Until I almost think that thou, the one,

Whose praise were sweeter to me than all fame, Will pity me, and turn aside with shame,

For thy poor friend's sad weakness.-What to me Were a world's verdict, if condemned by thee?

II.

Oh! would that I could sing as Petrarch sung,
Pouring his soul out in a flood of rhyme,
Mighty as his great passion, which nor time,
Nor myriad-handed circumstance has flung
Into the limbo of forgotten things-

Oh! for such power, that thy dear name might be
Embalmed for ever in sweet poetry-

But I-what can I do?-my feeble wings

Flutter, and droop after their flutterings,
Till my soul faints within me, and, whene'er
I look into the future, I see there
Nothing but utter failure and despair.

III.

But, what, if I should fail?—Are there not things

More worthy of my great endeavourings

Than this poor tinsel-glittering bauble-fame?
Friendship, and love, and holiness, and rest—
Are not these things more blessing and more blest?
And knowledge courted, not for what it brings,

But for its own dear sake? I know 'tis wise

To walk along the earth with downcast eyes,
Stifling our sky-ward yearnings. There are gems,
Earth-born, as bright as starry diadems :
Joy-giving love is common as the air;

And love's food-beauty,-is strewn everywhere.
Love!-how light all things are, which men desire,
Weighed against love!-fame lightest. I aspire
To win for my poor self a poet's crown;
Only because it would be passing sweet
To take it from my brows, and lay it down
Humbly at thy dear feet.

IV.

'T were a small tribute-what to thee I owe :
None but ourselves and our Creator know-
There was a youth, who, ever since his birth,
Had walked in perilous darkness o'er the earth;
Against the sharp stones dashing his bare feet,

Until, upon his way, he chanced to meet

A gentle saint, who, in her upraised hand,
Held a bright torch, which o'er the rugged land,
Lighted his stumbling footsteps; and the youth
Was led into the saving paths of truth

By this sweet saint; and from a darker fate
Than death was rescued, ere it was too late.
What wonder, then, that the poor youth, as now
He treads his torch-illumined path, should vow

To dedicate his powers to her, and take
The staff into his hand for her dear sake;
And pilgrim-like to journey on beside
His gentle torch-bearer-his saint-like guide,
'Tis a sweet tale, and yet a tale of truth-
Thou art the gentle saint, and I the youth.

J. W. K.

DOVETON.

CHAPTER I.

THE ORIGIN.

"I bear a memory of a pleasant life,
Whose small events I can recall."

BROWNING'S Paracelsus.

It is the crown of my ambition to write a book, which I shall never repent of having written, and which no good man will condemn; a book, which

in its

many pages shall contain nothing that is inordinate-a book, which shall be full of truth, not suffering the calm voice of benignant nature to be over-awed by the loud clamours of a too froward imagination.

VOL. I.

B

With the worst passions of man, I will have nothing to do in this book. I will have no revenge, no blood-thirstiness, no hatred even to the death. I know not what it avails to write of these evil things-if in reality they exist not, 'twere worse than folly to create them; if they do exist, what kind heart would desire to be reminded of their existence?

Is not composure better than excitement? Is it not nobler and wiser to melt the heart than to stir the passions? Oh! give me the pictures of Claude Lorraine, and banish those of Salvator Rosa: for now would I bathe my spirit in gentleness, and cast out all unworthy feelings of pride, bitterness, and discontent; and begin, as it were, a new life in the pages of this book, proposing to myself an end, perhaps too mighty for my weakness to accomplish, but supporting myself, in all my doubts, with the one clear reflection, that it is nobler to be worsted in a conflict with a giant, than to succeed in the demolition of a pigmy.

Thinking, as I do, that peace, and love, and content, and fortitude, and great forbearance, are themes not unworthy of being discoursed upon, and being assured that they exist everywhere, for here is more real goodness in the world than mankind is wont to admit, "I willingly confine