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-thou wilt certainly one day murder me! Every time I go to bed, I
pray that I may not perish in my sins, when thou again art as thou art now! when I am nothing to thee !
She spoke in so soft, so desponding a tone, and yet so resigned to her fate with bim, that he was moved to tears by her confused words and frightened appearance.
Oh thou, my Heavenly Father! sighed he then, and stood with clasped hands; till at length he clasped bis terrified wife, who could not comprehend him, who felt so patient, and so completely in his power, that she would not even scream, or call for help, if he should-Oh! thou Heavenly Father!-till at length he clasped her in his arms, and felt her glowing on his cheek.
297.-A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning stream, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express, (Fancy and wit in richest dress,) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us,
Bacchus we know, and we allow
Brother of Bacchus, later born,
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth, and log of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison; Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite
Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee; For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.
But as she, who once hath been
298.—THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
John FORSTER. ["The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith; a Biography; in Fow Books," has recently been written by John Forster, “of the Inner l'emple, Barrister, author of the Lives of Statesmen of the Commonwealth.” Mr. Forster has lighted up the authentic narrative of a literary life with the brilliant hues of taste and imagination; and, what is a higher thing, he has told the story of the errors, the sorrows, the endurance, and the success, of one of the most delightful of our best authors," with an earnest vindication of simplicity of character, and a deep sympathy with the struggles of talent, which ought to make every reader of this Life more just, tolerant, and loving to his fellons. Amongst the sound criticism of this volume we find the following sensible estimate of Goldsmith's immortal novel.]
Every one is familiar with the Vicar of Wakefield. We read it in youth and in age. We return to it, as Walter Scott bas said.