ETHEL CHURCHILL.
171
Graces, do, certainly, round off a sentence; and the very common-place is redeemed by a fine world of olden poetry, that nothing can quite destroy.
There is an exquisite vein of flattery running through our ancient masters of song: when they wished to paint their mistress's charms, all nature was compelled into the sweet services. How fine is Dryden's,
"In the far land of pleasant Thessalie,
Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily!"
How sweet Donne's parting prayer to her who would fain have companioned him, a gentle page,—
"When I'm away, dream me some happiness;"
or the sea-captain's petition to his unknown mistress,—
"Tell me thy name, fair saint,
That I may call upon it in a storm,
And save some ship from perishing;"
