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Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,
Honoring the holy bounds of property ;
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

Questenburg. 0, hear your father, noble youth! hear his Who is at once the hero and the man.

Oct. My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee.
A war of fifteen years
Hath heen thy education and thy school.
Peace hast thou never witnessed? There exists
A higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose.
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
These are not they, my son, that generate
The Calm, the Blissful, the enduring Mighty !
Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect,
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
The whole scene moves and bustles momently
With arms and neighing steeds; and mirth and quarrel
The motley market till ; the roads, the streams,
Are crowded with new freights ; trade stirs and hurrica !
But on some morrow morn all suddenly
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march, --
Dreary and solitary as a church-yard
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

Max. 0, let the emperor make peace, my father!
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
For the first violet of the leafless spring,
Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed !

Oct. What ails thee? What so moves thee, all at noe
Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither : 0! that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
Left in the distance, some delicious landsca pe !
My road conducted me through countries where
The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father --
My venerable father, life has charms
Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been
But voyaging along its barren coasts,
Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,
That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
House on the wild sea with wild usages,
Nor know aught of the mainland, but the bays
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing
Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
Of fair and exquisite, -- 0! nothing, nothing
Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.

Act. And so your journey has revealed this to you? Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life. 0, tell me, What is the meed and purpose of the toil,

The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth,
Left me a heart unsouled and solitary,
A spirit uninformed, unornamented!
For the camp's sti", and crowd, and ceaseless lărum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,
Word of command, and exercise of arms
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not
This cannot be the sole felicity,
These cannot be man's best and only pleasures !

Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.

Max. 0! day thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
Returns home into life; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
The colors are unfurled, the cavalcade
Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and, hark!
Now the soft peace-march beats, Home, brothers, home
The caps and helmets are all garlanded
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields
The city gates fly open of themselves;
They need no longer the petard to tear them.
The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,
Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
0, happy man, 0, fortunate! for whom
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing!

SCHILLER, TRANSLATED BY COLERIDOB

CLXIII. — THE VANITY AND GLORY OF LITERATURE.

1. PARADOXICALEI as it may seem, the chief cause of the virtual oblivion of books is no longer their extinction, but the fond care with which they are preserved, and their immensely rapid multiplication. The press is more than a match for the moth and the worm, or the mou.dering hand of time; yet the great destroyer equally fulfils his commission, by burying books under the pyramide which is formed by their accumulation. It is a striking example of the im'potence with which man struggles against ti e destiny which awaits him and his works, that the very means he takes to insure immortality destroy it; that the very activity of the press, of the instrument by which he seemed to have taken

.

pledges against time and fortune, is that which will make him the spoil of both. The books themselves may no longer die; but their spirit does : and they become like old men whose bodies have outlived their minds, — a spectacle more piteous than death itself.

2. It is really curious to look into the index of such learnëd writers as Jeremy Taylor, Cudworth, or Leibnitz,Et and to see the havoc which has been made on the memory of the greater part of the writers they cite, and who still exist, though no longer to be cited; of men who were their great contemporaries or immé diate predecessors, and who are quoted by them just as Locke or Burke is quoted by us. Of scarcely one in ten of these grave authorities has the best-informed student of our day read ten pages. The very names of vast numbers have all but perished; at all events, have died out of familiar remembrance. Let the student, who flatters himself that he is not ill-informed, glance over the index of even such a work as Hallam's “ History of European Literature,” - designed only to record the more memorable names, and ask himself of how many of the authors there mentioned he has read so much as even five pages. It will be enough to chastise all ordinary conceit of extensive attainments, and, perhaps, as effectually as anything, teach a man that truest kind of knowledge, the knowledge of his own ignorance.

3. But, without a gibe, 50 the destiny of the honest writer, even though but moderately successful, and much more if long and widely popular, is surely glorious and enviable. It may be true that he is to die, - for we do not count the record of a name, when the works are no longer read, as anything better than an epitaph, and even that may vanish; yet to come into contact with other minds, even though for limited periods, - - to move them by a silent influence, to coöperate in the construction of character, to mould the habits of thought, to promote the dominion of truth and virtue, to exercise a spell over those one has never seen and never can see, — in other climes, at the extremity of the globe, and when the hand that wrote it is still forever, — is surely a most wonderful and even awful prerogative. It comes nearer to the idea of the immediate influence of spirit on spirit than anything else with which this world presents us. It is of a purely moral nature; it is also silent as the dew, invisible as the wind!

4. We can adequately conceive of such an influence only by imagining ourselves, under the privilege of Gyges, ki to gaze, invis. ible, on the solitary reader as he pores over a favorite author and watch in his countenance, as in a mirror, the reflection of the page which holds him captive ; now knitting his brow over a

Wherein my letters (praying on his side
Because I knew the man) were slighted off.

Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case

Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; .
To sell and mart your offices for gold, .
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last !

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chas'tisement doth therefore hide its head.

Cas. Chas'tisement !

Bru. Remember March, the idegei of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice sakal

3. DESCRIPTION OF SATAN.
He, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured : as when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs ; darkened so, yet shone
Above them all the archangel : but his face
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched ; and care
Sat on his faded cheek ; but under brows
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride,
Waiting revenge.

4. Satan's APOSTROPHEEI TO THE SUN. 0, thou ! that, with surpassing glory crowned, Look’st from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 0, Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere ! Till pride, and, worse, ambition, threw me down, Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King

5. EVENING.
Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray
Hai in her sober liveryei all things clad.

pledges against time and fortune, is that which will make him the spoil of both. The books themselves may no longer die; but their spirit does : and they become like old men whose bodies have outlived their minds, — a spectacle more piteous than death itself.

2. It is really curious to look into the index of such learnëd writers as Jeremy Taylor,. Cudworth, or Leibnitz,Et and to see the havoc which has been made on the memory of the greater part of the writers they cite, and who still exist, though no longer to be cited; of men who were their great contemporaries or imme. diate predecessors, and who are quoted by them just as Locke or Burke is quoted by us. Of scarcely one in ten of these grave authorities has the best-informed student of our day read ten pages. The very names of vast numbers have all but perished ; at allaxanta bayn diad out of familiar remembrance. Let the

His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then, silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.

7. EvE's REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave
Thee, native soil ? these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods! where I had hope to spend,
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both! O, flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation and my last
Ať even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names !
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount !
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild? How shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ?

CLXV. - QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians,

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