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In his Dying Indian, he has produced a few lines of extraordinary force and pathos. The rest of his poems, in blank verse, are for the most part of an indifferent structure.

In his Translations from Virgil, he
will probably be found to excel Dry-
den as much in correctness, as he
falls short of him in animation and
harmony.

ed, Gray perceived the author to be
devoid of invention, but praised him
for a very poetical choice of expres◄
sion, and for a good ear, and even
thus perhaps a little over-rated his
powers. But our lyric poetry was
not then what it has since been made
by Gray himself, the younger War
ton, Mason, Russell, and one or two
writers now living.

When his Odes were first publish

If he had enjoyed more leisure, it is probable that he might have written better; for he was solicitous not to lose any distinction to be acquired by his poetry; and took care to reclaim a copy of humorous verses, entitled, an Epistle from Thomas Hearne, which had been attributed by mistake to his brother, among whose poems it is still printed.

VOL. V.

THE SEA OF DEATH.

A FRAGMENT.

Methought I saw

Life swiftly treading over endless space;
And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace,
The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave,
Swallow'd her steps like a pursuing grave.
Sad were my thoughts that anchor'd silently
On the dead waters of that passionless sea,
Unstirr'd by any touch of living breath:
Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death,
Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings
On crowded carcases-sad passive things
That wore the thin grey surface, like a veil
Over the calmness of their features pale.

And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep
Like water-lilies on that motionless deep,
How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair
On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were
Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,
Meekly apart, as if the soul intense

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence :
And so they lay in loveliness, and kept

The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept

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With very envy of their happy fronts;

For there were neighbour brows scarr'd by the brunts
Of strife and sorrowing-where Care had set
His crooked autograph, and marr'd the jet
Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn,
And lips that curl'd in bitterness and scorn-
Wretched,- -as they had breathed of this world's pain,
And so bequeath'd it to the world again
Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs.

So lay they garmented in torpid light,
Under the pall of a transparent night,
Like solemn apparitions lull'd sublime
To everlasting rest,-and with them Time
Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face
Of a dark dial in a sunless place.

THE SPIRIT OF POESY.

"From impression ariseth expression." FRANCIS.

ART thou return'd again The lab'ring breast,
The full and swelling soul, the throbbing brain,
Are signs of thee; by these wert thou confess'd
In the fierce glow of summer, in the wane
Of autumn, in the cloud and hurricane
Of winter, and the changeful dawn of spring.
Thou art return'd, for fancy wakes the strain;
And as I bend me to her summoning,

Thy spell is o'er me cast, thy visions round me cling.

Whence, and what art thou? I have felt thy power
When my soul wish'd not for thee. I have sought,
And found thee not. In life's aspiring hour,
Courted and worship'd, to my youthful thought
No utterance thou gavest. I had wrought
The chaplet for my fair one; I had strung
The rosary of hope, and love had taught
My heart love's rhetoric; yet never hung

Thy charm upon my lips, thy numbers on my tongue.

I courted thee no longer, for the tomb

Made havoc of my hopes, and I became

The sport and prey of sorrow; but in gloom

And solitude, in misery and shame,

In every feeling that unnerves the frame,

Thy impulse was upon me: then arose

My first and rude attempt; then didst thou claim
Thy long rejected suppliant, and disclose

In simple humble strain the descant of his woes.

Simple, but not unmeaning; the full heart
Hath language of its own; no gay conceit,
No boyish declamation held a part

In that sad strain, nor did the mourner beat
With frantic hand his bosom: but his feet
Ne'er fail'd in their due office; to the tomb
They bore him all unheeding. His lone seat
Was ever there, its solitude and gloom

Were loveliness to him. It was Eliza's tomb.

1822.

Sketches on the Road.

Eliza's! my Eliza's! there she lay,
And there I laid me silent and alone;

There knelt, there wept, upon the senseless clay
There call'd in low and suffocating tone.

Is grief forbidden? Did my feeble moan

Disturb her, that they tore me from her side?
Eliza lay beneath that lonely stone,

And I but wish'd to rest me by my bride:

Why was that boon withheld,—my only wish denied?

They bade me bear my sorrows. I did strive

And grapple with calamity and death;

Became but as the form of one alive,

I drew my breath

The semblance of a man.
Like one, to whom the insulting foeman saith,
"Lo! thy last moment;" but anon my brain
Grew torpid as the child's that slumbereth:
Anon, 'twas fire and madness, and again

Thy spell was on my soul in wild impassion'd strain.
I shook thee off, and to the brawling stream,
The silent glen, I hurried me away.

