h as though new minted from the brain of the poet。 Being perfect； they can never droop under that satiety which arises from the perception of fault； their virtue can never be so entirely savoured as to leave no pungency of gusto for the next approach。
Among the many reasons which make me glad to have been born in England； one of the first is that I read Shakespeare in my mother tongue。 If I try to imagine myself as one who cannot know him face to face； who hears him only speaking from afar； and that in accents which only through the labouring intelligence can touch the living soul； there es upon me a sense of chill discouragement； of dreary deprivation。 I am wont to think that I can read Homer； and； assuredly； if any man enjoys him； it is I； but can I for a moment dream that Homer yields me all his music； that his word is to me as to him who walked by the Hellenic shore when Hellas lived？ I know that there reaches me across the vast of time no more than a faint and broken echo； I know that it would be fainter still； but for its blending with those memories of youth which are as a glimmer of the world's primeval glory。 Let every land have joy of its poet； for the poet is the land itself； all its greatness and its sweetness； all that inmunicable heritage for which men live and die。 As I close the book； love and reverence possess me。 Whether does my full heart turn to the great Enchanter； or to the Island upon which he has laid his spell？ I know not。 I cannot think of