All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
* * * * * *
We ne'er shall look upon his like again,
For panting time toils after him in vain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;
Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way
With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!
Leaving this great poet's samples of the mighty line, or, as it is sometimes called, the lofty rhyme, to "speak for themselves," we conclude with a word or two on a subject to which one of his effusions here printed has (thanks to what are called the critics) unexpectedly led—we mean the subject of Literary Loans, or, as they are more familiarly and perhaps felicitously designated, Literary Thefts. A critic of high repute has said, "A man had better steal anything on earth, than the thoughts of another;" agreed, unless when he steals the thought, he steal the words with it. The economising trader in Joe Miller who stole his brooms ready made, carried on a prosperous business. Some authors steal only the raw material; or rather, they run away with another man's muse, but for fear of detection, and to avoid the charge of felony, leave the drapery behind—a practice which cannot be too severely reprehended. It is the same principle on which, according to Sheridan (Sir Fretful's friend!) gipsies disguise stolen children to make them pass for their own. Now Sir Fretful, alluding to Shakspeare in a poem which has never yet been published, says very nobly—
"Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not