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stealing. I think his name was Shakespeare; I presume he soon sank into oblivion."

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has lasted beyond the ordinary term. There rise authors now and then who seem like the great trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream: by their vast and deep roots laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, they preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the current, and thus save from ruin many a neighbouring plant, and perhaps many a worthless weed. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying time, and retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day."

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a fit of laughter that had well-nigh choked him. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! And so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be preserved by a vaga-bond deer-stealer-by a man without learning-by a poet, forsooth, a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.

"Yes," I replied, "a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance of living. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the flavour of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which

enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language-its family jewels, which are thus handed down to posterity."

The sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto; but the worthy little tome was silent, the clasps were closed, and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have tried to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this actually took place, or whether it was one of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover.

Adapted from WASHINGTON IRVING.

54. ON CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been,
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold;
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne,
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

KEATS.

55. THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

Before my view appeared a structure fair,
Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;

With rapid motion turned the mansion round,
With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound;
Not less in number were the spacious doors
Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores;
Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,
Pervious to winds, and open every way.
As flames by nature to the skies ascend,
As weighty bodies to the centre tend,
As to the sea returning rivers roll,

And the touched needle trembles to the pole,-
Hither, as to their proper place, arise

All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,
Or spoke aloud, or whispered in the ear;
Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.
As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes
The sinking stone at first a circle makes;
The trembling surface, by the motion stirred,
Spreads in a second circle, then a third;

Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance,
Fill all the watery plain, and to the margin dance,—
Thus every voice and sound, when first they break,
On neighbouring air a soft impression make:
Another ambient circle then they move;
That, in its turn, impels the next above;
Through undulating air the sounds are sent,
And spread o'er all the fluid element.

There various news I heard of love and strife,
Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and

life,

Of loss and gain, of famine, and of store,

Of storms at sea and travels on the shore,

Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,

Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,

Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,
The falls of favourites, projects of the great,
Of old mismanagements, taxations new ;
All neither wholly false nor wholly true.

Above, below, without, within, around,
Confused, unnumbered multitudes are found,
Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away,
Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day:
Astrologers, that future fates foreshow,
Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;
And priests, and party zealots, numerous bands,
With home-born lies or tales from foreign lands;
Each talked aloud, or in some secret place,
And wild impatience stared in every face.
The flying rumours gathered as they rolled,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;
And all who told it added something new,
And all who heard it made enlargements too;
In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.
Thus flying east and west, and north and south,
News travelled with increase from mouth to mouth.
So from a spark, that kindled first by chance,
With gathering force the quickening flames advance;
Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,
And towers and temples sink in floods of fire.
When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,
Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue,
Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,
And rush in millions on the world below.

Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,
Their date determines, and prescribes their force;
Some to remain, and some to perish soon,

Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.

Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,

Borne by the trumpet's blast, and scattered through

the sky.

There, at one passage, oft you might survey

A lie and truth contending for the way;

And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent, Which first should issue through the narrow vent; At last agreed, together out they fly,

Inseparable now the truth and lie;

The strict companions are for ever joined,

And this or that unmixed no mortal e'er shall find.
While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,
One came, methought, and whispered in my ear,-
"What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?
Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?"
""Tis true," said I; "not void of hopes I came,
For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?
But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,
So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.

How vain that second life in others' breath,
Th' estate which wits inherit after death!
Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign
(Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine),
The great man's curse, without the gains, endure,
Be envied, wretched; and be flattered, poor;
All luckless wits their enemies profest,
And all successful, jealous friends at best.
Nor fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all.
But if the purchase cost so dear a price,
As soothing folly or exalting vice;

Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fallen ruins of another's fame,

Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays, Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise; Unblemished let me live, or die unknown;

Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!"

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POPE

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