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At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be

The nearest star, to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul,And seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace Remembered features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern
Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill-

The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth, Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,

Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art mine only counsellor, with whom
Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core,

A boyish thought, and weak:

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn mine eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With nought but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone: And let me perish where no heart shall bleed, And nought, save passing winds, shall make my moan; No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine,

LESSON L.

Scene from the Poor Gentleman.

Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins.

Sir R. I'LL tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is.

Hum. Yes.

Sir R. Yes! is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?

Hum. Robert Bramble.

Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble, of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? Tis time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years; can you deny that?

Hum. Hem!

Sir R. Hem! what do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Hum. Because if I contradict you, I shall tell a lie, and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a-pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but to return to my position.

contradiction.

Hum. Yes, you do.

(

I tell you I don't like your flat

Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their flummery.

Hum. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.

Hum. Hem! what is it?

Sir R. Sour crout, you old crab.

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many

a year.

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich and hate flattery. Ergo-when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Hum. That's wrong.

You know you shall

Sir R. Very well-negatur-now prove it.
Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man.
Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel.
never want while I have a shilling.
Hum. Well then I am a poor-

now, or I shall never get on.

-I must be a poor man

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince you you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion! now that's no flattery.

Sir R. Why no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where 's my nephew, Frederic?

Hum. Been out these two hours.

he's

Sir R. An undutiful cub! only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, scampering over the fields like a Čalmuc Tartar.

Hum. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he's a little like me, Humphrey?

Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit-Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five-and-twenty years ago.

Sir R. I did not drive him.

Hum. Yes you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument.

Sir R. At peace! zounds, he would never go to war.
Hum. He had the merit to be calm.

1

Sir R. So has a duck pond. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poor box gaping for half pence, and good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance. We could n't disagree, and so we parted.

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.

Sir R. A quiet life! why he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen and leather; what's the consequence? thirteen months ago he broke.

Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the business for him.

Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress I must not neglect his son.

Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederic.

Enter FREDERIC.

Fred. Oh my dear uncle, good morning! your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors till I got up.

Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.

Sir R. And pray what made you forget it?
Fred. The sun.

Sir R. The sun! he's mad! you mean the moon, I believe. Fred. Oh my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay, that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.

Sir R. Oh, Oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony and worry my deer.

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. Fred. I hate legacies.

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens at least.

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are posthu mous despatches, affection sends to gratitude to inform us we have lost a gracious friend.

Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues!

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.

Sir R. Now who had the familiar impudence to tell you that.

Fred. Old rusty, there.

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you did n't?

Hum. Yes, but I did though.

Fred. Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt sharing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.

Sir R. [Shaking him by the hand.] Jump out of every window I have in the house, hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow. Ay hang it! this is spunk and plain speaking. Give me a man who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrines smack in my teeth.

Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.

Hum. So do I.

Fred. You, you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you down.

Sir R. I'll knock you down if you do. I wont have my servants thumped into dumb flattery; I wont let you teach them to make silence a toad eater.

Hum. Come, you 're ruffled. Let's go to the business of the morning.

Sir R. Hang the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion. I hate the business of

the morning.

Hum. No you don't.

Sir R. Why don't I?

Hum. Because it's charity.

Sir R. Pshaw, hang it. Well, we must not neglect the business; if there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey.

Hum. [Reading.] Jonathan Haggans, of Muck Mead, is put in prison.

Sir R. Why, it was but last week, Gripe, the attorney,

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