Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen

:

That as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,

Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds y-blent inclined all to sleep.
What music is there in this brief passage of SHELLEY :—
It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon-and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.

All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds,

The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds,

The willow leaves that danced in the light breeze,

And the firm foliage of the larger trees.

Two real poets-one who died too early, the other his friend who happily lived to find a sunshine in his life's winter-have each written sonnets as if in generous rivalry on the grasshopper and the cricket. These charming little poems are singular examples of different modes of viewing the same subject by two men of original minds :

The poetry of earth is never dead;

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:

That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury-he has never done

With his delights, for, when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;

O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

KEATS.

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song-
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

LEIGH HUNT.

Scene from the Critic.

SHERIDAN.

[IT is a painful thing to trace such a career as that of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The wit whose comedies were held by the most refined audiences to surpass all that Wycherley, or Vanbrugh, or Congreve had achieved-the orator after one of whose great speeches the first statesman of his age moved that the House should adjourn, because it was under the wand of the magician

-was in all his private dealings with his fellow-men little better than an accomplished swindler. Pitied he unquestionably must be, for he was the slave of the circumstances that surrounded him, and his false ambition could never aspire to the real dignity which the man of genius may always attain through that independence which is the result of the limitation of his desires. Sheridan was born in Dublin in 1751. His father was a teacher of elocution; his mother was a most amiable and accomplished woman, the author of "Sidney Biddulph" and "Nourjahad." When he was two-and-twenty, he married the celebrated singer, Miss Linley, whom he compelled to quit her profession. His first comedy was the "Rivals,” which, after a partial failure, was highly successful. "The Duenna," one of the most charming of English operas, ollowed. By some stroke of policy he became one of the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre, and in 1777 produced “The School for Scandal," perhaps the best comedy of wit in our language. "The Critic" followed in 1779. In 1780 he was brought into Parliament, and uniformly supported the Whig party. The latter years of his life must have been truly miserable. He had no certain means of support: he lived in a perpetual struggle with pecuniary difficulties; his necessities could not be laughed away by his animal spirits; he feasted at the tables of the great, and the luxury in which he occasionally participated only made his own home more cheerless. He died in 1816.]

Enter SERVANT.

Serv. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.

Dangle. Beg him to walk up.-[Exit SERVANT.] Now, Mrs Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to your own taste.

Mrs Dangle. I confess he is a favourite of mine, because everybody else abuses him.

ored diod Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if not of your judgment.

Dangle. But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but himself, that's the truth on 't-though he's my friend.

Sneer. Never. He is as envious as an old maid verging on the desperation of six-and-thirty; and then the insidious humility with which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any of his works can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which Le is sure to reject your observations.

Dangle. Very true, egad-though he is my friend.

Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all newspaper strictures; though at the same time he is the sorest man alive, and shrinks like scorched parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism;

yet is he so covetous of popularity, that he had rather be abused than not mentioned at all.

Dangle. There's no denying it-though he is my friend.

Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished, haven'? you?

Dangle. Oh yes; he sent it to me yesterday.

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you?

Dangle. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must own-though he is my friend that it is one of the most-he's here [Aside]finished and most admirable perform

Sir Fretful, (without.) Mr Sneer with him, did you say?

Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.

Dangle. Ah, my dear friend! Egad, we were just speaking of your tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful-never in your life.

Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy; for, without a compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whose judgment I value as I do yours-and Mr Dangle's.

Sir Fret. Sincerely, then, you do like the piece?
Sneer. Wonderfully!

Sir Fret. But, come now, there must be something that you think might be amended, hey? Mr Dangle, has nothing struck you?

Dangle. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most part, to

Sir Fret. With most authors it is just so indeed; they are in general strangely tenacious. But, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?

Sneer. Very true. Why then, though I seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection, which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention.

Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more.2114 joy stuens I jul

Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir Fret. You surprise me !—wants incident!

Sneer. Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few.

Sir Fret. Believe me, Mr Sneer, there is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I protest to you, Mr Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike you?

Dangle. Really I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient; and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth. Sir Fret. Rises, I believe, you mean, sir.

Dangle. No, I don't, upon my word.

Sir Fret. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul-it certainly don't fall off, I assure you. No, no; it don't fall off.

Dangle. Now, Mrs Dangle, didn't you say it struck you in the same light?

Mrs Dangle. No, indeed, I did not-I did not see a fault in any part of the play from the beginning to the end.

Sir Fret. Upon my soul, the women are the best judges, after all!

Mrs Dangle. Or, if I made any objection, I am sure it was to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was on the whole a little too long.

Sir Fret. Pray, madam, do you speak as to the duration of time, or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out?

Mrs Dangle. Oh, Lud! no. I speak only with reference to the usual length of acting plays.

Sir Fret. Then I am very happy-very happy indeed-because the play is a short play, a remarkably short play. I should not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste; but, on these occasions, the watch, you know, is the critic.

Mrs Dangle. Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to me.

Sir Fret. Oh, if Mr Dangle read it, that's quite another affair! But, I assure you, Mrs Dangle, the first evening you can spare