om all things seem to be as they
really are, inspire thou my song; and unscale thou my eyes: teach thou
_to_ me the thing which is substance; and teach thou _to_ me the thing
which is shadow, while I sing of things which are to come, as one sings
of things which are past rehearsing. Grant thou _to_ me thought and
phraseology which shall severely sift out the whole idea.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

How few, favored by ev'ry element,
With swelling sails make good the promised port,
With all their wishes freighted! Yet ev'n these,
Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain.
Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
They still are men; and when is man secure?
As fatal time, as storm. The rush of years
Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes
In ruin end: and, now, their proud success
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow.
What pain, to quit the world just made their own!
Their nests so deeply downed and built so high!--
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

TRANSPOSED.

How few persons, favored by every element, safely make the promised port
with swelling sails, and with all their wishes freighted! Yet even these
few persons who do safely make the promised port with all their wishes
freighted, soon complain. Though they are free from misfortunes, yet
(_though_ and _yet_, corresponding conjunctions, form only _one_
connexion) they are not free from the course of nature, for they still
are men; and when is man secure? Time is as fatal to him, as a storm is
to the mariner.--The rush of years beats down their strength; (_that is,
the strength of these few_;) and their numberless escapes end in ruin:
and then their proud success only plants new terrors on the victor's
brow. What pain it is to them to quit the world, just as they have made
it to be their own world; when their nests are built so high, and when
they are downed so deeply!--They who build beneath the stars, build too
low for their own safety.

REFLECTIONS ON A SCULL.--LORD BYRON.

Remove yon scull from out the scattered heaps.
Is that a temple, where a God may dwell?
Why, ev'n the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul;
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall,
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
Behold, through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,
The gay recess of wisdom and of