The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 534, February 18, 1832. Various

simple, helpless ignorance, is not to be imputed as a fault; but very often men are wilfully ignorant.

      We have fewer enemies than we imagine: many are too indolent to care at all about us, and if the stream of censure is running against us, the world is too careless to oppose it. If we could hear what is said of us in our absence we should torment ourselves without real cause, for we should seldom hear the real sentiments of the speaker; many things are said in mere wantonness, and many more from the desire of being brilliant.

      The man who feels he is in the right is seldom dogmatical, for truth is always calm and requires not violence to enforce her arguments: we should desist from the contest the moment we feel anxious about victory, because that anxiety must make us less particular about the truth.

      Quickness of intellect is no proof of solidity: the deepest rivers flow on the smoothest.

      The reason why there are so few instances of heroism in modern times is the total decay of political virtue: we are broken up into small parties and associate only with our families, thus forgetting the public, in our regard for private interest: the ancients were taught rather to live for the benefit of the whole community.

      An over-refined philosophy begets sensitiveness, and is as little to be coveted as a moderate share of it is beneficial.

      It seems to be the business of life to lay by fresh cause for anxiety and discontent by increasing our estate; whereas we should rather know how to lose it all, and yet be contented.

      There are some people, who though very amiable in the main, and obliging in their offices to others, have yet that most unhappy propensity of being gloomy over every thing.

      It is one of the wisest provisions of Fortune that the same vices which ruin our estates, take away also the means of enjoying them by depriving us of health.

      There is more virtue in obscurity than is commonly supposed; and perhaps there have been nobler specimens of magnanimity in low life, than even the page of history can boast.

      Knowledge of the world must be combined with study, for this, as well as better reasons: the possession of learning is always invidious, and it requires considerable tact to inform without a display of superiority, and to ensure esteem, as well as call forth admiration.

      Deceit has the effect of impoverishing, as well as enriching, men: the prodigal becomes poor by pretending to be richer than he really is, while seeming poverty is the very making of a miser.

      F.

      STANZAS TO THE SPIRIT OF MORNING

(For the Mirror.)

      Angel of morn! whose beauteous home

      In light's unfading fountain lies;

      Whose smiles dispel night's sable gloom,

      And fill with splendour earth and skies,

      While o'er the horizon pure and pale,

      Thy beams are dawning, thee I hail.

      The star that watches, pure and lone,

      In yon clear heaven so silently,

      Looks trembling from its azure throne

      Upon thy beaming glories nigh;

      And yields to thee first-born of day,

      Reluctantly its heavenly sway.

      Sweet spirit, with that early ray,

      Which steals so softly through the gloom,

      Trembling and brightening in its way,

      What beauties o'er creation come;

      Ere thy unclouded smiles arise

      In all their splendour through the skies.

      The rosy cloud—the azure sky,

      Earth—ocean, with its heaving breast,

      Where thy bright hues reflected lie,

      And there in varying beauty rest,

      Rejoice in thee; and from the grove,

      To hail thee, bursts the voice of love.

      Eternal beauty round thee dwells,

      And joy thine early steps attends,

      While music wildly breathing swells,

      And with thy gales of perfume blends:

      Pure, beautiful you smile above,

      Like youth's fond dreams of hope and love.

      Thy skies of blue, thy beaming light,

      Thy gales so balmy, wild, and free,

      Thy lustre on the mountain's height,

      Have charms beyond all else for me;

      Whilst my glad spirit fain would rise

      To hail and meet thee in the skies.

SYLVA.

      NOTES OF A READER

      BRITAIN'S HISTORICAL DRAMA

      We understand Mr. Pennie's design, in this volume, to be the chronological arrangement of certain incidents of each king's reign in a series of National Tragedies. There are four such tragedies in the present portion, commencing with Arixina in which figure Julius Caesar, Cassfelyn, and Cymbaline, and extending to Edwin and Elgiva: the titles of the intervening pieces are the Imperial Pirate and the Dragon King. There is much wild and beautiful romance in the diction, but we take the most attractive portion to be the lyrical portion, as the Chants, Dirges, and Choruses. We recommend them as models for the play-wrights who do such things for the acting drama, and if the poetship to a patent theatre be worth acceptance, we beg to commend Mr. Pennie to the notice of managers. The poet of the King's Theatre figures in the bills of the day, and yet he is but a translator.

      It is difficult to select an entire scene for quotation, so that we take a specimen from Arixina:

      CHORUS OF BARDS

DIRGESEMI CHORUS

      Mightiest of the mighty thou!

      Regal pearl-wreaths decked thy brow;

      On thy shield the lion shone,

      Glowing like the setting sun!

      And thy leopard helmet's frown,

      In the day of thy renown,

      O'er thy foemen terror spread,

      Grimly flashing on thy head.

      Master of the fiery steed,

      And the chariot in its speed,—

      As its scythe-wedged wheels of blood

      Through the battle's crimson flood,

      Onward rushing, put to flight

      E'en the stoutest men of might,—

      Age to age shall tell thy fame;

      Thine shall be a deathless name!

      Bards shall raise the song for thee

      In the halls of Chivalry.

GRAND CHORUS

      His shall he a noble pyre!

      Robes of gold shall feed the fire;

      Amber, gums, and richest pearl

      On his bed of glory hurl:

      Trophies of his conquering might,

      Skulls of foes, and banners bright,

      Shields, and splendid armour, won

      When the combat-day was done,

      On his blazing death-pile heap,

      Where the brave in glory sleep!

      And the Romans' vaunted pride,

      Their eagle-god, in blood streams dyed,

      Which, amid the battle's roar,

      From their