predominates over supply; the vital springs begin to fail; it stoops into an attitude of decrepitude;-it drops the burdens, one by one, which it had borne so proudly aloft; its dissolution is inevitable. "But as it is resolved into its elements, it takes all at once, a new, and livelier, and disembarrassed form-from the wreck of its members it arises, another, yet the same,'-a noble, full-bodied, arrowy stream, which leaps rejoicing over the obstacles which before had staid its progress, and hastens through fertile valleys towards a freer existence, and a final union in the ocean with the Boundless and the Infinite.

1Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

2With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge the close-packed load behind,
3Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
And having dropped the expected bag-pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
5With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
"But oh the important budget! ushered in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
"What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free and does she wear her plumed

D

;

And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Cowper.

Ex. 34.

George III. and his Family.

1. Narration. 2. Touching incident. 3. Endearing fondness. 4. Pathetic description of madness. 5. Resignation. 6. Sorrowful appeal.

1Of all the figures in that large family group which surrounds George and his queen, the prettiest, I think, is the father's darling, the Princess Amelia, pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the extreme passionate tenderness with which her father loved her. This was his favourite amongst all the children of his sons, he loved the Duke of York best. 2Burney tells a sad story of the poor old man at Weymouth, and how eager he was to have this darling son with him. The King's house was not big enough to hold the Prince; and his father had a portable house erected close to his own, and at huge pains, so that his dear Frederick should be near him. He clung on his arm all the time of his visit; talked to no one else; had talked of no one else for some time before. The Prince, so long expected, stayed but a single night. He had business in London the next day, he said. The dulness of the old King's court stupefied York and the other big sons of George III. They scared equerries and ladies, frightened the modest little circle with their coarse spirits and loud talk. Of little comfort, indeed, were the King's sons to the King.

3But the pretty Amelia was his darling; and the little maiden, prattling and smiling in the fond arms of that old father, is a sweet image to look on.

The Princess wrote verses herself, and there are some pretty plaintive lines attributed to her, which are more touching than better poetry :—

'Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,

I laughed, and danced, and talked, and sung:
And, proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain:
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.

'But when the hour of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could sing and dance no more,
It then occurred, how sad 'twould be
Were this world only made for me.'

The poor soul quitted it and ere yet she was dead the agonized father was in such a state, that the officers round about him were obliged to set watchers over him, and from November, 1810, George III. ceased to reign. All the world knows the story of his malady; all history presents no sadder figure than that of the old man, blind and deprived of reason, wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing imaginary parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly courts. I have seen his picture as it was taken at this time, hanging in the apartment of his daughter, the Landgravine of Hesse Hombourg-amidst books and Windsor furniture, and a hundred fond reminiscences of her English home. The poor old father is represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over his breast—the star of his famous Order still idly shining on it. He was not only sightless: he became utterly deaf. All light, all reason, all sound of human voices, all the pleasures of this world of God, were taken from him. Some slight lucid moments he had; in one of which, the Queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and found him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the harpsichord. When he had finished, he knelt down and prayed aloud for her, and then for his family, and then for the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself, that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if not, to give him resignation to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled.

What preacher need moralise on this story; what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too terrible for tears. The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission before the Ruler of kings and men, the Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Disspenser of life, death, happiness, victory. O brothers,' I said to those who heard me first in America-' O brothers! speaking the same dear mother tongue-O comrades! enemies

no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle! Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest: dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne; buffeted by rude hands; with his children in revolt; the darling of his old age killed before him untimely; our Lear hangs over her breathless lips and cries, "Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!"

'Vex not his ghost-oh! let him pass-he hates him

That would upon the rack of this tough world

Stretch him out longer!'

Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound, Trumpets, a mournful march. Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!

Thackeray.

Ex. 35.

The Battle of the League.

1. Description. 2. Tenderly. 3. Lofty anger. 4. Courteousness. 5. Acclamation. 6. Encouragement. 7. Excited expectation. 8. Instigation. 9, Animated description. 10. Exultation, with thankfulness. 11. Sarcastic address. 12. Reverently.

'THE King is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest :

"He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye :

"He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

4Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our line a deafening shout:5 'God save our Lord the King!'

6 And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Fress where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving! "Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the Golden Lilies,-upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 10Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale,

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, Remember St. Bartholomew !' was pass'd from man to man : But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman is my foe ; Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go.

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre! "Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne ;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward tonight,

12For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!

Macaulay.