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The Garden Seat.

"A thousand fantasies

Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dim,

And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTON.

"In him the pure well head of Poesy did dwell."-SPENSER.

On the stone seat reclined, with half-closed eyes,
Let me, O wizard Fancy! wave awhile

Thy magic wand: Lo! what a shadowy file

Of forms re-people these thick shades: the wise,
The noble, and the beautiful, arise,

Each in his different age's garb and style:

Shorn crown, plum'd hat, cowl'd frown, mustachio'd smile;

Ruffler, and priest, and knight, in motley guise;
Names known in British story: sages nurst

In these gray college-halls—far, from the throng
Stands one in meditative mood sublime,
Chaucer,* the morning star of English song,
Dreaming some tale or allegoric burst,

("The Flower and Leaf" perchance) of early rhyme.

*Those who favour the supposition that Chaucer was educated at Oxford, in preference to Cambridge, fix Merton as his college, probably because his friends Occleve and Strove were there.

The Sun Dial.

"Non numero horas nisi serenas."

"What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelment of lead and brass; its pert or solemn dulness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old dial! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens, Why is it almost everywhere vanished? If its business use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance. It spake of moderate pleasures not protracted after sunset, of temperance and good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horologe of the old world. Adam could scarce have missed it in paradise. It was the measure appropriate for sweet flowers and plants to spring by; for the birds to apportion their silver warblings by; for flocks to pasture and be led to fold by. The shepherd carved it out quaintly in the sun,' and turning philosopher by the very occupation, provided it with mottoes more touching than tombstones."--CHARLES LAMB,

What was the magic, gray and time-worn stone,
Drew me so often to reflect on thee,

With gaze half vacant, dream-like reverie;
While the long shadow, on thy surface thrown,
Crept on unmark'd? was it thy golden zone
Graven with figures mystical: thy face
Mingling deep shade and sunshine: thy green base
With mosses stain'd, and lichens overgrown?

Or did I see in thee Time's shrine, whereon
The mighty Moments priest-like offering cast,
Daily to the irrevocable Gone;

The Present sacrificing to the Past?
Or was it that thou told'st me to repent?
Say, of the buried Hours still monument!

Wycliffe.*

"The ashes of Wycliffe were thrown into the river Swift, which conve yed them into the Avon, the Avon into the Severn, the Severn into the narrow Seas, they into the main Ocean. And thus the ashes of Wycliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which is now dispersed all the world over."-FULLER.

"Of the book that had been a sealed up book

He tore the clasps, that the nation,
With eyes unbandaged, might thereon look
And learn the true salvation."-A

O! Wycliffe, when Rome's malice from the grave
Dug up thy bones, and their burnt ashes hurl'd
Into the water of the Swift, they swirl'd
From river on to river, till the wave
Of Ocean, wheresoe'er it knows to lave
The confines of the kingdoms of the world,
The relics bore :—even so hath Time unfurl'd,
Where'er Intolerance seeketh to enslave
Free judgment, free opinion, and free thought,
The banner of thy bold and faithful life,

Reform's first English champion; thou who fought
Ere Luther won; thou, whose long battle-strife
The priest-set seal tore from the Bible page,
To all men oped the Word; to every age.

* Wycliffe, though at first a Commoner of Queen's College, subsequently became a Postmaster, (Portionista) and Fellow of Merton.

There is nothing new under the Sun! Wordsworth, in his Sonnet on Wycliffe, puts into the mouth of " that ancient voice which streams can hear," (without acknowledgment) the words of old Fuller, thus

"As thou these ashes, little Brook! wilt bear

"Into the Avon, Avon to the tide

"Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas,

"Into main Oceans they, this deed accurst

"An emblem yields to friends and enemies

"How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctioned

"By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed."

Is this plagiarism? Is Byron's Shipwreck in Don Juan, beginning

'At half-past ten o'clock, booms, hencops, spars, &c. ?'

or may the Poet say with the audacity of old Montaigne, ' je re-prend mon bien on je le trouve ?'

Shadows of Pre-Existence.

ei

“ Κατ ̓ ἔκεινον γε τὸν λόγον, ὦ Σώκρατες, εἰ ἀλήθης ἔστιν ὃν σὺ εἴωθας θαμὰ λεγεῖν, ὅτι μάθησις οὐκ ἀλλὸ τι ἡ ἀνάμ νησις τυγχάνει οὖσα, καὶ κατὰ τοῦτον ἀνάγκη ποὺ ἡμας ἐν προτερῶ τίνι χρονῶ μεμαθήκεναι ἃ νῦν ἀναμιμνησκόμεθα, τοῦτο δε ἀδύνατον εἰ μὴ ἦν ποῦ ἡμων ἢ ψύχη πρὶν ἐν τῶδε τῶ ἀνθρωπινῶ εἴδει γένεσθαι.”—ΡLΑΤΟ.

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar;

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home."-WORDSWORTH.

"Like a thought

A dream remembered in a dream."-COLERIDGE.

"The thing that hath been is that which shall be, and there is no new thing under the Sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, see this is new? It hath been already of old time which was before us."-ECCL. Ch. 1-9.

Say, have you never felt a conscious start

At some chance passing act, or trivial speech;
And question'd memory in vain, to teach

The when, and where, we took the selfsame part
In word or deed; on us it seems to dart

So all familiar; yet, when we would reach
Forward, or to conjure it, or beseech,

It fades like ghost of necromantic art?
Such passage comes and goeth like the wind,
We know not whence or whither leaving the mind
Full of sweet doubt and strange perplexity-
Is it a glimpse of the Soul's former plight,
Seen faint but fair, as patch of moonlit sky,
Caught through the driving rack on gusty night?

CCXXX.

The Rookery.

"Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood."-SHAKESPEARE.

Dark plumag'd commonwealth for ages past,
Without a fear of ruthless boy to spoil
The callow brood, pledge of joint love and toil,
Or of the silent bolt from cross-bow cast,

High on ancestral trees secure and fast

Hath rock'd thy city free; contented they

Who from these halls and groves have pass'd away,
To hear thy citizens above the blast

In winter; and to watch in busy Spring
Thy noisy workmen their old seats repair
With plastic labour wonderful; to trace
Thy home-bound columns cluster thick in air;
And at the close of day, with circling grace,
Wheel round the chapel tower on easy wing

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