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WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH;

AND :
T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.

1828.

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How beautiful are all the subdivi- at which memory pauses, baffled and Slons of Time diversifying the dream blindfolded, as she vainly tries to peof human life, as it glides away be- nefrate and illumine the palpable, the tween earth and heaven! And why Impervous darkness that shrouds the should moralists mourn over that mu- few first for-ever-forgotten years of tability that gives the chief charın to our wonderful being ? Long, long, long all that passes so transitorily before our ago seems it to be indeed, when we eyes, leaving image upon image fairer now remember it, the Time we first and dearer far than even the realities, pulled the primroses on the sunny still visible, and it may be for ever, braes, wondering, in our first blissful in the waters of memory slecping with emotions of beauty, at the leaves with a in the heart? Memory never awakes softness all their own, a yellowness nobut along with imagination, and there where else so vivid, “the bright confore it is

summate flower,” so starlike to our “That she can give us back the dead,

awakened imagination among the Even in the loveliest looks they wore !"

lowly grass-lovely, indeed, to our ad

miring eyes, as any one of all the stars The years, the months, the weeks, that, in their turn, did seem themthe days, the nights, the hours, the selves like flowers in the blue fields of minutes, the moments, each is in it- heaven !-long, long, long ago, the self a different living, and peopled, and time when we danced along, hand in haunted world. One Life is a thousand hand with our golden-haired sister, lives, and each individual, as he fully whom all that looked on loved !-long, renews the Past, reappears in a thou- long, long ago, the day on which she sand characters, yet all of them bear died-the hour, so far more dismai ing a mysterious identity not to be than any hour that can now darken us misunderstood, and all of them, while on this earth, when she--her coffinevery passion has been shifting and and that velvet pall descended-and dying away, and reascending into descended-slowly, slowly into the power, still under the dominion of horrid clay, and we were borne deaththe saine unchanging Conscience, that like, and wishing to die, out of the feels and knows that it is from God. churchyard, that, from that moment,

Oh! who can complain of the we thought we could enter never more! shortness of human life, that can re- And oh ! What a multitudinous being travel all the windings and wander- must ours have been, when, before our ings, and mazes that his feet have boyhood was gone, we could have fortrodden since the farthest back hour gotten her buried face ! Or at the dream

VOL. XXIII.

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