Out ye agueish Faeries out! Chilly Lovers, what a rout Keep ye with your frozen breath Colder than the mortal death-- Adder-eyed Dusketha speak, Shall we leave them and go seek In the Earth's wide Entrails old Couches warm as their's is cold? O for a fiery gloom and thee, Dusketha, so enchantingly Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided! _Dusketha._ By thee Spright will I be guided I care not for cold or heat Frost and Flame or sparks or sleet To my essence are the same-- But I honour more the flame-- Spright of fire I follow thee Wheresoever it may be; To the torrid spouts and fountains, Underneath earth-quaked mountains Or at thy supreme desire, Touch the very pulse of fire With my bare unlidded eyes. _Salam._ Sweet Dusketha! Paradise! Off ye icy Spirits fly! Frosty creatures of the Sky! _Dusketha._ Breathe upon them fiery Spright! _Zephyr, Breama (to each other)._ Away Away to our delight! _Salam._ Go feed on icicles while we Bedded in tongued-flames will be. _Dusketha._ Lead me to those fev'rous glooms, Spright of fire-- _Breama._ Me to the blooms Blue-eyed Zephyr of those flowers Far in the west where the May cloud lours; And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are all whist Are shed through the rain and the milder mist, And twilight your floating bowers-- I have been reading lately two very different books, Robertson's America and Voltaire's Siecle de Louis XIV. It is like walking arm and arm between Pizarro and the great-little Monarch. In how lamentable a case do we see the great body of the people in both instances; in the first, where Men might seem to inherit quiet of Mind from unsophisticated senses; from uncontamination of civilisation, and especially from their being, as it were, estranged from the mutual helps of Society and its mutual injuries--and thereby more immediately under the Protection of Providence--even there they had mortal pains to bear as bad, or even worse than Bailiffs, Debts, and Poverties of civilised Life. The whole appears to resolve into this--that Man is originally a poor forked creature subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the forest, destined to hardships and disquietude of some kind or other. If he improves by degrees his bodily accommodations and comforts--at each stage, at each ascent there are waiting for him a fresh set of annoyances--he is mortal, and there is still a heaven with its Stars above his head. The most interesting question that can come before us is, How far by the persevering endeavours of a seldom appearing Socrates Mankind may be made happy--I can imagine such happiness carried to an extreme, but what must it end in?--Death--and who could in such a case bear with death? The whole troubles of life, which are now frittered away in a series of years, would then be accumulated for the last days of a being who instead of hailing