tion of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he, who feels the infirmities of age, dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of his youth. The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature and its effects are peculiarly striking in the domestic tribes. With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their antient oak And The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, To chase the dreams of innocent repose, All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear? Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, "Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; Giants and genii chained each wondering ear; Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life-all whisper of the past! As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! |