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and severe Crabbe spake sometimes of joy, and and twined a wreath of familiar flowers, the his pictures bore gleams of the coming sunshine; daisy, the woodbine, and the elder; and Joand in 1792 issued the enchanting music of anna Baillie spoke of the bosom's tenderest Memory's all-absorbing power and imperial in- attachments; and William Knox breathed fluence, and from the wilds of Cumberland came scriptural simplicity in his Songs of Israel ; majestic symphonies and divine harmonies, and Thomas Pringle, when far off in Afric's liquid as the lute, yet grand as the organ's desert region, remembered his fatherland, and swell; and there was Coleridge, more bewitch- the tinkling of its Sabbath bell; and Elliott ing than the spirit of a dream, and in silvery depicts the bramble-flower; and Norton looks intonations he told us Christabel, and the Rime on the shades of evening, and as the shadows of the Ancient Mariner, and in more magnificent deepen, recals many a pensive joy and pleasure ; soundings he rolled up to the blue summit of and Caroline Southey sheds a tear over the Mont Blanc, and its graceful flowers, and its Pauper's Deathbed; and Mary Howitt loves the sportive goats, and its dark ravines, and its Mountain Children and the English Churches ; rushing torrents, and its fearful avalanches, and Hood melts us with his tale of Eugene and its gloomy pines, and its clear sky, and its Aram; and Tennyson, in fine rolling music, rising sun, an anthem of kindling adoration, strikes out, “ Break, break, break on thy crags, and in cooings softer than the dove's, he told us O sea !and enchains us with his “Dear how he won his Genevieve; then were heard mother, Ida, hearken ere I die!" and thrills the low, pensive warblings from the lips of Bowles, life-blood with “ I'm to be Queen of the May, and these immortalized him; and Atherstone, mother - I'm to be Queen of the May !" so lofty and towering in his flight, could stoop and Hartley Coleridge has not forgotten his and sing of undisturbed repose, in tones richer illustrious sire; and D. M. Moir gazes back on than those which erst fell from the Æolian harp auld lang syne, and tells us a soothing story: when the breeze floated by, cr from Memnon's and in Scottish melody Burns sang, and Allan lyre when the light first dawned on the dim and Cunningham, and Hector Macneill, and Robert surging ocean; and over Lamb's Essays reigned Tannahill, and John Mayne. Nor can we pass a placid stillness; and Sotheby could revel for over the Ettrick Shepherd with his beautiful a season in his translation of the pastoral Geor- Queen's Wake, and still more beautiful songs; gics; and Moore plucked the rose, and narcissus, and Motherwell with his I've wandered east, and orange-blossom beneath the orient clime; I've wandered west through many a weary and in 1799, Campbell's star, so brilliant and way,” and his collection of ballads'; and Rounwaning, beamed in the horizon “like to an bert Nicoll, with his High Thoughts of Heaven, angel o'er the dying, who die in righteousness;” worthy a nobler name ; and James Hislop, with and Scott, amid his fairladies and gallant knights, his majestic Cameronian's Dream. could yet delight himself in home's unsullied And what exquisite things have we not had bliss; and Byron dropt some honeyed lines ; from Mitford, and Gilpin, and Miller, and and Shelley some finer and more ethereal eulo- Howitt, and Washington Irving, and Macaulay! giums; and 1818 beheld Keats dreaming de- Gentle “music has been heard in many places, liciously in his Endymion, Lamia, and Ode to a “fine sounds are floating wild about the earth.” Nightingale; and Heber sang the songs of Zion; The very air teems with honey sweetness and and Herbert Knowles, in a country churchyard, softest murmurings; and these have been our looked upwards to the heavens and caught in- matin and our vesper hymns ! spiration ; and farther north, Pollok relented And he whose name heads our paper has sung and spoke of children and domestic sweets, and a “hymn to the spirit of all beauty.” It is burning friendship, and eternal affection ; and distinguished by grace, delicacy, and simplicity; out of Ayrshire came the gentle Montgomery, we cannot listen to its silver strain without with his chaste and spiritual lyrics, and he being both refined and exalted; it takes poswhispered in more than Philomela's softness of session of us. It was a calm Sabbath evening the twilight hour; and Leigh Hunt, with all when we first caught its intonations; the sun his quaintness, had many a line of native beauty was sinking in the west, and tinging the horizon and touching sensibility; and John Clare could with a golden hue; the warblings of birds in tell us of flowers, and clouds, and streams, and many a leafy tree rose upwards ; the soft and hay-fields, and harvest-homes, and the bliss of gentle breeze, laden with the hawthorn and early love; and Wilson threw into his poetry wild rose, swept sweetly by. It was an hour all the warmth of his open-hearted nature; and of rich perfumes; the twilight stole down, Hemans gave us songs of parental and filial giving a soothing dimness to the objects spread fondness; and Bernard Barton, in less classical around; the solemn notes of an old organ strain, penned his meditations on those charm- mingled with creation's sounds. Such was the ing scenes which meet the eye in every nook holy season in which we knew of Alford. and corner of our land, and we felt refreshed Hearken :with his Address to an Evening Primrose, and

