Let us find our old retreat,
    Yield us to the kissing wave,
  From the daylight’s parching heat
    In its cool profound to lave. 
  If ye needs must rob for beauty,
  Earth’s abysses teem with booty. 
    Gems, that love the blaze of day:—­
  We are tired of glittering shows,
    And the strife of man’s display;
  Let us sink to sweet repose
  Where the lulling water flows;
    Give us to our native bay!

Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine.

* * * * *

SHELLEY.

[We find the clever and curious sketches of Shelley, in the New Monthly Magazine, concluded with the following interesting anecdote.]

That Shelley gave freely, when the needy scholar asked, or in silent, hopeless poverty seemed to ask, his aid, will he demonstrated most clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps honest penury.  It is delightful to attempt to delineate from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty,—­but one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be selected, because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of alms-giving into the genuine virtue of charity—­self-denial.  On returning to town after the long vacation, at the end of October, I found Shelley at one of the hotels in Covent Garden.  Having some business in hand he was passing a few days there alone.  We had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city, at an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the evening, was his supreme delight.  The aspect of the fields to the north of Somers-Town, between that beggarly suburb and Kentish-Town, has been totally changed of late.  Although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of London; there were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding, and groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the village green.  There was, oh, blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks:  there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to the scene.  Whenever Shelley was imprisoned in London,—­for to a poet a close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol,—­his steps would take that direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who chose to guide his walk.  On this occasion I was led thither, as indeed I had anticipated:  the weather was fine, but the autumn was already advanced;