• As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open daylight. Nothing remains undiscovered. Whatever he said is known; and without allowing him the usual privilege of hazarding sentiments, and advancing positions, for mere amusement or the pleasure of discussion, Criticism has endeavoured to make him answerable for what, perhaps, he never seriously thought. His diary, which has been We have before us the printed, discovers still more. very Heart of the man, with all his inward consiousness. And yet neither in the open paths of life, nor in his secret recesses, has any one vice been discovered.

ARTHUR MURPHY.

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The "Farewel" that Byron wrote, and that set so many tenderhearted white handkerchiefs in motion, only resulted from his poetical power of assuming an imaginary position, and taking pity on himself in the shape of another man. He had no love for the object of it, or he would never have written upon her in so different a style afterwards. There never was a greater instance of Lord Byron's Authorship and love of Publicity than his Fare-Thee-Well. He sat down to imagine what a Husband might say, who had really loved his Wife, to a Wife who had really loved him; and he said it so well, that one regrets he had not been encouraged, when younger, to feel the genuine passion. But the Verses were nothing more.

LEIGH HUNT.

When we know that Eliza, to whom Sterne wrote such sentimental, such affectionate Letters, was killed through his brutality towards her when we know that Shaw's ill usage was the cause of Emma's death, to whose Memory he penned the most affecting Monody in the English language, we need not be surprised at Byron's having been able to compose the following fine verses, without feeling a particle of the sentiment they contain. And when we are informed, that, at the very time the noble author was issuing Fare-Thee-Well into the world, he was busy in the composition of amorous verses to his kept Mistress, who can give him credit for sincerity of affection? B. S. N.

Fare Thee Well.

Alas they had been friends in Youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above:
And life is thorny; and youth is vain:
And to be wrath with one we Love,
Doth work like madness in the brain :

L

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.

COLERIDGE's Christabel.

Fare Thee Well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
E'en though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the World for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's wo —

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not!

Love may sink by slow decay,

But, by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away!

Still thy own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding beat;
And the undying thought which paineth,
Is that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the Dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our Child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"

Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of Him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love has blessed!
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayest see,
Then, thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults, perchance, thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Whither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling has been shaken;

Pride, which not a World could bow,
Bows to Thee by thee forsaken,
E'en my soul forsakes me now!
But 'tis done all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still;

But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way, without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,

Seared in heart, andlone, and blighted
More than this 1 scarce can die.

Sensibility.

Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! Thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw, and 'tis Thou who liftest him up to Heaven. Eternal fountain of our feelings 'tis here I trace Thee! and this is thy "divinity which stirs within me"; not that, in some sad and sickening moments, "my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction" mere pomp of words! — but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself, all comes from Thee, great great Sensorium of the world, which vibrates if a hair of our head, but falls upon the ground in the remotest desert of thy creation. Touched with Thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou givest a por

tion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains he finds the lacerated Lamb of another's flock this moment I beheld him, leaning with his head against his crook, with pitious inclination, looking down upon it "Oh had I come one moment sooner it bleeds to death!" his gentle heart bleeds with it. Peace to thee, generous swain! I see thou walkest off with anguish but thy joys shall balance it; for happy is thy cottage, and happy is the sharer of it, and happy are the lambs which sport about you.

STERNE.

England.

England! with all thy faults, I love thee still
My Country! and while yet a nook is left

Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrained to love Thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines: nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy Senate, and, from heights sublime
Of patriot eloquence, to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task;
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
As any thunderer there: and I can feel
Thy follies too; and, with a just disdain,
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonor on the Land I love.
How, in the name of soldiership and sense,

Should England prosper, when such Things, as smooth
And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er

With odors, and as profligate as sweet

Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,

And Love when they should Fight

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when such as these

Presume to lay their hand upon the Arkg at.

Of her magnificent and aweful cause!!

Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,

That we were born her Children

Praise enough

To fill the ambition of a private man,

That Chatham's language was his Mother-tongue,"
And Wolfe's great name Compatriot with his own.
Farewel those honors! and farewel, with them,
The hope of such hereafter! they have fallen-
Each in his field of glory; one in Arms,

And one in Council

Wolfe upon the lap

Of smiling Victory that moment won,

And Chatham Heart-sick of his Country's shame!
They made us many Soldiers. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness, at home,
Secured it, by an unforgiving frown,

If any wronged her; Wolfe, where'er he fought,
Put so much of his Heart into his Act,
That his example had a magnet force,

And all were swift to follow Whom all loved.
Those Suns are set. O rise some other such!
Or all that we have left is empty talk
Of old achievements and despair of new.

COWPER.

The sad evening before the Death of that noble Youth whose last hours suggested the preceding thoughts, I was with him. No one was there, but his Physician and an Intimate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. my coming in he said

At

"You and the Physician are come too late! I have neither Life nor Hope. You both aim at miracles you would raise the Dead."

Heaven, I said, was merciful

"Or I could not have been thus guilty! What has it not done to bless and save me? I have been too strong for Omnipotence! I plucked down ruin!"

I said the blessed Redeemer

"Hold, Hold! you wound me! That is the Rock on which I split I denied his Name!

Refusing to hear anything from me or take anything

(a) Altamont, was the gay and all-accomplished, Lord Euston.........