this was beautiful, and that not so? Was he not a peasant by birth, and by fortune something lower; and was it not thought much, even in the hight of his reputation, that Southampton allowed him equal patronage with the zanies, jugglers, and bearwards of the tíme?

5. Yet compare his taste, even as it respects the negative side of things; for, in regard to the positive and far higher side, it admits no comparison with any other mortal's-compare it, for instance, with the taste of Beaumont and Fletcher, his cotemporaries, men of rank and education, and of fine genius like himself. Tried even by the nice, fastidious, and, in great part, false and artificial delicacy of modern times, how stands it with the two parties; with the gay, triumphant men of fashion, and the poor vagrant link-boy? Does the latter sin against, we shall not say taste, but etiquette, as the former dó ?

6. For one line, for one word, which some Chesterfield might wish blotted from the first, are there not, in the others, whole pages and scenes which, with palpitating heart, he would hurry into deepest night? This, too, observe, respects not their genius, but their culture; not their appropriation of beauties, but their rejection of deformities, by supposition, the grand and peculiar result of high breeding! Surely, in such instances, even that humble supposition is ill borne out.

7. The truth of the matter seems to be, that, with the culture of a genuine poet, thinker, or other aspirant to fame, the influence of rank has no exclusive, or even special concern: For men of action, for senators, public speakers, political writers, the case may be different; but of such we speak not at present. Neither do we speak of imitators, and the crowd of mediocre men, to whom fashionable life sometimes gives an external inoffensiveness, often compensated by a frigid malignity of character.

8. We speak of men who, from amid the perplexed and conflicting elements of their every-day existence, are to form

themselves into harmony and wisdom, and show forth the same wisdom to others that exist along with them. To such a man, high life, as it is called, will be a province of human life certainly, but nothing more. He will study to deal with it as he deals with all forms of mortal being; to do it justice, and to draw instruction from it, but the light will come from a loftier region, or he wanders forever in darkness.

9. Is he poor? So also were Homer and Sòcrates; so was Samuel Johnson; so was John Milton. Shall we reproach him with his poverty, and infer that, because he is poor, he must likewise be worthless? God forbid that the time should ever come, when he, too, shall esteem riches the synonym of good! The spirit of Mammon has a wide empire; but it can not, and must not, be worshiped in the Holy of Holies.

10. Nay, does not the heart of every genuine disciple of literature, however mean his sphere, instinctively deny this principle, as applicable either to himself or another? Is it not rather true, as D'Alembert has said, that for every man of letters, who deserves that náme, the motto and the watchword will be FREEDOM, TRUTH, and even this same POVERTY? and that, if he fear the last, the two first can never be made sure to hím?

QUESTIONS.

- 1. What rule for the inflections, as marked in the third paragraph 2. Why the rising inflections in the last paragraph?

EXERCISE CXLIV.

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

1. In her ear he whispers gayly,
If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well."

She replies, in accents fainter,
"There is none I love like thee!"
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village-maiden she.
He to lips that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
"I can make no marriage-present;
Little can I give my wife;

Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life."

2. They by parks and lodges going,
See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing,
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well:
"Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell."
So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers;

She will order all things duly,

When beneath his roof they come.

4. Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns,
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before;
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door,
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footsteps firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall:
And, while now she wanders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly :
"All of this is mine and thine!"

5. Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free;

Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the color flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin:
As it were with shame she blushes,
And her spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove;
But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheered her soul with love.

6. So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirit sank;

Shaped her heart with woman's meekness
To all duties of her rank;

And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such,
That she grew a NOBLE LADY,

And the people loved her much.

7. But a trouble weighed upon her,

And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burden of an honor

Unto which she was not born.
(p.) Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured: "Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"

EXERCISE CXLV.

THE MAID OF THE INN.

SOUTHEY.

1. Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies composure of settled distress.

The

2. No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom, half-bare; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

3. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been;

The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the maid of the inn.