VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!' To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,-- The song of Braham is an Irish howl,-- Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought.