYARD'S SONG.
BY MR. DIMOND, JUNR.
WITHIN a silent, shelter'd spot,
Behind, the Alps their shadows throw,
Here, crown'd with pine, and there with snow :
In front, delightful vineyards blush,
With thymy dales (where browse the flock)
Just bounded by some granite rock,
Whence water-falls in murmurs gush.
Ah! how I sorrow'd when "Farewell!"
I bade unto my native dell!
The wild-bee there gallanting roves,
And sucks the sweet-lip'd flower he loves ;
While little birds of blythest lay,
With shining wings and trilling airs,
Ah! faint of phrase is tongue to tell
And there, when moon-beams frost the green
And as the cates and cup pass round,
Ah! how with joy my heart would swell,
WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot,
Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,
Destin'd to pamper the vicious one's appetite;
Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled;
Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here ;
Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down,
Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,
Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.
Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent;
Now he perhaps is reclin'd on a bed of down,
God of the red right arm! Where is thy thunderbolt?
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.