We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of truth."

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?