In caverns ’neath the vasty deep,
  Where sea-snakes in the wreck may creep,
    And feed upon man’s bone;
  Or in the ruins of the past. 
  Where thoughts that are not used are cast,
    And whirlwind, and the earthquake groan
  In pity, there, there, am I—­
  A withered thought—­that cannot die.

Light.

  But I was born within a light
    That kindled in the womb. 
  And I can never feel the night
    When all around is gloom;
  For joy looked pleased upon my birth,
  And cast a ray e’en on the earth;
  And fairies spun it in a ring,
  With a feather from their wing,
  And called it hope—­a charm for tears,
  And chained it to their silken ears.

Dark.

  And I was formed within a light
  That kindled in the womb of night,
    Of loathsome withered weeds—­
  And fate looked on and fanned the flame,
  But freed me from the touch of blame,
    Of all my evil deeds. 
  Enchantress waited on my birth,
  And bade the hypochondriac walk the earth.

Both, recitative.

  Together, together, yet, O yet we dwell,
  A glimpse of heaven in hell
  A glimpse of heaven in hell
  Which plays, which plays, like lightning on the tempest gloom,
  Or life within a catacomb,
  Or life within a catacomb,
  Pointing the many passions’ mood
  To strange but universal good.

* * * * *

DR. JOHNSON.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

The correspondent who furnished you with the article on “Dr. Johnson’s Residence in Bolt Court,” has fallen into several anachronisms, to which, I beg leave to call your attention.

He says, “here the unfortunate Savage has held his intellectual noctes, and enlivened the old moralist with his mad philosophy.”  If you refer to any biographical account of Johnson, you will find, his residence in Bolt Court did not commence till nearly twenty years after the death of Savage.  Johnson had no settled habitation till after that event, and they were both frequently obliged to perambulate the streets, for whole nights, for want of money to pay for a lodging; and instead of Johnson being an old moralist at this time, he was but thirty-three when his friend died, Savage being about forty-four.

Your correspondent has given a graphic description of our great lexicographer and his two associates, Savage and Boswell, all three of whom, he says, met at Johnson’s house in Bolt Court, and discussed subjects of polite literature; whereas his acquaintance with Boswell began only in 1763, and Savage died in Bristol, in 1742.  The work Johnson wrote, at the time of compiling the Dictionary, was the “Rambler,” and not the “Guardian,” as your correspondent asserts.  The latter was the joint production of Addison and Steele.