His intellect was just one ray above The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love. At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight; The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright. But, spite of all that Nature had denied, When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride, And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year, _Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear, "_His face was not the finest, and, indeed, He was a little, they must own, in-kneed; His shoulders, certainly, were rather high, But, then, he had a most expressive eye; Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined: Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!"
[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome, literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.]
Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd, I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark; As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark, Secure and fearless while a world was lost! In vain contending storms thy head enzone, Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls: The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne! E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod, Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm, Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm. And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O GOD! And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still, Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!"
Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq.
Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace The fire, the spirit, and the living grace, That mark the hand of genius and of taste? Who does not recognize in such a head Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred, Sagacity that's human, and a waste Of those high qualities, and virtues rare, Which poor humanity has not to spare?
Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd In the dear service of a Master--whom The world's concurrent voice has yielded now The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom; Nor is this fate less happy than the rest, That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_
How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, While sad experience, from his aching sight Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight, Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew. When want assails his solitary shed, When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares, That shower their shafts on his devoted head. Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, Is there a power, whose influence benign Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart? There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- Unswerving anchor of humanity!