may look more sternly at the world's "follies," and become a severe parent, as the young beau generally becomes an old sloven; but I think I shall be able to make my son my friend,-a course of education favourable to a boy who is born when his father is young.

There are, however, men-and I could point out a very remarkable instance-who cannot bring themselves to such a line of proceedingwho see in their sons, rivals for "golden opinions," and opponents in the race of life-who hear with no pleasure the shrewd remark, the pointed phrase, or witty observations of the youthful aspirant for fame and honour; but who, feeling as parents do towards their offspring, and would feel, if they lived to the age of Methuselah, that they are still children, endeavour to check and subdue the ebullitions of their genius, and keep them subject to themselves.

Towards daughters the feelings of father are totally different-there is no rivalry to be feared there, consequently there is no jealousy. The more lovely, the more accomplished, and the more attractive a girl is, the more delighted is the fond father. In some instances, mothers are found somewhat to partake of the feelings of fathers towards their sons, with regard to the young ladies. Many a poor creature has been embargoed into the nursery or the governess's room for at least four years after she ought to have been out, because she unfortunately happened to be born when her mamma was not more than seventeen, and who at three-and-thirty did not like to have a beautiful repetition of herself at that age, constantly associated with her, to induce comparison.

By Jove, Sniggs has arrived, and the second bell is ringing-so away with my papers, and

"To dinner with what appetite we may."

CELESTIAL CONFUSION; OR, THE HEATHEN
RULE OF WRONG.

Of Juno the shrew, Jove was husband and brother-
Minerva's papa, too, without any mother,

Thus playing the part of himself and another:

Venus was Vulcan's half wife and half sister,

And proved to his breast a perpetual blister:

How strange!

(Had he sold her, he ne'er, by the bye, would have missed her),-
How strange!

Such things are recorded in heathenish song;
Such things, we on earth say, to scandal belong;
But the Gods-oh! they're always above doing wrong:

How strange!

G. D.

THE ISLAND.

"Pleasing myself with phantoms sweet,

Methinks the time runs very fleet."

Prologue of Burton's" Anatomy of Melancholy."

A boon, O world! a boon of thee:
Now turn away thy face,

And from thy cold clasp loose mine hand,
And let me dream a space :
A little space! mine after years
May pay thee all the price in tears.

I crave it by thy forehead's crown,
Thine hand's concealed dart,
The cloying honey of thy speech,

The fierce sting of thine heart;
Thy darksome palls from shining looms,

Thy mincing steps on hollow tombs.

Thy wreathed frown of aconite,
Thy smile of poison worse;
Yea! by thy soft-toned benizon

That curseth more than curse.

Fair world! my dream shall cease to be

And I have bitterer tears for thee.

My dream is of an island place,
The distant seas are folding;
And over which the only watch,
Those troopèd stars are holding.

Those bright, still stars! they need not seem

With more of brightness in my dream.

Hills piercing thro' the sky for light,
Ravines too deep to scan;

As if the wild earth mimick'd there
The wilder heart of man.

Only it shall be greener far,

And gladder, than hearts ever are.

More like, perhaps, some mount sublime
Of starry Paradise;

Disrupted to an hundred hills,

In falling from the skiesBringing within it all the roots

Of heavenly trees, and flowers, and fruits.

For, saving where yon spectral heights
Unsheath their rocky whiteness;

Or deep, dark fissures, miser-like,

Do hoard some fountain's brightness; (And e'en in them-stoop down and hearLeap sounds with water in your ear.)

Around, above, the plumed trees

Their gracious shadows throw,

Through whose clear fruit and blossoming
When e'er the sun may go;

The ground beneath he deeply stains
As shining through cathedral panes.
And little needs the ground beneath
That shining from above her,
When many Pleiades of flowers

(Not one lost!) star her over : The rays of their unnumber'd hues Being refracted by the dews.

Wide-petal'd plants, that boldly drink
Th' amneta of the sky,

That bells, all heavy with delight,
Whose faces earthward lie.

I cannot count them; but between
Is room for grass and mosses green.

Nor think each arched tree with each
Too closely interlaces,

T'admit of vistas opening free,

And sweet sun-basking places;
Upon whose sward the antler'd deer
May view their image long and clear.

Unless they fainer would behold
That image on the seas,

Whene'er's a way, through shelving rocks
And overbranching trees,

Whose doves, from half-closed lids, espy,
The green and purple fish go by.

One mateless dove is answering
The waters every minute,
Thinking such music could not be
Without his cooing in it.

So softly doth earth's beauty round
Infuse itself in ocean's sound.

My soul is bounding, strong in love,
To meet the bounding waves:

There, close to them, I choose mine home,
Within the coral caves;

And near me two or three may dwell,

Whom dreams fantastic please as well.

High caves and windings, not uncleft
In all their sparry ceilings,

Through which the earnest stars may shine
In prophet-like revealings:

On whose slant rays shall downward move
Smells from the flowers that grow above.

I said that two or three might choose
Their caves beside mine own,

Those who would change the din of man
For Nature's nobler tone,-

Man's veering heart and careless eyes
For Nature's stedfast sympathies.

No sod in all that island hath
Been opened for the dead-

No island wind hath borne a word
Of sorrow uttered-

We cannot say by water clear,

Or spreading tree,-"I suffered here."

Our only "farewell" shall be breathed
Toward the setting light;

When many a star the daytime hid
Will make us love the night.
Our only use of tears-t'express
The weight of too much happiness.

Our fancies shall bright plumage take
From all our island birds,

That shining dart from earth to heaven
And then in turn our words
Unconsciously shall take the dyes
Of those encoloured fantasies.

Yea! soon no consonant unsmooth,
Our smile-tuned lips shall reach;
And softer far than Greek-like sounds
Shall glide into our speech.
(What music did you ever find
So soft as voices glad and kind?)

And often by the joy without,
And in us overwrought;
All voiceless we shall sit and read
Such poems in our thought,
As Pindar might have writ if he
Had tended sheep in Arcady

Or Eschylus of the pleasant fields
He died in, longer knowing-
Or Homer, had he heard no sound
More loud than Meles, flowing-
Or poet Plato, had th'undim
Eternal God-light broke on him.

Choose me the loftiest cave of all
To make a place for prayer,
And I will choose a praying voice
To pour our spirits there.
How silverly the echoes run-
Thy will be done-thy will be done!

Gently, yet strangely-utter'd words!
They lift me from my dream.
It perisheth-the island place
That did no more than seem.

The streams are dry, no sun could find-
The fruits are fallen without a wind!

How oft the doing of God's will,
Our foolish will undoeth!
Yet softly breaks that idle dream
The morning light subdueth;
And happier 'tis to see the sun,
Than sleep and dream a brighter one.

Say ye mine happy island dream
Was made of foolishness?
All human thoughts of earthly joy
Are foolish not the less-

For we are sinners, Lord! With thee
Were innocence and agony.

We must endure; but not because
The world imposeth woe-
Prayers hold a better power than dreams,
And leave her far and low.

We cannot meet her cruel eyes

When ours are lifted to the skies.

We must endure; but not because
The world imposeth woe;

But rather that Thine hands perform
The thing appointed so.*

Those kindly-wounding hands did brave
Themselves a deeper wound, to save.

Hide from the taunting world our tears,
And teach us to the last

Thy will beside thy cross! that while
Our hearts are bleeding fast,

The droppings of thy blood may fall
Still faster on them, cov'ring all!

That when thy lips, grown pale for us,
Have said we dream in vain

Of happiness beneath a sun

Which darken'd with Thy painThey still may tell us " You shall be In Paradise, anon, with me!"

Job, chap. xxiii.