HOPE. 



of this his daily labour, lie had taken hours, which should have 

 been of rest, for independent composition. One poem, a 

 ponderous epic, with his name on the title-page, had already 

 been sent abroad into the world; but it had gone forth, like its 

 author, unfriended, ill drest, patron wanting, paper and printing 

 paltry. Its reception was accordant ; if II had thrown a 

 stone out of his garret window, the passing multitude (at least 

 if it had fallen harmless as his poem) could only have trodden 

 on or over it the same. Yet was he still sanguine and would 

 still believe that his neglected work, stone-like, as he proudly 

 fancied, in solid merit, might one day serve for a pedestal 

 whereon his laurelled statue might be planted, But few art 

 i In 1 pedestals formed of a single stone. To complete///*, In 

 must, he thought, lay one upon another; so lighted to his 

 labour by the ilicker of hope's torch and the ilare of tallow 

 candle, lie unit on working (blockhead as he was !) through 

 many a tireless winter's night at another ponderous block of 

 literature a second epic poem. 



Rough-hewn, thus, in winter, he had carved on it, in spring, 

 new forms of his creative imagination; summer had been 

 employed on their adornment, and with the summer's last roses 

 he had bestowed the last flowery touches on his darling work. 



It was the afternoon of a sultry first of August; "magazine 

 day''' just over, the hireling had got a respite from his daily 

 drudgery. He had employed it on the favourite labour of his 

 brain; but that was ended, his epic was actually completed, even 



