Of the extraordinary acquisitions of Mr. Borrow in languages, a pleasant story is told by Sir William Napier, who, looking into a courtyard, from the window of a Spanish inn, heard a man converse successively in a dozen tongues, so fluently and so perfectly, that he was puzzled to decide what was his country,--Germany, Holland, France, Italy, Russia, Portugal, or Spain; and coming down he joined his circle, asked the question of him, and was astonished by the information that he was an English Bible agent. Between the historian of the Peninsular War and the missionary an intimacy sprung up, which we believe has continued without any interruption to the present time.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
My goblet was exceeding beautiful; It was the jewel of my cave; I had A corner where I hid it in the moss, Between the jagged crevices of rock, Where no one but myself could find it out; But when a nymph, or wood-god passed my door, I filled it to the brim with bravest wine, And offered them a draught, and told them Jove Had nothing finer, richer at his feasts, Though Ganymede and Hebe did their best: "His nectar is not richer than my wine," Said I, "and for the goblet, look at it!" But I have broken my divinest cup And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!
My goblet was exceeding beautiful. Sometimes my brothers of the woods, the fauns, Held gay carousals with me in my cave; I had a skin of Chian wine therein, Of which I made a feast; and all who drank From out my cup, a feast within itself, Made songs about the bright immortal shapes Engraven on the side below their lips: But we shall never drain it any more, And never sing about it any more; For I have broken my divinest cup And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!
My goblet was exceeding beautiful. For Pan was 'graved upon it, rural Pan; He stood in horror in a marshy place Clasping a bending reed; he thought to clasp Syrinx, but clasped a reed, and nothing more! There was another picture of the god, When he had learned to play upon the flute; He sat at noon within a shady bower Piping, with all his listening herd around; (I thought at times I saw his fingers move, And caught his music: did I dream or not?) Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees; And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought-- The simple god!--he heard another Pan Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes! But I have broken my divinest cup, And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!