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Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment .
For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling meant.
Happy is ENGLAND, sweet her artless daughters;
Enough their simple loveliness for me,

Evough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
Yet do I often warmly burn to see

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,

And float with them about the summer waters'. Mr. Keats was, in the truest sense of the word, a Poet. There is but a small portion of the public acquainted with the writings of this young man; yet they were full of high imagination and delicate fancy, and his images were beautiful and more entirely his own, perhaps, than those of any living writer whatever. He had a fine ear, a tender heart, and at times great force and originality of expression; and notwithstanding all this, he has been suffered to rise and pass away almost without a notice: the laurel has been awarded (for the present) to other brows; the bolder aspirants have been allowed to take their station on the slippery steps of the Temple of Fame, while he has been nearly hidden among the crowd during his life, and has at last died, solitary and in sorrow, in a foreign land.

It is at all times difficult, if not impossible, to argue others into a love of poets and poetry: it is altogether a matter of feeling, and we must leave to time (while it hallows his memory) to do justice to the reputation of Keats. There were many, however, even among the critics, who held his powers in high estimation; and it was well observed by the Editor of the Edinburgh Review, that there was no other author whatever, whose writings would form so good a test by which to try the love which any one professed to bear towards poetry. In proof of this assertion, we need only refer to the beautiful extract from the Eve of St. Agnes,' already given 'Poems by John Keats, p. 95, 1817;

in pp. 12-13, and to the following exquisite Ode to a Nightingale,' which, that we may do ample justice to the author, we shall quote entire. The poem will be more striking to the reader, when he understands that it was written not long before Mr. Keats left England, when the author's powerful mind had for some time past inhabited a sickened and shaking body,--and had suffered deeply from the baleful effects of the poisoned shafts of critical malignity!

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains'

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had suok:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
0, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushifal Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves has never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the doll brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,.

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves..
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easy Death,
Called him soft naines in many a mused rhyme, .
To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, .
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou siug, and I have ears in vain

To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thon wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night 'was heard

In antient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Roth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;

The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades.'
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the bill-side; and now 'tis buried deep.

In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep??

* Lamia, Isabella and other Poems, by John Keats, p. 113, 1820.

24.-_SAINT MATTHIAS. Matthias was, probably, one of the seventy disciples, and was a constant attendant upon our Lord, from the time of his baptism by St. John until his ascension. The gospel and traditions published under his name are considered spurious.

27.-EMBER WEEK. There are four Ember Weeks in the year, namely, after the first Sunday in Lent, after the feast of Pentecost, after the 14th of September, and after the 13th of December. It is enjoined by a canon of the church, 'that Deacons and Ministers be ordained, or made, but only on the Sundays immediately following these Ember feasts.'--(Nelson.)

*27. 1821.—JOHN SCOTT DIED, ÆT. 37, At Chalk Farm, where he had remained since the fatal duel which took place between him and Mr. Christie, on the evening of the 16th Feb. He was of late known to the literary world, as the Editor of • Baldwin's London Magazine,' to him a fatal preeminence, which he enjoyed only for a short period. Mr. Scott was, for some time, the Editor of the * Champion Newspaper;'_and afterwards published his Paris Visited and Revisited,' works of great power and auspicious promise, and which at once raised him to a high place among men of talent and genius. He seemed gifted by nature with a vigorous fancy and strong conception; and although the purity of his taste and style might sometimes be questioned, a spirit with which we delighted to sympathise breathed throughout his writings, while the soundness of his judgment, and the purity of his principles, stamped a peculiar value on all his compositions. Mr. Scott was obviously a man of an ardent and original mind. His ideas of honour were as lofty as his love of virtue was innate and habitual. But while his talents commanded ad-,

miration, the qualities of his heart were fitted to secure the affections of his friends; and no man ever had fairer prospects of rising to distinction in the world, Mr. Scott was also the author of "The House of Mourning,'a poem; of a posthumous work, entitled, 'Sketches of Manners, &e, in France, Switzerland, and Italy;' and of an excellent “Essay on French Literature,' printed with the last mentioned work.

* , 1798.-THE FRENCH ENTERED ROME. . Oh! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France,

From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never

Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance,
But Tiber shall become a mournful river.

Ob! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po,

Crush them, ye rocks! floods, whelm them, and for ever!
Why sleep the idle avalanches so,

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's herd?

Why doth Eridanus but overflow
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ?

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?

Over Cambyses' host the desert spread
Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves'sway

Rolled over Pharaoh and his thousands--why,

Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ?
And you, ye men! Romans, who dare not die,

Sons of the conquerors who overthrew

Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie.
The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ?

Their passes more alluring to the view
Of an invader? is it they, or ye,

That to each host the inountain-gate unbar,

And leave the march in peace, the passage free?
Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car,

And makes your land impregnable, if earth

Could be so; but alone she will not war,
Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men :

Not so with those whose souls are little worth;
For them no fortress can avail; the den

Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting

Is more secure than walls of adamant, when
The hearts of those within are quivering.

BYRON,

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