3. A WELCOME TO WINTER. — Thomson. See, Winter comes to rule the varied ycar, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my thems, These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms ! Congenial horrors, hail ! with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless Solitude I lived, And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrents burst; Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brewed In the grim evening sky. Thus passed the time, Till through the lucid chămbers of the South Looked out the joyous Spring, looked out and smiled

4. THE NEW YEAR. — Willis.
Fleetly hath passed the year. The scasons came
Duly as they were wont, — the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hòary man,
Frosty and stiff, — and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber ; we have plucked
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills ;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.

« God hath been very good." "T is Ile whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost ;
And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the listing of the cup, let Him
Have praises for the well-completed year

CCVI. — POPE'S EPISTLE TO DOCTOR ARBUTINOT.

When Pope had reached the meridian of his fame, he was beset, as many distinguished literary persons are at the present day, with applications from numerous writers, who had mistaken a desire to write for the ability, to read and revise their compositions, and to use his influence in having them pube lished. In this poetical epistle to his friend and physician, he humorously describes his annoyances; and expresses his fears that Bedlam (the mad. house) or Parnassus has sent forth the troop of poetasters and scribblor who lie in wait for him.

1. “Shut, shut the door, good John!" fatigued, I said ;

“ Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick-I'm dead!”
The dog-star rages ! nay, 't is past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassuski is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

2. Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,

A maudlin El poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engröss?
Is therole who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ?
All fly to Twickenham,* and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.

3. Friend to my life, which, did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song,
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
0, dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ;
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nino years."

* Pope's villa, on the Thames.

4. “ Nine years!” cries he, who, high in Drury Lane,

Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Obliged by hunger and request of friends,
“ The piece you think is incorrect? why, take it,
I'm all submission; what you 'd have it, make it.”-
Three things another's modest wishes bound:
• My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.” —
Pithoʻleon sends to me: “ You know his grace,
I want a patron; ask him for a place."
Pitholeon libelled me. " But here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him 166 Curll * invites to dine?
He 'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine."

5. Bless me! a packet. — “ 'Tis a stranger sues,

A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.".
If I dislike it, - Furies, death and rage;"
If I approve, « Commend it to the stage.”
There (thank my stars!) my whole commission ends ;
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house rejects him, “ 'Sdeath, I'll print it,
And shame the fools, — your interest, sir, with Lintot." -
Lintot,* dull rogue, will think your price too much.
“ Not, Sir, if you revise it and retouch."
All my deinurs but double his attacks ;
At last he whispers, “ Do, and we go snacks." -
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, -
“ Sir, let me see your works and you no more !”

CCVII. — THE CHARIOT RACE, WITH THE DEATH OF ORESTES 1. They took their stand where the appointed judges

Hlad cast their lots and ranged the rival cars.
Rang out the brazen trump! Away they bound !
Cheer the hot steeds and shake the slackened reins;
As with a body, the large space is filled
With the huge clangor of the rattling cars :
Iligh whirl aloft the dust-clouds; blent together
Each presses each, and the lash rings, and loud
Snort the wild steeds, and from their fiery breath,
Along their manes, and down the circling wheels,

Scatter the flaking foam.
2. Ores'tes still,

Aye,t as he swept around the perilous pillar,
Last in the course, wheeled in the rushing axle ;

• A publisher in Popo’s day. + Pronounced a ; meaning, always, ever.

The left rein curbed - that on the dexter hand
Flung loose. So on erect the chariots rolled !
Sudden the nian's fierce and headlong steeds
Broke from the bit, and, as the seventh time now
The course was circled, on the Lybian car
Dashed their wild fronts: then order changed to ruin:
Car crashed on car; the wide Crissa'an plain
Was, sea-like, strewn with wrecks; the Athenian saw,
Slackened his speed, and, wheeling round the marge,
Unscathed and skilful, in the midmost space,
Left the wild tumult of that tossing storm.

. Behind, Orestes, hitherto the last,

Had yet kept back his coursers for the close;
Now one sole rival left, on, on he flew,
And the sharp sound of the impelling scourge
Rang in the keen ears of the flying steeds.
He nears — he reaches — they are side by side ;
Now one — now the other — by a length the victor.
The courses all are past, the wheels erect-
All safe — when, as the hurrying coursers round
The fatal pillar dashed, the wretched boy
Slackened the left rein :- On the column's edge
Crashed the frail axle - headlong from the car,
Caught and all meshed within the reins, he fell ;
And, masterless, the mad steeds raged along !

4 Loud from that mighty multitude arose

A shriek - a shout! But yesterday such deeds -
To-day such doom ! - Now whirled upon the earth;
Now his limbs dashed aloft, they dragged him—those
Wild horses — till, all gory, from the wheels
Released — and no man, not his nearest friends,
Could in that mangled corpse have traced Orestes.

SOPHOCLES, TRANSLATED BY SIR E. B. LYTTON.

CCVIII. — ADVICE TO AN AFFECTED SPEAKER.

1. What do you say? What? I really do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. Upon my word, I do not !-0! now I know : you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once, “It is cold to-day”? If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say, “It rains," “It snows;” or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment me, say, “I think you look well.” — But,” you answer, “ that is so common and so plain, and what everybody can say.” “Well, and what if everybody can? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world ?

2. I will tell you what, my friend, — you do not suspect it, and I shall astonish you, – but you, and those like you, want common sense! Nay, this is not all; it is not only in the direction of your wants that you are in fault, but of your superfluities; you have too much conceit; you possess an opinion that you have more sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by the sleeve and whisper in your ear, “Do not try to show off your sense : have none at all; that is your cue. Use plain language, if you can; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some.”

LA BRUYERE.

ccIX. — LAMENT OVER LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 1. O, FOR the days and years that are gone by and perished from me, as water spilt on the sea-sand, uselessly and irretrievably! « Where is the fable of my former life?” Alas! the brilliancy of my day was spent utterly in its dawning. Feeble, and abortive, and fleeting, has been the time that I have passed; but other elements than these were within it, and had I but nurtured them, to me that foolish time had been the parent of a blissful eternity. But occasions are past, the hour of their reckoning is nigh at hand, even now my twilight is coming on, and my hopes are darkening into regrets.

2. Could I once again but so much as touch the hem of “the mantling train of far departed years," surely it should be my salvation. But time, as it speeds on, gives us the pass but glancingly, like the rush of a carriage on a railway, or a rocket into the air; we take no note of it while within our reach, and not till it is far away in the distance can we settle our sight steadily upon it, and estimate it duly. Days of my youth, it is even so, - ye were sent to me on an angelic mission, your bosoms overflowing with flowers, and fruit, and all things, whatever there be, of use and loveliness; these would ye have emptied into my hands, but I would not, and so it was your law to leave me, taking with ye no token of my thankful acceptance!

3. Even now, methinks, I see ye through the far air“ gliding metē'orous,” sinking into the dimness of distance, yet ever and