WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire-the seat of his family, an ancient and honorable one-on the 30th of January, 1775. He was educated at Rugby. When he had reached nearly the head of the school, he was too young for the University, and was placed under the tuition of Mr. Langley, at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire; but a year afterwards, was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned Benwell was his private tutor. During his residence there, he is said to have manifested that independence of spirit, and restlessness of control for which he has been since remarkable; and was rusticated for shooting across the quadrangle at prayer-time. In 1808, on the first insurrection of Spain, he joined the Viceroy of Gallicia, Blake. The Madrid Gazette of that year mentions a gift from him of 20,000 reals. On the extinction of the Constitution, he returned to Don P. Cevallos the tokens of royal approbation he had received from the government, and expressed his sentiments on the subject in no very measured terms. In 1811, Mr. Landor married Julia, the daughter of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and representative of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles the Eighth. In the autumn of 1815 he retired to Italy: for some years he occupied the Palazzo Medici, in Florence, and then purchased the beautiful villa of Count Gherardesca, at Fiesole, with its gardens and farms, half a mile from the ancient villa of Lorenzo de' Medici. His visits to England for the last twenty years have been few and brief; but it is stated, we trust upon good authority, that "with all her faults," he loves his country too well to contemplate a final separation; and that it is probable the residue of his days will be spent in England.

Mr. Landor has afforded ample proof of a disposition exceedingly restless and excitable. He has more of the fierte of genius-less often witnessed than read of-than any living writer we could name. His countenance does not, at first, convey this impression; but it is impossible not to perceive that his passions are strong, his sensibilities keen and active, and his pride indomitable. His face is remarkably fine and intellectual; and, as with many who profess extreme liberal opinions, his look and bearing are those of a man who can have no sympathies in common with the mean and vulgar.

His works have not been popular; yet we might select at random, from any one of them, a dozen pages, out of which a more skillful, a more cunning, or a more humble man might have made a reputation. They are full to overflowing; one cannot but wonder at the vast mine of thought, reason, and reflection, of which they exhibit proofs;-at the same time, it will be lamented that some peculiar notions have led him to neglect the means by which his strong natural powers might have been made universally benefi cial. It is obvious that he labors to attain a dislike of, and a contempt for, human kind; and that his kindly and benevolent nature will not permit him so to do: in all his writings there is a singular and striking mixture of the generous with the disdainful, tenderness with wrath, strong affections with antipathies quite as strong. His "Imaginary Conversations" will endure with the language in which they are written; and if they do not find readers in the multitude, they will be always appreciated by those whose judgment is valuable, and whose praise is reward. His latest work in prose," Pericles and Aspasia," might justify even a warmer eulogy.

Mr. Landor has published but one volume of Poetry,-"Gebir, Count Julian, and other Poems;" but several of his most powerful and beautiful compositions will be found scattered through his prose works. Our readers will find in our selections ample to sustain a high reputation. They are polished to a degree; yet full of fine thoughts and rich fancies. The evidences of his genius for dramatic poetry are abundant, and received full justice, a year ago, in the New Monthly Magazine. To a glowing imagination and a mind remarkably vigorous, he adds the advantages of extensive learning, and a matured knowledge of human kind. His indifference to public opinionarising, no doubt, from a taste highly cultivated, and a refined appreciation of excellence-has, unhappily, induced him to withhold too much of the intellectual wealth he possesses, and even to mix with "baser matter" that which he has given us. If he had been born a poor man, he would have been, at least in the estimation of the world, a much greater man than he is. If, however, the fame of Walter Savage Landor be not widely spread, it cannot fail to be enduring. Among the rarest and most excellent of British Poets he wil always be classed.

102

GEBIR.

FIRST BOOK.

I SING the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt Among those mountain-caverns which retain His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells, Nor have forgotten their old master's name Tho' severed from his people: here, incens'd By meditating on primeval wrongs,

He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He call'd aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile.
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their tow'ring heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:
"If on your bosom laying down my head
I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child,
If I have alwavs, and Heav'n knows I have,
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name,
Succour this one distress, recall those days,
Love me, tho' 'twere because you lov'd me then."
But whether confident in magic rites
Or toucht with sexual pride to stand implored,.
Dalica smiled, then spake: "Away those fears,
Tho' stronger than the strongest of his kind,
He falls.. on me devolve that charge; he falls.
Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure;
Nay, journey to his tents: a city stood
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built,
Whose father Gad built Gadir; on this ground
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war.
Persuade him to restore the walls himself
In honour of his ancestors, persuade..
But wherefor this advice? young, unespoused,
Charoba want persuasions! and a queen!"

"O Dalica!" the shuddering maid exclaimed, "Could I encounter that fierce frightful man? Could I speak? no, nor sigh!"

46

And canst thou reign?" Cried Dalica; "yield empire or comply." Unfixt tho' seeming fixt, her eyes down-cast, The wonted buz and bustle of the court From far thro' sculptur'd galleries met her ear; Then lifting up her head, the evening sun Pour'd a fresh splendour on her burnisht throne.. The fair Charoba, the young queen, complied.

