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nihilate? I propose, therefore, that a new Dictionary should be published, in which the words will be classed according to their most approved significations, in which all antiquated prejudices will be abolished, and an explication raisonné, as the French call it, will be given of

every term.

After all, a moral and ethical dictionary still remains a very great desideratum in our language; and when such a work shall be completed, we may hope to see philosophy of all kinds, but more especially that noblest branch of it, Metaphysics, rescued from all obscurity. Shall we not see that the most inveterate opponents have only differed about terms that the general ideas of men are more similar than they have been apt to imagine, only they have been misled for the whole of that valuable part of life during which their opinions are formed, by a want of understanding the English Language?

I trust that my readers will see in this paper indubitable marks of genius, since, from a small and apparently trivial beginning, I have arrived at so very splendid a conclusion. I should be very much shocked to hear, that, instead of persuading them of the erroneous interpretation generally adopted of many words in common use, it had taught them to acquiesce in the sentiment expressed in my motto, and thrown them, for relief, into the arms of Sleep!

I have often been struck with the singularity of

that fiction by which Homer bestows as a reward

on the God of Sleep,

"The youngest Grace, Pasithae the divine"

Sleep seems, of all states or accidents, the most incapable of grace, either of perceiving or displaying it; and those very persons who have contributed to give me this dislike to sleep, have often represented with some humour, and many fanciful allusions, the aukward attitudes and ungraceful noises of those determined sleepers, who, like the plaintive Catharine, close their eyes for the night in five minutes' time. Nor does it appear probable, that Mademoiselle Pasithaë would be at all ambitious of belonging to such a drone as Somnus, whose eyes would never be open to admire her charms, and whose habitation was too far removed from the abode of the more lively deities, to allow her to profit by the drowsiness of his constitution.

If any of my readers have ever been at a harehunt they will know, (probably if they have not, for I have never been at one myself,) that the animal, after many turnings and windings, returns upon her own steps, and, however she may seem to have lost sight of the original starting-place, generally finishes her career at no great distance from it. Perhaps some critic may have imagined that I had totally forgotten the original subject of my discourse; but I have proved to them that the course of my reasoning, though apparently irregular, was not irrelevant.

SONNET.

AMID those western clouds, while evening gleams
With softest splendour o'er the empurpled skies,
Embattled towers and nodding groves arise,
And prospects brilliant with unnumber'd streams!
Nor gay with shadowy tints the landscape seems,
But cheats the mind in truth's imposing guise,
Till by degrees each fairy picture flies,

And night's chill touch disrobes the glittering dreams.-
Thus Fancy, skill'd enchantress, straight to Folly,
Glosing with fair pretences, led me on.

Sweet was her witching song, and melancholy Before its magic influence far was flown;

But when the syren ceas'd her charm unholy, Lo! the fair fabric of my hopes was gone!

FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

Ah! gentle zephyr, ah! if e'er

Thou find the mistress of my heart,

Tell her thou art a sigh sincere,
But never say whose sigh thou art.

Ah! limpid rivulet, if c'er

Thy murm'ring waters near her glide, Say thou art swell'd by many a tear,

But not whose eyes those tears supplied.

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THE FLOW'R THAT BLOOM'D SAE BONILIE

Written in November 1817.

The morn was lovely, solemn, caum,
That dawn'd upon the lily lea;
The earth was breathing saftest baum,
And heav'n the sweetest melodie.
An ilka thing was beamin mirth,
An ilka thing was joy and glee;
An sweetly then was peepin forth,
The Flow'r that bloom'd sae bonilie,

The mildest airs that ever blew,
Were creepin o'er its verdant bed;
An richest draps o' early dew
Were glist'nin on its modest head.
An pleasure danc'd in ilka breast,
An love was in ilk glancin ee;

An thousand gratefu voices blest

The Flow'r that bloom'd sae bonilie.

But now ilk ee is downward cast,

An ilka voice is heard to mourn;

An hope is gone, and joy is past,
That never can again return.
An never mair, its sweets out-spread,
That dawnin blush o' morn shall see

For low in dust is withered,

The Flow'r that bloom'd sae bonilie.

The clouds were on the leafless bow'r,

The wins o winter o'er it blew ;
An wither'd was the fairest flow'r,
That ever drunk the mornin dew.
Yet ither sweets may grace the plain,
An ither flow'rets deck the lea;
But never mair will spring again,
The Flow'r that bloom'd sae bonilie.

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With many a massy battlement,
And many a lofty tower;

And there the rich Lord Egbert dwelt,
In high and haughty power.

But ah! can riches ought avail,
When peace of mind is flown;
Can dazzling lustre cheer the heart,
When innocence is gone?

Can all the pomp and power of state
Insure one moment's rest,

If "ghosts of unforgiven crimes,"

Still haunt the guilty breast

MUSEUS,

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