I fought with fate, for on my troubled dream
The past return'd in agony: thy sway
Relax'd not, till at last the cheerful day
Was as the night; one dread unearthly hue
Came on the face of all things, and I lay

Full in thy presence. Was that vision true?

Didst thou possess the mind, or madness cheat the view?

I know not, and I care not. There is joy
In deep delusion: wherefore should the wise
Recall my thoughts to truth's severe annoy,
And hold her painful mirror to my eyes?
As dear to me as aught I now may prize,
Each visionary gleam or touch of thine,
All idle fancies that unbidden rise.

As dear to me as aught that can be mine,

The wild and wand'ring thought, the rude and untaught line.

I will not, cannot fly thee; thou must be

As present on the full and noisy mart,
As in the desart; upon plain or sea,

On wold or mountain, of myself be part.

I cannot fly thee: round this witlow'd heart

Cling, if thou wilt, but spare thy wearied slave:

Exert thy nobler power, thy gentler art;

Bid the vain world resume whate'er it gave,

But speak of brighter hopes, of bliss beyond the grave.

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.
No. VII.

WE left Leghorn with a gentle breeze, and we sat on deck enjoying ourselves as the vessel glided smoothly under the Cape Monte Nero, on whose brow is the celebrated church la Madonna di Monte Nero, for a long time enriched and bemiracled by the Few ignorant seamen in those scas. Italian ships sail past the hill without

saluting our Lady of Monte Nero; our crew, however, took no notice of her ladyship: she was too far from their homes to be entitled to any particular reverence. The reputation of few shrines reaches twenty miles; every town in Italy has a saint and a shrine of its own, both of which are objects of little considera

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tion at twenty miles distance. The greater saints are not much better off than the lesser. Santa Rosalia, for example, is no better than she should be at Naples, and San Gennaro is an old rogue at Milan; while San Carlo of Borromeo is treated in turn with equal disrespect at Naples and in Sicily. We went to bed at a late hour, and before morning we were roused by the violent pitching of the vessel; on going upon deck, we found the wind high, and the sea rolling heavily the island of Elba lay close under our bows; it frowned darkly through the twilight, and was covered with clouds. We soon found it was our courageous captain's determination to take refuge here, and in half an hour we came to anchor in Porto Ferrajo. On landing we found a curious poor little town, and were surrounded by a strange, wild looking, fishy set of people; we managed, however, to get an excellent breakfast of goats' milk and broiled fowl, after which a soldier conducted us to a house which Buonaparte inhabited during his stay here. We found it finely situated on a little eminence commanding a pleasant view of the neighbouring coast of Tuscany; in the outer hall we saw the door-posts and window-frames scratched with the names of his soldiers and attendants. From the house we were taken to a little place hard by, which he had converted into a theatre; we saw two little forts that he erected during his stay here, and were told that he had opened an iron mine, which now yielded more ore than any of the others. Buonaparte could certainly have had no intention of remaining here, and must have done these things merely from an impatience of idleness. He had a national flag while he was here; it was white with a broad red stripe, and three bees in the middle.

tle tower, which lie between Elba and the Continent; it is all fairy land. The wind which carried us out was gentle, and the next morning we found we had but just passed the four or five little islands called the Formiche; the day continued fair and calm, but towards night the wind sprang up, and carried us to Mont Argentaro, shining and white, whence, perhaps, its name. And now a scene opened around us as wild and beautiful as a landscape in romance; the islands of Giglio and Monte Cristo, with others whose names we know not, the coast, the sea, boats setting off from various points to go to the night fisheries, and a mass of clouds which fell on Elba as we sailed away.

