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all more or less indicative of their mental character. Montaigne indeed laments the ugliness of Socrates, and repeats the well known anecdote of the physiognomical judgment passed on him by Zopyrus, that he was “stupid, brutal, sensual and addicted to drunkenness.” With respect to the original moral qualities of the philosopher, the decision was not erroneous, for Socrates himself admitted that his virtues were a hard-gained triumph over his natural disposition. But the philosopher's forehead was a fitting tabernacle for a lofty mind. No craniologist would have doubted his intellectual power. The skill of Zopyrus was confined to the perusal of the lower features.

How delightful is the study of the human head! tery and a glory! It at once perplexes the reason and kindles the imagination! What a wondrous treasury of knowledgewhat a vast world of thought is contained within its ivory walls ! In that small citadel of the soul what a host of mighty and immortal images are ranged uncrowded! What floods of external light and what an endless variety of sounds are admitted to the busy world within, through those small but beautiful apertures, the eye and the ear! Those delicately penciled arches that hang their lines of loveliness above the mental heaven, are more full of grace and glory than the rainbow ! Those blue windows of the mind expose a sight more lovely and profound than the azure depths of the sea or sky! Those rosy portals that give entrance to the invisible Spirit of Life, and whence issue those “ winged words” that steal into the lover's heart or the sage's mind, or fly to the uttermost corners of the earth and live for ever, surpass in beauty the orient cloud-gates of the dawn! To trace in such exquisite outworks the state of the interior is an occupation almost worthy of a God !



The Hero conquers pain and death
Who proudly yields a transient breath

For immortality;
A dark oblivion doth not fall
Around him, like a funeral pall,

As when the dull herd die !


But oft his glory forms the light
That never dies of visions bright

That gifted bards inflame ;-
And ever like a guiding star
It gilds the rough red seas of war,

And shows the path to fame.


Though pale and tremulous lips may swear That life is sweet and fame is air,

The taunt ne'er stirs the brave; For oh! how pitiful and brief The life that like a scentless leaf

Can charm not from the grave.


The purest spirits of the sky
May still revert with partial eye

To all they loved below,
And, while their honored offspring share
The lustre of the name they bear,

With tender transport glow.

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Oh! who then would not dare the death
That heroes die, and seize the wreath

No mortal blast may blight?
The general doom that mocks his kind
He half defies who leaves behind

A trail of living light !


The moon is high,
But still her beam
Is pale, and partly shrouded ;-
Unmoving vapours stain the sky,
The slumbering lake is clouded,
Yet looks so calm 'tis hard to deem
The tempest e'er hath ploughed it!

The groves are hushed,
And not a breath
Disturbs their coverts green,-
No boughs by fluttering wings are brushed, -
Still hang the dew-drops sheen ;-
'Tis like the fearful reign of death,
A solemn trance serene !

It is an hour
That well might fill
The lightest heart with sadness ;-
The silent gloom around hath power
To banish aught of gladness-
The good with awful dreams to thrill —
The guilty-drive to madness!



I sought the halls of Fame,

And raised a suppliant voice, But not one sound responsive breathed my name,

Or bade my soul rejoice!


In comfortless despair

To find ambition vain,
I leave forlorn the paths of public care,

And this low cot regain.


As some remembered scene

That charmed in sun-lit hours,
Grows drear and dull when tempests intervene

With wintry shades and showers ;


So every form of earth

Obeys a mental change,
And things that kindle in the light of mirth,

In grief, are cold and strange.


Thus wrapt in cheerless gloom,

My home is home no more, The place looks lone, the plants less sweetly bloom,

And charm not as before.


How dark the threshold seems,

How dim the casement flowers,
How sickly pale the star-like blossom gleams

O’er these still jasmine bowers !


A dread foreboding falls

Ice-cold upon my heart, -
Perhaps within these dear domestic walls

Hath fierce Death hurled his dart !

But hark! yon lattice shakes !

A female hand appears,
And, lo ! the face whose smile of welcome makes

Mine eyes forget their tears !


The roof with gladness rings

And quick feet tread the floorWith joyous shout a rosy cherub flings

Wide back my cottage door !


And oh, how different now
The thoughts that thrill my

frame ! I kiss with proud delight each dear one's brow,

And dream no more of fame.

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