The conveniences of the Deepdene are upon a scale of magnificence similar to that of the mansion in Duchess-street.  Their present Majesties, before their accession, were occasional visiters at the Deepdene; and upon the formation of the Queen’s Household, Mrs. Hope was appointed a Lady of the Bedchamber.

Few men, even in the philanthropic neighbourhood of Dorking, were more beloved than the late Mr. Hope.  His patronage by money and otherwise, was never vainly sought for a good object; and with this high merit we close our humble tribute to his public and private excellence.

PHILO.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

BACCHANALIAN SONG.

(From the “Noctes” of Blackwood.)

NORTH.—­The air, you know, is my own, James.  I shall sing it to-night to some beautiful words by my friend Robert Folkestone Williams, written, he tells me, expressly for the Noctes.

  Oh! fill the wine-cup high,
    The sparkling liquor pour;
  For we will care and grief defy,
    They ne’er shall plague us more. 
  And ere the snowy foam
    From off the wine departs,
  The precious draught shall find a home,
    A dwelling in our hearts.

  Though bright may be the beams
    That woman’s eyes display;
  They are not like the ruby gleams
    That in our goblets play. 
  For though surpassing bright
    Their brilliancy may be,
  Age dims the lustre of their light,
    But adds more worth to thee.

  Give me another draught,
    The sparkling, and the strong;
  He who would learn the poet craft—­
    He who would shine in song—­
  Should pledge the flowing bowl
    With warm and generous wine;
  ’Twas wine that warm’d Anacreon’s soul,
    And made his songs divine.

  And e’en in tragedy,
    Who lives that never knew
  The honey of the Attic Bee
    Was gather’d from thy dew? 
  He of the tragic muse,
    Whose praises bards rehearse: 
  What power but thine could e’er diffuse
    Such sweetness o’er his verse?

  Oh! would that I could raise
    The magic of that tongue;
  The spirit of those deathless lays,
    The Swan of Teios sung! 
  Each song the bard has given,
    Its beauty and its worth,
  Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven
    Was echoed upon earth.

  How mighty—­how divine
    Thy spirit seemeth when
  The rich draught of the purple vine
    Dwelt in these godlike men. 
  It made each glowing page,
    Its eloquence and truth,
  In the glory of their golden age,
    Outshine the fire of youth.

  Joy to the lone heart—­joy
    To the desolate—­oppress’d
  For wine can every grief destroy
    That gathers in the breast. 
  The sorrows, and the care,
    That in our hearts abide,
  ’Twill chase them from their dwellings there,
    To drown them in its tide.