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The Thyrsus-bearers' Bacchanalian glee
And stately panthers which around him prance, Proclaim'd the potent, joyous deity,
While fauns and satyrs reel'd in mystic dance. Frolicsome Mænads skip around the train,
The praises of his wine their gambols speak, A welcome joviality the cup to drain,
Beams from bright eye and purple-glowing cheek.
No spectre-skeleton around the bed
Of dying mortal, in those days of bliss, Stalk'd ghostly-gently, as the spirit fied,
The last breath melted in a balmy kiss. His torch a genius dropped, the scales of hell
Poised one whose grandsire, in this world below Dwelt once- —the Thracians' agonizing yell
The Furies heard, and were dissolv'd in woe.
Once more to transports that on earth were dear,
Thrill'd the bless'd shade in the Elysian grove; In his old race-course sped the charioteer,
And true-love's knot the happy spirits wove. In Linus' strain is heard the wonted song,
Admetus feels Alcestis warm embrace, Orestes saw his friend the bless'd among,
And Philoctetes weapons of the chase.
In virtue's steep ascent a richer meed
Life's straggler's won, who vanquish’d, being tried, And all whose arms achieved heroic deed
To heaven exalted were and deified. Silent, the gods before, each trembling form
That claim'd the dead, bowed with unearthly sigh ; To guide the pilot safe through flood and storm
The twin-stars sparkled in the midnight sky.
Where art thou, world of beauty ? Flowery prime
Of blooming nature, ah! return ere long!
Live only in the fairy-land of song ;
I look all round, no deity I find--
Only the fieeting shadow left behind,
Faded and fall'n are all these lovely flowers
Chill'd by the stormy north's ungenial gust; To crown one despot of celestial powers,
A heaven of gods hatb crumbled into dust ;
No longer greets mine eye Silene's ray,
Faint echo whispering, softly dies away.
No rapture catching from its own clear light,
The gladness which it gives it cannot feel, Of those who guide it, spirits pure and bright
Unconscious, happier never at my weal. Lost to the glory of her great First Cause
As pendulums in dull vibration waveNature submits to “cold material laws,
The Godhead vanish’d, and herself a slave.
Inviting respite every dawning morn,
And digging its own sepulchre, though soon In swift rotation, like a spindle borne,
Rises and sets the ever-circling moon.
Their native clime, the deities repair,
Self-pois’d, floats pendant in the ambient air.
Yes, homeward fled they, and with them to dwell
All that was lovely, lofty, and refin'd; Life's tints and music took of earth farewell,
And left a world where no soul is enshrin'd. Safe upon Pindus' top they hover nigh,
On Time's swift eddying tide though swept along, For what is destined upon earth to die
Shall live and bloom in bard's immortal song,
E. R. JOURNAL OF A LONDON SCHOOLMASTER.
Easter Monday. This day I have given my boys a holiday. I have employed myself fitting up a large closet in my small house into an apartment which I have dignified by the name of " study."
From the window of my sanctorum I can review the dwellings of my opposite neighbours, one of whom is a pigeon fancier ; his birds are his idols; he spends hours and hours with his pigeons daily. I at times hear him talk of the wonderful feats of his pigeons, for he frequently makes matches. He has one, he says, that often flies a mile in a minute. The pigeon fancier's wife dislikes her husband's “hobby," because, she says, it leads him into much company.
My neighbour to the left keeps a tripe and “offal” (awful !) shop. He frequently has a row of bullock's heads hanging out in the yard. He has hot sheeps' heads ready at eight o'clock every night. He boils his own cat meat, the steam from which, at times, enters our dwelling, and is anything but pleasant.
A few doors off lives a pork butcher. He carries on an extensive sausage trade, for his machine is going nearly all day long.
All this is anything but poetical. In a room a few doors farther on is a journeyman shoemaker. He is, I am sure, a great politician, for I frequently observe him, as he sits on his stool with his lapstone on his knee, intently perusing a newspaper. I never see this son of St. Crispin without thinking of Bloomfield.
But enough about my neighbours ; let me return to my own little study. Oh! it has been a busy day with us all ; wife, children, and self have been engaged, and really we have made the closet-study a very pretty little room. How the most humble abodes may be improved by a little pains-taking! In the dwell
. ings of the poor paint, whitewash, and colouring might be made to go a great way.
