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plaining misery. Many a vow have I made to suppress my unavailing grief, and refrain from visiting the place of her burial; when, in the very midst of my resolutions, my feet have unconsciously carried me to it again. Most truly might I have exclaimed with Tibullus,
"Juravi quoties rediturum ad limina nunquam ?
Cùm bene juravi, pes tamen ipse redit."
SONG. TO FANNY.
When morning through my lattice beams,
Although they bid my bosom ache,
For still I dream of thee.
When wit, and wine, and friends are met,
And laughter crowns the festive hour,
In vain I struggle to forget;
Still does my heart confess thy power,
And fondly turn to thee.
When night is near, and friends are far,
And, through the tree that shades my cot
gaze upon the evening star,
How do I mourn my lonely lot,
And, Fanny, sigh for thee!
I know my love is hopeless-vain,
Will make it break for thee!
ON AN INFANT SMILING AS IT AWOKE.
AFTER the sleep of night, as some still lake
As if from its calm depths the morning light
up the pleasant dreams that gladden'd night:—
So does the azure of those laughing eyes
The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown;
Hast thou been wafted to Elysian bowers,
In some blest star where thou hast pre-existed;
Around the golden harps of Seraphs twisted,
Perchance all breathing life is but an essence
We deem thy mortal memory not begun,—
Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast
Too high or deep for human fathomings?
Perchance, while reason's earliest flush is brightening
Mysterious type which none can understand,
Limbs lately touch'd by the Creator's hand :-
"I am no herald to enquire of men's pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues."
"Sunday must needs be an excellent institution, since the very breaking of it is the support of half the villages round town." BONNEL THORNTON.
If it were possible to trace back the current of an Englishman's blood to its early fountains, what a strange compound would the mass present! What a confusion and intermingling of subsidiary streams from the Britons, Romans, Danes, Saxons, and Normans; amalgamating with minor contributions from undiscoverable sources, mocking the chemist's power to analyse, and almost bewildering imagination to conceive! Being myself "no tenth transmitter of a foolish face," I have sometimes maliciously wished
that a bona fide, genuine, scrupulously-accurate family tree, shooting its branches up into the darkness of antiquity, could be displayed before some of our boasters of high descent and genealogical honours. Heavens! how would it vary from their own emblazoned parchment and vellum records! What confusion of succession-what scandal thrown upon Lady Barbaras and Lady Bridgets, all immaculate in their time what heraldic bars in noble scutcheons, ancient and modern, from the now first-detected intrigues of chaplains, captains, pages, and serving-men, with their frail mistresses, whose long stomachers, stuck up in the picture-gallery of the old Gothic hall, look like so many insurance-plates against the fire of Cupid's unlawful torch! Strange that there should be a limit to this pride of ancestry! If it be glorious to trace our family up to Edward the First, it should be still more so to ascend to Edward the Confessor; yet pride seldom mounts higher than the first illustrious name, the first titled or celebrated progenitor, whom it chooses to call the founder of the family. The haughtiest vaunter of high pedigree and the honours of unbroken descent, from the time of William the Conqueror, would probably weep with shame at being enabled to follow his name three hundred years farther back, through a succession of ploughmen, mechanics, or malefactors. As it cannot be denied that all families are, in point of fact, equally ancient, the distinction consists in possessing records to prove a certain succession; and even this, it appears, ceases to be a boast beyond a certain point. Fantastical vanity!
which, while it cannot deny to the beggar at the gate the privilege of being equally descended from Adam and Eve, rests its own claim to superiority upon being enabled to prove a fiftieth part of the same antiquity, struts, like the jay in the fable, in others' finery, and piques itself upon the actions of ancestors, instead of its own. Give me the man, who is an honour to his titles; not him whose titles are his honour!
But if an Englishman be such a heterogeneous compound as to his personal composition, he has the consolation of knowing that his language is, at least, equally confused and intermingled with Teutonic, Celtic, and classical derivations. Let us consider, for instance, the hebdomadary (as Dr. Johnson would call it), or the days of the week, named after the Sun, the Moon, Tuisco, Woden or Odin, Thor, Freya, and Saturn; four Scandinavian or northern deities, three Pagan gods worshipped in the south, and not one Christian sponsor! Let the reader lift up the curtain of time, and, taking a hasty glimpse of the last ten or twenty centuries, suffer his imagination to wander amid the scenes and associations suggested by the enumeration we have just made. Perched on the crags of rocks and mountains, and frowning at the rolling clouds and snow-storms that lour beneath, he will mark the gigantic heroes of the north; the warriors of Ossian will stalk gloomily before him; he will roam through the five hundred and forty halls of Thor's palace, till he find him seated on his throne with his terrific wife Freya by his side, and in his