Methinks I can remember, when a shade his story of Bishop Hubert; and Procter min

All soft and flow'ry was my couch, and I gled his fine minstrelsy with the hymn thus A little naked child, with fair white flesh, swelling upwards to the throne, as he wandered And wings all gold bedropt; and o'er my head on “the pebbled beach ;” and Milman forgot

Bright fruits were hanging, and tall, balmy shrubs his stateliness for awhile, and gave us“the merry

Shed odorous gums around me, and I lay

Sleeping and waking in that wondrous air, heart that laughs at care;'

," and Croly, so ori- Which seemed infused with glory--and each breeze ental in thought, imagination, and language,

Bore, as it wandered by, sweet melodies,

But whence I knew not: one delight was there, could sometimes tune his harp to warble the

Whether of feeling, or of sight, or touch, praise of quiet happiness; and Landor turned I know not how—which is not on this earth,

Something all-glorious and all beautiful,

mortal gods; so Young has it, and Pollok Of which our language speaketh not, and which

after him, and displays great beauty of conFlies from the eager graspings of my thought, As doth the shade of a forgotten dream

ception and chasteness of expression. Many All knowledge had I, but I cared not then

are its scenes of sunlit happiness—many its To search into my soul, and draw it thence:

songs of peace; it breathes an un disturbed and The blessed creatures that around me played, I knew them all, and where their resting was,

unruffled sweetness—an inviolate and imperishAnd all their hidden symmetries I knew,

able love of the true and holy; it is encircled And how the form is linked unto the soul;

with the golden glory of a first and faithful I knew it all; but thought not on it then;

attachment. I was so happy. And upon a time,

The poem opens with a fine description of I saw an army of bright, beamy shapes,

Spring, followed by a liquid memory of the Fair.faced, and rosy-cinctured, and gold-winged,

past, uttered in the ear of his beloved, which Approach upon the air ; they came to me;

for sweetness of thought and grace of execution, And from a crystal chalice, silver-brimmed, Put sparkling potion to my lips, and stood

will find but few equals. It is an April morn; All round me, in the many blooming shade,

the bright and beautiful heaven is beaming on Shedding into the centre where I lay

them ; the leaves glitter as orient gems in the å mingling of soft light; and then they sung

sunshine ; they sit together on the grassy slope: Songs of the land they dwelt in; and the last Lingereth even till now upon mine ear.

this the tale of his remembrance :Holy and blest

Few have lived
Be the calm of thy rest,
For thy chamber of sleep

As we have lived, unsevered;, our young life
Shall be dark and deep :

Was but a summer's frolic: we have been

Like two babes passing hand-in-hand along
They will dig thee a tomb
In the dark, deep womb,

A sunny bank on flowers-the busy world

Goes on around us, and its multitudes
In the warm, dark womb.
Spread ye, spread the dewy mist around him;

Pass by me and I look them in the face

But cannot read such meaning, as I read
Spread ye, spread, till the thick, dark night surround him-
Till the dark, long night has bound him,

In this of thine; and thiou, too, dost but move
Which bindeth all before their birth

Among them for a season, but returnest Down upon the nether earth.