Little Johnny in his efforts to make himself useful, sadly detained us by sweeping and dabbling about unnecessarily, yet one could not be angry with him, he looked so happy. Children are never so delighted as when there is plenty of “stirring work” to be done.
In truth I am quite pleased with my study and its humble furniture. In one corner of the room stands a bust of my deceased
1 Continued from page 444, vol. xliv.
father; above it is a portrait of myself. Over the chimney-piece hangs a family group--my wife and the three children-painted in oil by myself. There hangs the very knapsack I wore at my back when I made the “grand tour," twelve years since. What recollections, what adventures does it call to my mind! Besides these are my fishing rod and basket; and there is my gun, but it enjoys a complete sinecure, as I have no use for it now.
The walls of my closet are literally covered with copper-plate engravings cut out of annuals, &c.; besides which there are a few old portraits. I have Shakspeare, Milton, Bishop, Taylor, Dryden, Addison, and some others. A few books, a vestry table, and three chairs, comprise the whole of the furniture of this my favourite little room.
As I smoked my pipe this evening in my humble apartment I felt as happy as a prince. My wife felt happy because she saw me so; and the children-God bless them!-have had quite a gala day, looking and pointing at the pretty pictures, and helping daddy."
I forgot to mention that I have a sampler of my wife's working hung on the wall, on seeing which my daughter ran to her drawer and brought me her sampler, and begged me to hang it up too. My son George was proud to see a map of his own filling up exhibited in “ father's study.” Master Johnny, too, would not let his mother have any rest till she cut him out a “hobby-horse to stick up in daddy's room.” A man of sixty pounds a year only to have a "study!” How the world would laugh at the idea of such a thing! Yes, of sixty pounds per annum, for I can only make my school produce that sum ; and this amount I am glad to secure, for we must have something—we must have bread and cheese.
But it was not always so with us ; we have known what it was to enjoy the luxuries of life, without having to exert ourselves to obtain them ; had a comfortable home with a study well lined from top to bottom, and all around, with goodly and expensive volumes. Alas! we know what we are, but we know not what me may be! I could endure, could suffer much, but then my wife; she, however, does not murmur ; but she must feel, deeply feel, our altered position.
But enough of this; I will not rake up old griefs ; let bygones be bygones. Many better men than myself have met with greater misfortunes. Let me rather thank Providence I am no worse off than I now am.
Riches do not make the man. I can think as profoundly in my humble closet as I did in my former well-furnished library. "" The mind's the standard of the man."
My wife is just putting the children to bed; they are saying their prayers. How beautiful it is to hear the words of supplication drop from the lips of children! “God bless father, mother, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, and all for whom we ought to pray. How delightful it sounds! And now they will kiss their mother over and over, and over again. I must drop my pen, for they are calling “ daddy” to their bedside, to kiss and bless them. Delightful task!
April 16th. My original composition class improves. I was this morning pleased to find the following letter as a school exercise, written by Master Rose, and addressed to his parents :
“Academy, April 16, 18—. “My dear Parents,
“Mr. K ---, you know, says in his first circular that he will endeavour to amend the hearts, as well as improve the heads of his pupils; in other words, he will try to make his scholars not only wiser but better.
“We do not say many lessons at our school, but we (at least, those of us who are attentive) know more than if we merely gabbled our task over, for our teacher lets no opportunity pass
of explaining the meaning of the words we repeat to him. Mr. K-- is also very fond of inducing boys to communicate to him their own ideas upon the lessons under consideration, and I can assure you that these conversations are frequently very interesting.
“ Although I am very young, my dear parents, Mr. K-- has convinced me there is a great difference between saying and knowing a lesson.
“ CHARLES Rose.
“Aged 13.” Master Smith, copying the style of Charles Rose, wrote the following letter in the original composition class :
“ Academy, April 16th, 18– “My dear Parents,
“Children,' says Mr. KM-,' are generally too much perplexed with books and lessons at school. The teacher,' says he, should himself be the vehicle to convey knowledge to his pupils, instead of torturing the mind of youth with lengthy and difficult lessons.
““The enlightened teacher,' says Mr. K-,, will be the friend and confidant of his interesting charges.' Mr. K--declares that he has as great an objection to pedagogues stuffing boys with more knowledge than can be well digested, as he would have to his purse cramming with sweetmeats, or other food, his children. ' But after all,' says our teacher, we must not be too sanguine,