The remainder of our voyage was uncomfortable enough; we quarreled with the captain, morning, noon, and evening; we went to our little mess at twelve o'clock, smoked ourselves into a doze the rest of the day, and slept all the night. For various reasons, which need not be explained, we always lay down in our clothes; and one evening, after we had been about three hours in bed, or rather in sail-cloth, for that was the fact, we were awakened by a noise that might have roused the seven sleepers; in a moment we jumped up; the ship was rolling dreadfully, and we heard a horrible clamour of voices above our heads, from which, however, nothing could be learned. We soon scrambled up the ladder and got on deck; the captain and sailors were calling lustily upon the Madonna, or San Gennaro; but little could be gathered from their confused and contemptible cries; the night was very rough and dark, and nothing could be seen save now and then when the wind swept the clouds from the moon, and she shot a yellow and uncertain light upon the torn sail and tangled cordage, or We walked a little about the is- glanced for a moment upon the tossland; it is generally hilly and barren, ing sea. What a dreary anthem is but there are some pleasant patches sung by the wind and the waves cultivated with corn and vines, and when they are roused to strife! What several curious little villages. In a piercing treble shrieks in the blast, the evening the wind grew calm, and and what an awful bass rises from we departed: we had a beautiful the bubbling sea! There are, perview in getting out; Piombino, Cas- haps, no three objects in the world tiglione, and one or two other towns, so grand in themselves, and so apt were bright and rosy with the beams to lend and borrow effect, as darkness, of the setting sun. There are two the wind, and the ocean. When the small islands, each crowned by a lit- black and rushing waters stretch out

into the endless distance of darkness; when the wind and the thunder shout in our ears; when the vessel welters on with blind and desperate violence, and the waves, crush ed beneath the keel, reel back and hiss like startled serpents; and imagination, ever busy when she should be still, figures the hidden rock and hungry monsters of the deep; there is a terrible whole presented to the senses, and the heart labours hard in its silent cell. We remained about ten minutes in fright and in confusion, and then we learned that the cause of this nocturnal disturbance was that our mariners, either stupid or asleep, had suffered the sail to remain stretched until the wind had broken the yard and almost overset the vessel. The extreme boisterousness of the night increased the alarm produced by this circumstance, which called us from our beds; we returned to them when quiet was re-established, and we left the captain and crew busily employed in repairing the damage. We lay at anchor the whole night, but by dawn the yard was cobbled up, the sail hoisted, and once more we scudded away before the gale. We had scarcely begun to move when we heard the report of cannon, and on running upon deck we found the vessel had anchored within reach of the guns of a fort, one of those which were erected to protect the country ships against the corsairs, but which so little answered the purpose, that Algerine galleys had several times been known to run in and cut out vessels within musket shot of the batteries. It was, however, customary for every vessel anchoring under the guns to pay a certain sum for the protection supposed to be afforded; this our captain did not think proper to do, and as there happened to be a pretty brisk wind, as soon as he saw the usual signal on the fort he hoisted sail and made off. The fort continued firing at us as long as we were within reach, but either the people were very bad marksmen, or else only loaded with powder, for nothing touched us. The captain, we apprehend, thought the fort was in earnest, or else he was resolved to make security doubly sure, for at the second flash he ran away from his post at the helm, and jumped

manfully down the hatchway, but happening to fall upon the ladder, he sprained his ankle and broke his shins, in consequence of which he limped off to bed, where he remained till dinner-time; then being somewhat comforted by a couple of pounds of macaroni, half a pound of Parmigiano, bread, fruit, and about half a gallon of wine, he made his appearance upon deck, and being seated in the sun, amused himself with four or five segars, which he had stolen out of our basket. The Roman coast is flat, and, in some places, covered with patches of wood; in some parts wild and bare, in others, bushy. It seemed to us to have an unwholesome appearance; but, perhaps, it seemed so only because we knew it was unwholesome, for we knew that the Malaria, whose breath is poison, was floating over it. Soon after noon we came in sight of two large fishing-boats, which lay about ten miles out from the mouth of the Tiber: they both belonged to our captain, who immediately lowered a boat and went off to them, although it was a violation of the quarantine laws. As we neared the vessels in the course of our manoeuvring about, we were shocked to observe the condition they were in. Who would suppose, that the swimming skiff, which looks so pretty, and so inviting, at a distance, with its puffed white sail and painted side, could be such a nest of filth and misery within? The fishermen could hardly be said to have any clothes; nothing, we believe, but a ragged shirt covered them, and they all looked half famished. How dreadful, how shameful it is, that these poor creatures are compelled to labour from morning till night, exposed to sun, and wind, and wave, without the defence of good clothes, or the support of generous food. The captain took some fish, and returned on board, bringing with him his son, and leaving in exchange the boy belonging to our vessel, who could not have been transferred with more indifference if he had been a dog. The captain's son had been placed as a spy upon the fishermen, and it was necessary to remove him on account of an ulcerous sore in his foot, which obstinately refused to heal, although covered with a scalded plantain leaf, and wrapped up in five or

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