And tons of loadstones weighing on his soul;
And eye out-stretched upon some vasty map
Of uncouth worlds, which ever onward roll
To infinite--like Revelation's scroll.
Now falling headlong from his mountain bed
Down sulph'rous space, o'er dismal lakes;
Now held by hand of air--on wings of lead
He tries to rise--gasping--the hands' hold breaks,
And downward he reels through shadows of the dead,
Who cannot die though stalking in hell's flakes,
Falling, he catches his heart-string on some hook, and--wakes.

E.H.[1]


[1] Where did the Sportsman's Letters come from?--ED.

* * * * *


LACONICS.

There is nothing to be said in favour of fashion, and yet how many are
contented implicitly to obey its commands: its rules are not even dictated
by the standard of taste, for it is constantly running into extremes and
condemns one day what it approves the next.

There are some people so incorrigibly stupid and prosing, that wherever
they are anxious of securing respect, silence would be their best policy.