Hard by, a venerable priest, Risen with his god, the sun, from rest, Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream; "He sang th' eternal rolling flame, "But shaped in twice ten thousand frames: "Thence differing souls of differing names, "And jarring tempers, rose. "The mighty power that form'd the mind "But parting from their warm abode "They lost their fellows on the road, "And never join'd their hands. "Ah cruel chance, arid crossing fates! "Our eastern souls have dropp'd their mates "On Europe's barb'rous lands. "Happy the youth that finds his bride "Whose birth is to his own ally'd, "The sweetest joy of life: "But oh the crowds of wretched souls "Fetter'd to minds of different moulds, "And chain'd t' eternal strife!" Thus sang the wondrous Indian bard; "Sure then (I cried) might I but see "That gentle nymph that twinn'd with me, "I may be happy too. "Some courteous angel tell me where, "What distant lands this unknown fair, "Or distant seas detain? "Swift as the wheel of nature rolls "I'd fly, to meet, and mingle souls, "And wear the joyful chain." CHAPTER IV. THE tone of English literature at this period can be traced in no small degree to a few fashionable writers, among whom Lord Lyttelton and the Earl of Chesterfield shone conspicuous. Through their influence literary pursuits became current in the higher circles of society. Lyttelton was a scholar of most exquisite taste; his writings were all highly polished, but they were more refined than impassioned, more delicate and sentimental than deep and philosophical, still there was much good sense in whatever he wrote. In parliament he was eloquent and honest, and loved to speak his mother tongue. In early life he wandered into the mazes of infidelity, but was not suffered to be entangled there long before the clue was given him to find his way out of darkness to the light. His treatise on the conversion of St. Paul has done much good in England. It is written in a plain but elegant manner, and served to check the progress of unbelief in the upper circles, and kept those from sneering at religion who had not courage enough to examine the subject. Lord Lyttelton wrote other works of great merit, and such as served as models of composition for the young aspirants for literary fame. His dialogues of the dead are full of wisdom and taste. a thousand times. His Persian Tales have much of oriental sweetness and imagination in them, and gave the reading community in England and this country a taste for those lovely creations of the imagination ;the Arabian, Persian, and other Eastern tales, now so much read in all civilized countries. They have been imitated The poetry of Lyttelton is smooth, plaintive, polished, and sweet. His monody on his wife is universally admired. There is no rage in his grief. His Muse wept as a mortal, but a consciousness that she was a celestial being shone through her tears, and threw around her an air of pious dignity. Chesterfield was fifteen years older than Lyttelton, but his literary labors did not commence so soon; politics absorbed his youth, what of it that was not spent in the whirl of fashionable life. He was one of those rare men who raise and direct the spell of fashionable life, which is soon broken and passes away like "the baseless fabric of a vision." It was in his reign and empire that letters were made fashionable. He wrote with uncommon grace and ease, and every line from his pen punished or annihilated a blockhead, as he chose. He was no less a man of talents than a man of the world. He saw every thing passing with the ken of a philosopher, and his creed was-carpe diem; he enjoyed whatever came in his way without whining at the inevitable evils of life. If some of his principles were lax, as indeed they were, his precepts were always safe as it regarded manners. He saw through men at a glance and judged them correctly. He assisted much to enlighten and polish his countrymen by his letters to his son, but these letters were but a small part of his literary works. He published several numbers in a periodical work called the World, which are admirable, both in respect to style and argument. He lived to old age, and, like the preacher of Israel, saw that all was vanity under the sun. The whole drama of human existence was opened up to his mighty mind, and he plunged deep into all the pleasures that dazzled his imagination, and at length bore testimony that all the illumination was a false glare; for he had been behind the scenes and discovered all the little dirty candles that lighted up the stage. The experience of such a man is worth attending to, as full of lessons of instruction. As a writer, his style should be regarded, as having in it much to admire and imitate. To Thomson we are indebted for much pure delight and instruction. He was as amiable as it is possible for man to be in this world of evil. He sung the seasons as man has viewed them and enjoyed them ever since they began to roll; yet the reader wondered that he had not felt them and enjoyed them precisely so before. He did not live long enough to give the world the mellow fruits of the autumn of life; those we have were summer productions, grown under ge nial suns, of beautiful colours, and of excellent flavor. His Castle of Indolence is superior to Ariosto's Grave of Sleep; its images are more natural, and the partial activity is better than the reign of silence. His Temple of Liberty is full of all that is elevated in sentiment and praise-worthy in history. The bright examples cluster upon one another, and the songs of freedom are grouped with true poetical power. "Had unambitious mortals minded nought, With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd; None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been, none prais'd. "Great Homer's song had never fir'd the breast To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds; Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; The wits of modern time had told their beads, And monkish legends been their only strains; Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds, swaing, Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with Warwick Nor had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains. "Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, |