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Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear.

A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing ;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess’d
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury callid forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unreveald,
With maiden pride the maid conceald,
Yet not less purely felt the flame ;-
Oh! need I tell that passion's name?

Sir IV. Scott.

SHAKESPEARE AND BEN JONSON.

SHAKESPEARE was the man who, of all modern, and perhaps ancient

poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes anything, you more than see it-you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning give him the greater commendation. He was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is presented to him; no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets,

As the tall cypress towers above the shrubs."

The consideration of this made Mr Hales of Eton say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better done in Shakespeare; and however others are now generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to him in their esteem. And in the last king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him.

As for Jonson, if we look upon him while he was himself, (for his last plays were but his dotages,) I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions ; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humour was his proper sphere ; and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them ; there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times whom he has not translated in Sejanus' and 'Catiline.' But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch ; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represented Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially ; perhaps, too, he did a little too much Romanise our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them ; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit. Shakespeare was the Homer or father of our dramatic poets : Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing ; I admire him, but I love Shakespeare.

Dryden.

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YET are they here—the same unbroken knot

Of human beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea, the frame

Of the whole spectacle the same
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night,

That on their gipsy-faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I Have been a traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer

Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary sun betook himself to rest,
Then issued vesper from the fulgent west,

Outshining like a visible god

The glorious path in which he trod. And now, ascending, after one dark hour, And one night's diminution of her power,

Behold the mighty moon ! this way

She looks as if at them—but they
Regard not her. Oh, better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds, or evil, than such life!

The silent heavens have goings-on,
The stars have tasks -- but these have none !

Wordsworth.

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