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poetry, but letting it come when it will and how it will, and striking it off at a heat.
THE DEATH OF CLYTEMNESTRA.
ORESTES AND ELECTRA.
Electra. Pass on, my brother! she awaits the wretch,
Heavenly Gods ! what poison
Think upon our father-
Bite not thy lip,
Orestes. Loose me then! for this white hand, Electra, Hath fastened upon mine with fiercer grasp Than I can grasp the sword. Electra,
Go, sweet Orestes,
I knew not I was holding thee-Avenge him ! (Alone). How he sprang from me!
Sure he now hath reached The room before the bath!
The bath-door creaks !
What plunge was that ?
What groans are those ?
Would I had been so
Oh that Zeus
Too rash Orestes !
Orestes. The Gods could not.
She was not theirs, Orestes !
'Twas I! 'twas I who did it! Of our unhappy house the most unhappy!
Under this roof, by every God accurst,
'Tis now my time to sufferMine be, with all its pangs, the righteous deed !
What a picture is that of Agamemnon and his
Tossing thee above
Long may Mr. Landor conceive such pictures, and write such scenes !
The days are happily past when the paltry epithet of “ Cockney Poets” could be bestowed
Keats and Leigh Hunt: the world has outlived them. People would as soon think of applying such a word to Dr. Johnson. Happily, too, one of the delightful writers who were the objects of these unworthy attacks has outlived them also; has lived to attain a popularity of the most genial kind, and to diffuse, through a thousand pleasant channels, many of the finest parts of our finest writers. He has done good service to literature in another way, by enriching our language with some of the very best translations since Cowley. Who ever thought to see Tasso's famous passage in the "Amyntas” so rendered ?
ODE TO THE GOLDEN AGE.
O lovely age of gold !
Who, again, ever hoped to see such an English version of one of Petrarch's most characteristic poems, conceits and all ?
PETRARCH'S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH IN THE
BOWER OF LAURA.
Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,
O’er which her folded gown
If ’tis my fate below,
fears When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death ; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm abstracted bourne Slip from my travelled flesh, and from my bones out
Perhaps, some future hour,