“What if they are our Siamese ?

"One look for her's, for Mary's sake!” He thought, and pushing through the press— Reader, yourself the rest may guess!

But know, in short, the fees were paid;

And not your interests keen to starve, I Must add, the Twins were home convey'd, In the cool shelter of a Jarvey!

This kindness done, his way once more
Julian renew'd, and gained his door.

To his lone room he pass'd; and o'er
The stairs his step fell heavily;

His knit and gloomy visage wore

That which ye would have feared to see.

Something there is in man's despair,
More fearful than his very wrath;
Cope hot Revenge-but aye, beware
To cross calm Suffering's lonely path!
Dreader than all the passions' strife,
The solemn absence of their life;
That ghole of silence and of gloom,
Which darkly broods above their tomb !

He sate him down; and quietly

Cast round a dim, half-unconscious eye.

There left, as when they last addrest
The charmed gaze, and thirsting breast,
Lay the lov'd volumes, where the souls

Of the great Dead walk gloriously;
The Edens of the Mind; the goals
Of mortal immortality;—

The stately Arks that from the deep
Garner the life for worlds to be;

And with their glorious burthen, sweep
Adown dark Time's unfathom❜d sea!

Amid less lovely lore, the page

Lay open where the Ploughman's Song
Incarnates Thought; and o'er the age
To which its noble lays belong;-
O'er the low city, and lewd court;

O'er the slight tricks of worldly gaud;
O'er the wing'd follies, that disport

In life's vexed atmosphere of fraud; Casts out the broad and generous glow,

Where Nature shames Art's garish seeming;

Yet, while it shames, doth still bestow

Not more a shame than a redeeming.

Shedding a glory round their urns,

Who breath'd the air that breath'd for BURNS.

Oh! wise-wise fools, whose tender art

So coldly probed each fault that dyed

With its own blood that generous heart;-
Who, in your grateful thought, denied
To him whose memory yet exalts
Man's mould-aye, in those very faults-
To him, who like an Air from Heaven,
Breath'd life and glory on your way;
The mercy and the silence given

Of right, unto the humblest clay.*
In life's cool walk, if one hath blest
A single, just, or grateful breast;
Yet hath, in error, stung or saddened
The breast, his 'customed bounty gladdened,
Say-were it thine-would'st thou resent?
Would Love or Anger find a vent?

* All mankind, to whom, even mediately and through unseen channels, the glorious verse of Robert Burns can reach, have incurred a debt of gratitude, and that no slight one, to Mr. Lockhart, who has honoured literature (in his Biography of that illustrious Poet) with a work full of just, and manly, and noble sentiment. It is difficult, indeed, to command one's indignation, when one hears fine gentlemen critics, who sin delicately, and grow elevate on Chambertin—and to whom we owe no earthly gratitude, and no earthly indulgence—talk, between snuff-takings, of the immoralities of Burns. Every country 'squire, and city clerk, and puny dandyling, may enjoy in quiet his loves and his intoxications; they are but the proofs of his spirit, or obediences to the manners of his time. But if Burns, the benefactor of the world, (for whom reverence should induce indulgence,) does what they do who are its drones ;-then come pages of sermons, and mawkish lecturings, and judgments righteously severe. Every sword of the Pharisees leaps out of its scabbard. One would think to hear them, that it is a great pity a man of genius should not be born without flesh and blood.

Say-would it not thy heart relieve,
To have one memory to forgive?

But He, who serves all earth,-whose mind
Stars the dark wanderings of mankind;
And from lone Thought's empyrean height,
Exalts the soul, its glories light,
For him, no grateful memory lives;
No justice weighs, no love forgives;
For him, the Universal Eye,

spy.

Each heart he cheered hath grown his
The very lustre of his fame,
Betrays the specks upon his name;
The columns of his triumph stand,
As Pasquins for each vulgar hand.
For him the wonted shades which hide
Home's reverent secrets, are denied,*
Exposed, dissected, canvass 'd o 'er,
Each household wound and hidden sore;
His very heart hung forth a prey
To the sharp-tongued remorseless day.'
The temple he hath built will yield

For him alone no shrine to shield:

* Between the publicity of rank and that of genius, there is this difference the former has its consolation in a thousand luxuries-the home revealed is a palace; but genius, often girt with want, mortification, privation, disease, beholds its frailties, and its secrets dragged to light, and looking within for comfort, views but the scene of struggles, and the wit. ness of humiliation.

Nay, round the altar where he flieth,
The coil'd and venomed slander lieth-
Crush'd by the serpents of his doom,
Behold his Temple walls his Tomb!

Not these the thoughts that o'er the soul
Of the young student-lover stole,
All books---all matter of all thought,
Save one-to him were dead and nought;
And an ice lay o'er his mind,

And his heart was dull'd and blind.

I have thought that those who live
In the world, their fancies give,
Musing and self-conning spirits,
Whom desire by right inherits,
For desire is that we learn,
Which must ever vainly * yearn ;
And such natures vision-bowed,
Clasp a God in every cloud ;-

I have thought that these obey
Rarely human passion's sway,
Pining for imaginings,

Whose earthly shapes Fate never brings,

Only in that mystic time

Of the green youth's teeming prime,

* Hobbes.