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In equal intervals, nor careless leaves

One inch untry'd. At length the tainted gales
His nostrils wide inhale; quick joy elates
His beating heart; cautious he creeps,

Low cowering, step by step:-at last attains
His proper distance; there he stops at once,
And points, with his instructive nose,
Upon the trembling prey.1

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend;
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes, for him alone;
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.2

Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew,
He, not unconscious of the voice and tread,
Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head;
Now, left to man's ingratitude, he lay,
Unheard, neglected, in the public way.

He knew his lord; he knew, and strove to meet,
In vain he strove, to crawl and kiss his feet;
Yet, (all he could,) his tail, his ears, his eyes,
Salute his master, and confess his joys:-
Soft pity touch'd the grateful3 master's soul,
Adown his cheek a tear, unbidden, stole,

Stole, unperceiv'd :—he turn'd his head, and dry'd
The drop humane; then thus, impassion'd, cry'd:-
"What noble beast, in this abandon'd state,
Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate?

His bulk and beauty speak no common praise,
If, as it seems, he was in better days;—

1 Somerville.

2 Byron.

3 "Mighty" in the text.

Some care his age deserves."

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Oh! had you seen him, vig'rous, bold, and young,
Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong;

Him no fell savage on the plain withstood;
None 'scap'd him, bosom'd in the lonely wood;
His eye how piercing, and his scent how true,
To winde the vapour in the tainted dew!——
The dog, whom Fate had granted to behold
His lord, when twenty tedious years had roll'd,
Takes a last look, and, having seen him, dies.
So clos'd, for ever, faithful Argus' eyes.1

Never forget the poor African servant-(I disdain to call him slave)—who, when the alternative presented itself whether he, or his master's children, should be taken into the boat (a case of shipwreck) and saved, "Very well, give my duty to my master, and tell him I beg pardon for all my faults;" -then placed the children safely in the boat, and plunged into Eternity.

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The last of danger and distress;—

(Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)

And mark'd the mild, angelic air

The rapture of repose that's there

The fix'd, yet tender, traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,

1 Odyssey, xvii. (Pope's Translation).

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And-but for that sad, shrouded eye,

That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now,
And, but for that chill, changeless brow;
-Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
We still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair-so calm-so softly seal’d—
The first-last look-by death reveal'd.1

He reach'd his turret door-he paus'd—no sound
Broke from within;-and all was night around.
He knock'd--but faintly--for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believ'd not-yet foretold!
He turn'd not-spoke not-sank not-fix'd his look,
And set the anxious frame that lately shook.
He gazed how long we gaze-despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death, with gentler aspect, wither'd there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long, dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below ——
Oh! o'er the eye death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from its throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long, last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips;
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And sought repose-but only for a while;

1 The Giaour.

But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long-fair- but spread in utter lifelessness,
These and the pale, pure cheek became the bier. -
He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now,
By the first glance on that still-marble — brow.
It was enough—she died— what reck'd it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
Was reft at once!

Full many a stoic eye, and aspect stern,
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost,
In smiles that least befit, who wear them most.1
Those bitter smiles of anguish, and despair.

1 The Corsair.

CHAP. XVI.

MISCELLANEOUS.

WHOEVER relishes and reads Spenser, as he ought to be read, will have a strong hold upon the English language.'

The calm air of strength with which Milton opens Paradise Lost, beginning a mighty performance without the appearance of an effort.2

A work (Paradise Lost) to be perfected "by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit, who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases."

"To shame and silence those men who make genius an apology for vice, and take the sacred fire, kindled by God within them, to inflame men's passions, and to minister to a vile sensuality." 4

In Spence, Pope had the advantage of a critic without malevolence, who thought it as much his duty to display beauties, as expose faults; who censured with respect, and praised with alacrity.5

Thus much in favour of activity and occupation: the more one has to do, the more one is capable of doing, even beyond our direct task.“

1 Burke (See Life by Prior). 2 Campbell (British Poets). 3 Milton, vol. i. 122. (Symmons's edition).

4 Channing.

5 Johnson.

6 Burke.

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