B. A sad disease! If e'er the case recur,

And hellebore and blister fail of cure,

Why, let the critic lancet breathe a vein,

And free from folly at the expense of pain.

A.-Nor need. For, disenchanted now by truth,

Stand forth in real guise the dreams of youth.

Dicers I know them now in desperate game,

Mad jousters in the tournament of fame,

Where the too tempting prize though thousands miss,
Yet every rash adventurer deems it his.

-Mere doting usurers, their last guinea lent,
Even avarice dozed in dreams of cent. per cent.,
Whom hope, long promiser that seldom pays,
Cheats with post obit bonds of distant praise.

How blest are they to whom the immortal lyre Yields their full joy to listen and admire.,

What anxious hopes, what jealous fears arise,
Ourselves the candidates and fame the prize.

The student pale, with glory's passion fraught, To glory gives his daily, nightly thought; Day following day, long week succeeding week, More strong his love, and paler grows his cheek, Whilst to that inner heart's consuming glow The lofty mistress still replies him "No." Yet still lured on, tho' trembling for his pains, When of ten blotted lines scarce one remains ; Of love, of fear, he knows each anxious turn, Now fondly prizes, gladly now would burn: Till blest, at length, in Bulmer's loveliest dress, Proudly his babe he shows, his darling of the press.

But as, not seldom, o'er the peasant's field,

His children's bread, with doubt, with rapture till'd,

Comes sudden blight to mar his fondest aim,—
So fares it with the toiling serf of fame.

Too soon, on hurrying wings, or grey or blue,
Sweeps o'er his hopes the Demon of review,
Casts on his babe an eye of evil power,
And withers all his greatness in an hour.
Struggles awhile the strong but shrinking pride,
The hapless frame with genius still allied,

Struggles awhile, in vain, then, bending low,
Disdains, yet bows in anguish to the blow.

Spirits, I know, there are of steadfast force, With genius linked, steel-strung and yet not coarse, That proved, not worsted, in the Herculean thrall, Rise, like Antæus, stronger from the fall.

But they, the most, whom weaker nerves sustain, Shrink, like the plant, instinctive from the pain; Whilst some, like Keats, heart stricken over-much, Whilst the world sneer'd, have died beneath the touch.

Or grant, perchance, the splendid guerdon gained; Springs sorrow sudden on the good attained.

The critic's jest though scaped, or truth severe,

Yet comes the foe's loud laugh or silent sneer; Whilst every dunce would mar the hard-won fame, And mix his hisses with the world's acclaim.

Nor foes alone, nor dunces, shall combine

Even he, that earliest, best-loved friend of thine,

With whom thou brak'st the bread of trusting truth, Sheltering beneath the sacred tents of youth;

With him, so love had planned, through scenes to go

Of mingled pleasure or partaken woe;

The last affections of the parting man,

To close in fondness as the boy's began ;

Even he, at length, takes up the torturer's part,

With surer knowledge barbs the unthought of dart,

Or drives the poniard right into the heart.

Monster of faith! or should the friend forbear;

Should foes molest not, nay, should dunces spare ;
Yet wait not less, to nip or prose, or rhyme,

The silent blights, the sealing frosts of time.

Men fade like leaves! Leaves, budded from the pen,--
Forgive the equivoque,-fade fast as men.

Fanned by hope's vernal breeze, awhile they play,
Or fondly flaunt in glory's summer ray ;

But o'er their freshness steals th' unheeded year,

Words change their hues, and very thought grows sere,

'Till winter comes to rend each lingering name,

And prove how few the evergreens of fame.

Even ye, majestic band, to whom I owe,
By turns, or lofty thrill, or pause from woe;
Even ye, far beaming lights from centuries past,
Or so despondence deems, shall fade at last.

O'er surging years, our arts our arms that whelm, › Shall unborn races drift, or guide the helm,