But Gebir when he heard of her approach Laid by his orbed shield, his vizor-helm, His buckler and his corset he laid by, And bade that none attend him; at his side Two faithful dogs that urge the silent course, Shaggy, deep-chested, croucht; the crocodile, Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid ears And push their heads within their master's hand. There was a brightening paleness in his face, Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks Shower'd on the lonely Latmian; on his brow Sorrow there was, yet nought was there severe. But when the royal damsel first he saw,

Faint, hanging on her handmaids, and her knees
Tottering, as from the motion of the car,
His eyes looked earnest on her, and those eyes
Shew'd, if they had not, that they might have

lov'd,

For there was pity in them at that hour.
With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks,
He sooth'd her, but lest Pity go beyond
And crost Ambition lose her lofty aim,
Bending, he kist her garment, and retired.
He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry noon
When viands, couches, generous wines persuade,
And slumber most refreshes, nor at night,
When heavy dews are laden with disease,
And blindness waits not there for lingering age.
Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he arrived
At those rich meadows where young Tamar fed
The royal flocks entrusted to his care.
Now, said he to himself, will I repose
At least this burthen on a brother's breast.
His brother stood before him. He, amaz'd,
Rear'd suddenly his head, and thus began:
"Is it thou, brother! Tamar, is it thou!
Why, standing on the valley's utmost verge,
Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore
Where many a league Nile blackens all the sand.
And why that sadness? when I passed our sheep
The dew drops were not shaken off the bar,
Therefor if one be wanting 'tis untold."

"Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold,"
Said Tamar; "and this dull and dreary shore
Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours."
Wheron the tear stole silent down his cheek,
Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd:
Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake :
"Let me approach thee; does the morning light
Scatter this wan suffusion o'er thy brow,
This faint blue luster under both thine eyes?"
"O, brother, is this pity or reproach ?"
Cried Tamar, "cruel if it be reproach,
If pity, O how vain!"

"Whate'er it be

That grieves thee, I will pity: thou but speak, And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang."

"Gebir! then more than brothers are we now. Every thing, take my hand, will I confess. I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold; How can I, lost in love? But, Gebir, why That anger which has risen to your cheek? Can other men? could you? what, no reply! And stil more anger, and stil worse conceal'd! Are these your promises, your pity this?" Tamar, I well may pity what I feel.. Mark me aright.. I feel for thee.. procede.. Relate me all."

"Then will I all relate," Said the young shepherd, gladden'd from his heart. "'Twas evening, tho' not sunset, and spring-tide* Level with these green meadows, seem'd stil higher.

'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck

*Along the Mediterranean the tides are sensible of hardly any variation. The coasts of Egypt are so flat, and the water so nearly on a level with 'em, that Tamar may be supposed to fancy it arising from spring-tide. Those who have ever from a low and even country looked upon the sea, will have observed that it seemed higher than the ground where they stood

The pipe you gave me, and began to play. O that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art! It always brings us enemies or love! Well, I was playing, when above the waves Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend; I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. Gebir! it was a nymph! a nymph divine! I cannot wait describing how she came, How I was sitting, how she first assum'd The sailor; of what happened there remains Enough to say, and too much to forget. The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank Before I was aware; for with surprise Moments fly rapid as with love itself. Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, I heard a rustling, and where that arose My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. Her feet resembled those long shells explored By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. Her eyes too! O immortal Gods! her eyes Resembled.. what could they resemble? what Ever resemble those! E'en her attire Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art: Her mantle shew'd the yellow samphire-pod, Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. Shepherd, said she, and will you wrestle now And with the sailor's hardier race engage? I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived How to keep up contention; could I fail By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, Or whether of the hardier race you boast, I am not daunted, no: I will engage. But first said she what wager will you lay? A sheep I answered add whate'er you will. I cannot she replied make that return: Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one and it awakens, then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. And I have others given me by the nymphs, Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. But we, by Neptune, for no pipe contend.. This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next. Now came she forward eager to engage, But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd, And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive. Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like heav'n, To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined: Above her knees she drew the robe succinct, Above her breast, and just below her arms. This will preserve my breath when tightly bound, If struggle and equal strength should so constrain. Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, And, rushing at me, closed: I thrill'd throughout And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. Again with violent impulse gushed my blood, And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, I heard it, rushing thro' each turbid vein, Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air.

Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms
I clung around her neck; the vest beneath
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined:
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside, and trembled til replaced :
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so comprest
That life was almost quivering on my lips,
Yet nothing was there painful! these are signs
Of secret arts and not of human might..
What arts I cannot tell.. I only know
My eyes grew dizzy, and my strength decay'd.
I was indeed o'ercome! with what regret,
And more, with what confusion, when I reached
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried:
This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.
She smil'd, and more of pleasure than disdain
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip.
And eyes that languisht, lengthening, just like
love.

She went away; I on the wicker gate
Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone.
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip..
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd..
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her.. she was gone.. gone down the
tide..

And the long moon beam on the hard wet sand
Lay like a jasper column half-uprear'd."

"But, Tamar! tell me, will she not return?" "She will return, yet not before the moon Again is at the full; she promis'd this, Tho' when she promis'd I could not reply."

"By all the Gods I pity thee? go on.. Fear not my anger, look not on my shame; For when a lover only hears of love He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. Away with watchful nights and lonely days, Contempt of earth and aspect up to heaven, With contemplation, with humility, A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when deform'd, Away with all that hides me from myself, Parts me from others, whispers I am wise.. From our own wisdom less is to be reapt Than from the barest folly of our friend. Tamar! thy pastures, large and rich, afford Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy sheep, But, battened on too much, the poorest croft Of thy poor neighbour yields what thine denies." They hastened to the camp, and Gebir there Resolved his native country to forgo, And ordered, from those ruins to the right They forthwith raise a city: Tamar heard With wonder, tho' in passing 'twas half-told. His brother's love, and sigh'd upon his own.

SECOND BOOK.

THE Gadite men the royal charge obey. Now fragments weigh'd up from th' uneven streets Leave the ground black beneath; again the sun Shines into what were porches, and on steps