For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled, To waft a feather or to drown a fly, (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) With silent finger pointing to the sky. But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Far out amid the melancholy main; As when a vulture on Imaus bred, Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, Look on her face, and you'll forget them all; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. My way of life is fall'n into the sere; I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear, Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes. Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness! Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, Fine by degrees and beautifully less, And die ere man can say 'Long live the Queen.' If in the above any reader should be reminded of the "long resounding march and energy divine" of poets past or present, it can only be because our illustrious and profusely-gifted bard has clustered together more remarkable, and we trust they will long prove memorable, lines, than any one of his predecessors has in the same space given an example of. That poem can be of no inferior order of merit, in which Milton would have been proud to have written one line, Pope would have been equally vain of the authorship of a second, Byron have rejoiced in a third, Campbell gloried in a fourth, Gray in a fifth, Cowper in a sixth, and so on to the end of the Ode; which thus realises the poetical wealth of that well-known line of Sir Fretful's, "Infinite riches in a little room." But we must not, by prosaic comment, detain the impatient reader from other specimens of the striking originality of this writer's powers. Among some fragments thrown loose in his desk, we find the following:-- When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could be gay. Again: There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, For coming events cast their shadows before; Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, Like ocean-weeds cast on the surf-beaten shore.