Go, tell the Court it glows, Tell men of high condition Tell Age it daily wasteth, And as they shall reply, Tell Wit how much it wrangles Tell Fortune of her blindness, Tell Friendship of unkindness, Tell Justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, Tell schools they want profoundness, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell manhood shakes off pity, So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill. Evenings with the Poets. SECOND EVENING. MANY of our readers will remember somewhat of the dreadful snow-storm of 18—, the beginning of which had driven the happy circle of friends at Derley Manor to have recourse to in-door amusements, and the pleasing recreation of which we have described the earliest procedings. The storm continued with unabated fury during the night and through the following day. Piercing gusts of wind drifted it along the lawn and into the dell through which the pleasant little stream of Derley water had recently murmured over its pebbly bed. Now it was fast chained in the icy grasp of winter, and buried beneath heaps of drifting snow. It was, indeed, a season long remembered by many. All along the South Downs, and among the Northumberland and Cumberland hills, the flocks of sheep that had been tempted astray by E |