equally burned in his bosom, and sparkled through

his song. No poet ever more successfully followed the steps of the inspired prophets, in their paths of highest elevation, or deepest humility. His Canzone on "The Majesty of God," and that addressed to "Sobieski, King of Poland," but more especially the two incomparable odes on the "Siege and Deliverance of Vienna," (formerly alluded to) display his powers in all their splendour and perfection. There is wonderful energy and pathos in his language; and the figure of repetition, as in the Sacred Scriptures, is often and most effectively employed.

Celio Magno is one of the most pathetic of all poets. His Canzone on the death of his father, and another in contemplation of his own decease, breathe such transporting tenderness, that the mind, possessed by a melancholy more delicious than gladness, resigns itself wholly to the reverie, and dwells and dotes on chosen passages without strength or desire to leave them. Can any mortal man read such lines as the following, once only?—

"Lasso me! che quest' almà e dolce luce, Questo bel ciel, quest' aere, onde respiro, Lasciar convengo; e miro

Fornito il corso di mia vita omai,

E l'esalar d'un sol breve sospiro

A' languid' occhi eterna notte adduce;
Ne per lor mai più luce

Febo, o scopre per lor più Cintia i rai.”

Or this apostrophe of lingering regret?

"Oh! di nostre fatiche empio riposo, E d'ogni uman sudor meta infelice;

Da cui torcer non lice

Pur orma nè sperar pietade alcuna !
Che val, perch' altri sia chiaro e felice
Di gloria d' avi, o d'oro in arca ascoso,
E d'ogni don giojoso,

Che Natura puo dar larga, e fortuna,
Se tutto è falso ben sotto la luna."

These most beautiful and affecting lines contain no thought which has not been a thousand and a thousand times expressed; yet their influence is enchanting, for they realise, in a moment, mingled with mysterious delight, that ineffable fear of death which is interwoven with life, and which is natural to all men; for "willing" as the spirit even of the good may be, "to depart and to be with Christ, which is far better," its frail companion shudders at a change which consigns her to worms, and darkness, and dissolution; "the flesh is weak," and trembles into dust.

Alessandro Guidi has been crowned by Mr. Mathias with the thickest laurels; and fairly to him may be conceded all the glory that is due to one of the vainest and sublimest of poets. He speaks of himself frequently, and always in strains so boastful, that he would appear utterly disgusting and contemptible, did he not sing his own praises in language so captivating, and with such genuine dignity of thought and splendour of imagery, that we either forget or forgive the egotism of the man, in the overwhelming majesty of the poet. He actually seems to speak the truth; and truth is never offensive when we believe it heartily, unless it condemns

ourselves. Airy grandeur and irresistible impetuosity are the characteristics of his style; his genius is Grecian, but his spirit is Roman.

Gladly and unfearingly I turn to our English Lyrics, and begin with a very small example, which, however, (like the taper in the second stanza) grows clearer and brighter the more it is contemplated.

"The wretch, condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies,

And every pang that rends his heart

Bids expectation rise.

"Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers his way,

And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray."

GOLDSMITH.

Is this poetry? Every one feels that it is. Is it fine versification? In that respect, also, it is unexceptionable. Now, the same ideas might be given in prose, without being deemed extravagant,— while in point of diction they could hardly be more humbly attired. Yet he who should attempt to do this, with equal effect, in any other form than the original, would find that he had set himself to catch a rainbow, and bend it in a contrary direction. There is the subject,—a captive under sentence of death, yet nursing in secret, almost from despair, the hope of life, with every pang. Here he is transformed into a benighted wanderer, whom the apparition of that cherished deceiver meets amidst the darkness and allures from afar, under the semblance of a stream of light from a cottage window, brightening

as he approaches; while we, who fear the illusion may prove an ignis fatuus, are prepared to see him suddenly ingulphed in a morass. Poetry is the shorthand of thought;-how much is expressed here in less than threescore syllables!

TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO FELL IN THE REBELLION OF 1745.

"How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
With all their country's wishes blest !
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

"By Fairy-hands their knell is rung,
By Forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedon shall a while repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there."

COLLINS.

Again; what a quantity of thought is here condensed in the compass of twelve lines, like a cluster of rock crystals, sparkling and distinct, yet receiving and reflecting lustre by their combination. The stanzas themselves are almost unrivalled in the association of poetry with picture, pathos with fancy, grandeur with simplicity, and romance with reality. The melody of the verse leaves nothing for the ear to desire, except a continuance of the strain, or, rather, the repetition of a strain which cannot tire by

repetition. The imagery is of the most delicate and exquisite character,- Spring decking the turfy sod; Fancy's feet treading upon the flowers there; Fairy hands ringing the knell; unseen Forms singing the dirge of the glorious dead; but above all, and never to be surpassed in picturesque and imaginative beauty, Honour, as an old and broken soldier, coming on far pilgrimage to visit the shrine where his companions in arms are laid to rest; and Freedom, in whose cause they fought and fell,—leaving the mountains and fields, the hamlets, and the unwalled cities of England delivered by their valour, -hastening to the spot, and dwelling (but only for "a while,") "a weeping hermit there." The sentiment, too, is profound: - "How sleep the brave! not how sweetly, soundly, happily! for all these are included in the simple apostrophe, "How sleep the brave!" Then, in that lovely line,

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By all their country's wishes blest,"

is implied every circumstance of loss and lamentation, of solemnity at the interment, and posthumous homage to their memory, by the threefold personages of the scene, living, shadowy, and preternatural beings. As for thought, he who can hear this little dirge sung," as it is, by the "unseen form" of the author himself, who cannot die in it, without having thoughts," as thick as motes that people the sunbeams," thronging through his mind, must have a brain as impervious to the former, as the umbrage of a South American forest to the latter. There are in it associations of war, peace, glory, suffering, life,