244 
ing no will but theirs, of sacrificing 
one’s pleasures and affairs to the 
lightest of their caprices, and with a 
submission and a readiness which ex- 
clude from the compliance every idea 
of merit. When it is also considered 
that the restraint of the most profound 
respect continually affects all that is 
said and done, even in the freest mo- 
ments, it will be admitted that the 
jealousy and the enemies which are 
ever the appendages of royal favour 
are dearly purchased. Itis a mistake 
to suppose that this familiarity with 
the monarch enables a man to solicit 
favours: for he must on no account 
presume to.do this, or he runs the 
utmost risk of being for ever undone. 
DAYID HUME 
Met Madame , a Dutch lady of 
rank and literary talents, at the house 
of the Earl of Fife, at Whitehall. 
They were exceedingly pleased with 
each other, and the native of Batavia 
observed, that where Mr. H. was, no 
one ought to think of eating. The 
justice of this remark was in some re- 
spects verified; for, although the din- 
ner was excellent, some chickens, 
which had been reserved for a bonne 
bouche, were ordered to be removed, 
and placed at the fire; and the disser- 
tation of Mr. H. was so long, that a 
cat aciually ran away with them! 
JAMES Il. 
it was in 1682 that the Duke of 
York returned suddenly to England, 
with a view of re-instating bimself in 
the king’s favour. He went back to 
Original Poetry. 
[Oct. 1, 
Scotland in May, by sea; and on this 
occasion his ship* struck on one of 
the Yarmouth sands, called the Lemon- 
and-bar, where the Lords O’Brien and 
Roxborough, Mr. Hyde, (Lord Claren- 
don’s brother,) together with many 
others, perished. It was on this occa- 
sion his Royal Highness is said to 
have been particularly anxious for 
three descriptions of persons, the first 
two of which proved his ruin, —his 
priests, Mr. Churchill (afterwards 
Duke of Marlborough), and his dogs. 
CORNEILLE, 
This author has laid the French 
stage under great obligations. He 
was of too elevated a genius to have 
imitators ; and the imitators of Racine 
uve only copied his faults. Love, 
the soul of their pieces, is continually 
whining in an affectionate tone. An 
eclipse was coming over the glory of 
the tragic “scene of France, when 
Crebillon enlightened it again by the 
new species of writing with which he 
enriched it. Born with that happy 
genius, which, instead of wanting a 
model, was itself a model for others 
to follow, Crebillon was the first 
among his countrymen who knew the 
art of carrying terror and compassion, 
the two great objects of tragedy, to 
their highest degree of elevation. 
Corneille did not begin to rise till he 
wrote the ‘‘ Cid.” 
* The Gloucester, a third-rate man-ofs 
war,, 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
—<r 
ODE To A MOUNTAIN TORRENT; 
From the German of Stolherg. 
By GEORGE OLAUS BORROW. 
OW loveiy art thou in thy tresses of foam; 
And yet the warm bloodein my bosom grows 
chill, . 
yaar yelling, thou rollest thee down from thy 
home, 
Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill. 
The pine-trees are shaken,—they yield to thy shochs, 
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground; 
The rocks fly before thee,—thou seizest the rocks, 
And whirl’st them like pebbles .contemptuously 
round. 
The sun-beams have cloth’d thee in glorious dyes, 
They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow 
Those hovering columns of vapour that rise 
orth from the bubbling cauldron below. 
But why art thou seeking the ocean’s dark brine? 
1f grandeur make happiness, sure it is found 
When first from the Repu of the rock-girdled mive 
Theu boundest, and all gives response to thy 
sound. ! 
‘Then haste not, O Torrent, to yonder dark sea, 
For there thou must crouch beneath Slavery’s rod ; 
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,— 
Free a6 an ange), and strong as a god. 
True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, 
To gaze.on the sea, and its far-winding bays, 
When ting?d with the light of the wandering moon, 
Or red with the gold of the mid-summer rays ; 
But, Lorreut, what is it, what is it,—behold 
‘lbat lustre as pought but a bait and a snare; 
What is the summer-sun’s purple and gold 
To him who breathes not in pure freedoin the air? 
O pause for a time,—for a short moment stay ; 
til] art thou streaming,—my words are in vain; 
Oft-changing winds, with tyrannical sway, 
Lord there below on the time-serving main! 
Then haste not, O Torrent, to yonder dirk sea, 
For there thou must crouch beneath Slavyery’s rod5 
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,— 
Free as un angel, and strong as a god. 
—=r— \ 
SONNET To tHe MOON. 
How cold, yet beautiful, thou lookest dowa 
From thy thron’d height of blue, thou 
soft-ey’d Queen 
Of Heaven in allits glory; thy pure crown 
Rivals an angel’s diadem,—thy mien 
Is 
