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“I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days:
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !

“I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies :
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !

“I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me; I must not see her:
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

“I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly,--
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces !

6 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

“Friend of my bosom! thou more than a brother!
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces !

“How some they have died, and how some they have left me,
And some are taken from me: all are departed:
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !"

There is another set of verses of Lamb's, which very gracefully and feelingly, and with admirable truth and a certain indescribable sort of playful pathos, express the emotion, not amounting to strong grief, occasioned by the death of one who had been pleasantly known, and the perplexity of mind in associating the lately living with

the grave:

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The prose and criticism into which Lamb describes himself as having dwindled are those delightful essays which have given such a pleasant popularity to his assumed title of 66 Elia.” I know of no essay-writing comparable to them, so full are they of an inimitable blending of thoughtfulness and playfulness,—that halfserious, half-sportive habit of mind, far more agreeable than wit, described by our word, --without, I believe, any equivalent in other languages, our English word humour.

I pass now to a name of high worth in English literature,--the poet-laureate, Robert Southey. His life has been one of extraordinary literary industry,-a career of most honourable authorship, actuated by the most ardent impulses, and never lowered to the flattery of mean tastes or temporary fashions, but steadily devoted to the purpose of instructing, improving, and innocently pleasing his fellow-beings. I am not able to recall the name of any author who has accomplished so many, such varied, and such laborious literary plans. In prose he will be remembered as the historian of Brazil, of the Peninsular War, of the Church of England, as the biographer of Nelson, of Wesley, and of Cowper, and as the writer of various miscellaneous works and essays and translations. The excellence of his prose style is distinguished : such is its native purity and ease that you may read page after page with scarce a thought of the transparent veil of words interposed between your mind and his. But my present duty is with his poetry alone.

Three or four years ago Mr. Southey, at the age of sixtythree, undertook what he regarded as a kind of testamentary task,--the collecting, arranging, and editing his complete poetical works. The task has been well fulfilled, with becoming modesty and an equally-becoming manly spirit of self-assurance. More than forty years had passed over some of the early poems; and, with the memory of the distant days revived and the present thought of the approach of the evening of his life, truly does he exclaim, "What is this task but to bring in review before me the dreams and aspirations of my youth and the feelings whereto I had given that free utterance, which by the usages of the world is permitted to us in poetry, and in poetry alone? Well may it be called a serious task thus to resuscitate the past. But, serious though it may be, it is not painful to one who knows that the end of his journey cannot be far distant, and by the blessing of God looks on its termination with sure and certain hope.” The honourable ambition of occupying a permanent place in the literature not only of his own country, but of all lands where the English language is spoken, could not fail to animate the breast of one whose gratitude was as deep as Southey's to the wise and good of other ages who had bequeathed their recorded thoughts and inspirations. The strong and placid feelings of the true-hearted man of letters were never better told than by him

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And, while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

“My thoughts are with the dead ; with them

I live in long-past years ;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

“My hopes are with the dead; anon

My place with them will be;
And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity,
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust."

That trust will not be frustrated : the name of Southey will not perish in the dust, whatever clouds may have gathered round the evening of his days. If his strength has departed from him, it has not been wasted by slothful neglect or by unworthy uses. A life of unwearied and unintermitted industry and of pure and honourable aim has been his; he has done a giant's work in his generation; and it is a very sad thing to think that now, when he has not quite reached the limit of his threescore years and ten, powers so well cultivated and so well employed should, by an inscrutable visitation, be impaired. I do not know of any piece of literary intelligence that has grieved me more than that the faculties of Southey's fine mind have been shattered.

6 What sight can sorrow find Sad as the ruins of the human mind?'

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