----“And Sir John Hawkins,” exclaimed Uncle Timothy, with unwonted asperity, “whose ideas of virtue never rose above a decent exterior and regular hours! calling the author of the _Traveller an Idiot_' It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain to hear this Grub Street chronicler * of fiddling and fly-fishing libelling the beautiful intellect of Oliver Goldsmith! Gentle spirit! thou wert beloved, admired, and mourned by that illustrious cornerstone of religion and morality, Samuel Johnson, who delighted to sound forth thy praises while living, and when the voice of fame could no longer soothe 'thy dull cold ear,' inscribed thy tomb with an imperishable record! Deserted is the village; the hermit and the traveller have laid them down to rest; the vicar has performed his last sad office; the good-natured man is no more--He stoops but to conquer!” * The negative qualities of this sober Knight long puzzled his acquaintances (friends we never heard that he had any! ) to devise an epitaph for him. At last they succeeded-- “Here lies Sir John Hawkins, Without his shoes and stockings!” The Lauréat, well comprehending an expressive look from his Mentor, rose to the pianoforte, and accompanied him slowly and mournfully in THE POET'S REQUIEM. Ah! yes, to the poet a hope there is given In poverty, sorrow, unkindness, neglect, That though his frail bark on the rocks may be driven, And founder--not all shall entirely be wreck'd; But the bright, noble thoughts, that made solitude sweet, His world! while he linger'd unwillingly here, Shall bid future bosoms with sympathy beat, And call forth the smile and awaken the tear. If, man, thy pursuit is but riches and fame; If pleasure alluring entice to her bower; The Muse waits to kindle a holier flame, And woos thee aside for a classical hour. And then, by the margin of Helicon's stream, Th' enchantress shall lead thee, and thou from afar Shalt see, what was once in life's feverish dream, A poor broken spirit, * a bright shining star!---- Hail and farewell! to the Spirits of Light, Whose minds shot a ray through this darkness of ours-- The world, but for them, had been chaos and night, A desert of thorns, not a garden of flowers!