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sions of genuine poetry to do this. There is no want of excitability in the multitude, by pathos skilfully administered;

the elec trical effects of sympathy in the theatre prove it: but these emotions are not imputable necessarily to the poetical form in which the popular sentiments are conveyed. A justly admired author has lately shown, that this can be done in a very powerful manner in a prose narrative. It is impossible to work such effects by mere song, with all its imagery and all its eloquence.

But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail, from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry however it may cease to pay; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward.

Our readers will now cease to wonder, that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.

With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece.

The poem on the restoration of the Louvre Collection has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers with great confidence to the work themselves, our extracts may be limited. The Venus restored to Florence is thus apostrophized:

• There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love's radiant goddess, Idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow,

Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.


Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light,
Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight;
How many a glimpse, reveal'd to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,

Burst into life, thy pomp of loveliness! Ancient Rome is addressed with much sublimity, and the Laos coon most feelingly portrayed. The Apollo, however, is very unjustly dismissed with six of the most indifferent lines in the poem. Many of the Louvre statues being Roman worthies, the poem concludes with the following striking allusion to their restoration:

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims;
Oh! with your images could fate restore
Your own high spirit to your sons once more;
Patriots and heroes! could those flames return,
That bade your hearts with Freedom's ardour burn;
Then from the sacred ashes of the first,
Might a new Rome in phenix-grandeur burst!
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom,
With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb;
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown,
Lift her dread Ægis, with majestic frown,

Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide its flight, To bathe its plumage in the fount of Light.' The poem more immediately before us is of much greater length, and, we are inclined to think, of higher merit than its predecessor. The measure is like the Spencerian, though different, The experiment was bold, but it has not failed in the author's hands; and the music is upon the whole good. We would willingly quote largely from this poem, but have already outwritten our limits. We have seldom been more delighted than we were with the first nine stanzas, and cannot resist giving the 8th and 9th.

"Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow,
'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh;
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow,
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky;
-Yet o'er the low, dark dwelling of the dead,
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile,
And ivy-boughs toeir graceful drapery spread
In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile;

And mantling woodbine veil the withered tree,
And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece! with thee.

For all the loveliness, and light and bloom,
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm,
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb,

The rose's blush that nasks the canker worm:
And thou art desolate--thy morn hath past
So dazzling in the splendour of its way,
That the dark shades that night hath o'er thec cast
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay.

Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Thy fate hath been unmatched-in glory and despair.'
After the same manner, and in the same strain of allusion, are
stanzas 28th and 29th. Athens is thus beautifully apostrophized:

• But thou, fair Altica! whose rocky bound
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined,
Thou little sphere, whose soul illumined round
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind;
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day,
Didst first imbibe the splendour of the light,
And smile the longest in its lingering ray,

Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.' The reader must have recourse to the poem for much that follows in the same strain. The following description is not exceeded, in that force and brilliancy of poetic painting which sets the object before us, by any poetry of the age; the passage is introductory to some fine allusions to the Elgin Marbles, which adds much to the elegance of the poem.

• Still be that cloud withdrawn-oh! mark on high,
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced,
That fane, august in perfect symmetry,
The purest model of Athenian taste
Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies,
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue;

And art o'er all thy light proportions throws
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.

And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow,
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign,
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain.
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold
Each latent grace, developing in light,
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold,
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright;

And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems,
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams.

But oh! what words the vision may portray
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine?
Tiere stands thy goddess, robed in war's array,
Supremely glorious, awfully divine!
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought,
And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought;

The pure intelligence, the chaste repose-
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws.'
The following lines touch with a glowing pencil the frieze of
the Parthenon now so well known.

• Mark--on the storied frieze the graceful train,
The holy festival's triumphal throng,
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane,
With many a sacred symbol move along.

every shade of bright existence trace,
The fire of youth, the dignity of age;
The matron's calm austerity of grace,
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;

The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien,
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.'
The other Elgin Marbles are alluded to as follows:

Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced
Yet there the germ of future glory lies!
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased,
It clothes them still, though veiled from common eyes.
They once were gods and heroes and beheld
As the best guardians of their native scene;
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swelled
With awe that owned their sovereignty of mien.
-Ages have vanished

those hearts were cold,
And still those shattered forms retain their godlike mould.'

poem then gives a prophetic vision of the future trophies of our own country in the fine arts, the sole wreath yet unwon by her, and concludes with the following lines:

So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep,
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains,
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains;

Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace,
And cry, this ancient soil, hath nursed a glorious race!"
We now take our leave of the author, with a hope that we shall
soon meet with her again, and earnestly recommend her work to
all the lovers of elegant classical allusion and genuine poetry.

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ART. VII.--Sketch of a Tradition, related by a Monk, in Switzer

land.-From the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine. Mr. EDITOR, In

through the wildest and most secluded parts of Switzerland, I took up my residence, during one stormy night, in a convent of capuchin friars, not far from Altorf, the birth-place of the famous William Tell. In the course of the evening, one of the fathers related a story, which, both on account of the interest which it is naturally calculated to excite, and the impressive manner in which it was told, produced a very strong effect upon my mind. I noted it down briefly in the morning, in my journal, preserving as much as possible the old man's style, but it has no doubt lost much by translation.

Having just read lord Byron's drama, “ Manfred,” there appears to me such a striking coincidence in some characteristic features, between the story of that performance and the Swiss tradition, that without further comment, I extract the latter from my journal, and send it for your perusal. It relates to an ancient family, now extinct, whose names I neglected to write down, and have now forgotten; but that is a matter of little importance.

His soul was wild, impetuous, and uncontrollable. He had a keen perception of the faults and vices of others, without the power of correcting his own; alike sensible of the nobility, and of the darkness of his moral constitution, although unable to cultivate the one to the exclusion of the other.

• In extreme youth, he led a lonely and secluded life in the solitude of a Swiss valley, in company with an only brother, some years older than himself, and a young female relative, who had been educated along with them from her birth. They lived under the care of an aged uncle, the guardian of those extensive domains which the brothers were destined jointly to inherit.

* A peculiar melancholy, cherished and increased by the utter seclusion of that sublime region, had, during the period of their infancy, preyed upon the mind of their father, and finally produced the most dreadful result. The fear of a similar tendency in the minds of the brothers, induced their protector to remove them, at an early age, from the solitude of their native country. The elder was sent to a German university, and the younger completed his education in one of the Italian schools.

- After the lapse of many years, the old guardian died, and the elder of the brothers returned to his native valley; he there formed an attachment to the lady with whom he had passed his infancy; and she, after some fearful forebodings, which were unfortunately silenced by the voice of duty and of gratitude, accepted of his love, and became his wife.

• In the meantime, the younger brother had left Italy, and travelled over the greater part of Europe. He mingled with the world, and gave full scope to every impulse of his feelings. But that world, with the exception of certain hours of boisterous passion and excitement, afforded him little pleasure, and made no lasting impression upon his heart. His greatest joy was in the wildest impulses of the imagination.

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