With a light step and smiles to our old seats, The first cloud is beamy and bright,

Our quiet walks, our solitary bower.

Some we love well; the early presences
The next cloud is mellowed in light,
The third cloud is dim to the sight,

That were first round us, and the silvery tones
And it stretched away into gloomy night:

Of those most far away, and dreary voices

That sounded all about us at the dawn
Twine ye, twine the mystic threads around him ;
Twine ye, twine, till the fast, firm fate surround him-

Of our young life-these, as the world of things
Till the firm, cold fate hath bound him,

Sets in upon our being like a tide, Which bindeth all before their birth

Keep with us and are for ever uppermost. Down upon the nether earth.

And some there are, tall, beautiful, and wise, The first thread if beamy and bright,

Whose step is heavenward, and whose souls have past The next thread is mellowed in light,

Out from the nether darkness, and been borne The third thread is dim to the sight,

Into a new and glorious universe, And it stretcheth away into gloomy night.

Who speak of things to come; but there is that Sing ye, sing the spirit song around him;

In thy soft eye and long-accustomed voice

Would win me from them all.
Sing ye, sing, till the dull, warm sleep surround him-

For since our birth,
Till the warm, damp sleep hath bound him,
Which bindeth all before their birth

Our thoughts have flowed together in one stream ;
Down upon the nether earth.

All through the seasons of our infancy The first dream is beamy and bright,

The same hills rose about us--the same trees, The next dream is mellowed in light,

Now bare, now sprinkled with the tender leaf, The third dream is dim to the sight,

Now thick with full dark foliage-the same church, And it stretcheth away into gloomy night.

Our own dear village-church, has seen us pray Holy and blest

In the same seat, with hands clasped side by side, Is the calm of thy rest,

And we have sung together ; and have walked, For thy chamber of sleep

Full of one thought, along the homeward lane; Is dark and deep;

And so were we built upwards for the storm They have dug thee a tomb

That on my walls hath fallen unsparingly, In the dark, deep womb,

Shattering their frail foundations; and which thou The warm, dark womb.

Hast yet to look for, but has found the help Then dimness passed upon me; and that song

Which then I knew not-rest thee firmly there! Was sounding o'er me when I woke again

This is truly beautiful; many have been the To be a pilgrim on the nether earth.

thoughts recalled by its perusal: the green hills Twine ye, twine the mystic threads around him; Twine ye, twine, till the fast, firm fate surround him

of infancy, crowned by the darksome copse; Till the firm, cold fate hath bound him,

the wild, straggling lane, with its hedge-rows Which bindeth all before their birth

sprinkled with woodbine and convolvulus; the Down upon the nether earth.

babbling brook murmuring, over its pebbly How like the ethereal Shelley this is ! there bottom, with its banks fringed with butter-cups, is the same light, aerial spirit, the same high- daisies, and forget-me-nots; the old halls, wrought imagination, the same star-lit web- standing upon their sloping lawns, with their its music is magnificent.

strange traditions and family histories; the Our poet appears to us to be one of the hap- white-washed cottages, trellised with jessamine piest of men; there is no repining, with its and rose, seen in the sunlight of evening; the sullen discord; he enjoys those mercies which ancient church, half-covered with surround him; and in a calm, confiding trust partly hidden by the venerable yew, come he leans on the bosom of the universal Father. before us in sweet perspective, all awakened by This feeling of blessedness pervades every line these lines; and with these scenes return the he has written; they are all tinctured with the forms and faces of those we loved in childhood's same sweet and quiet colouring.

hour: we remember their kindness, gentleness, His longest poem, The School of the Heart, and tenderness; we feel that they cannot come is written in blank-verse-- the language of im- to us--we must go to them.

ivy, and


His feelings, on first leaving home and her he waves in the corn-fields, and the sound of loved, are exquisitely described. It was morn- murmuring bees, and the scent of odoriferous ing; the light had just streaked the horizon; shrubs, and the melody of birds, and the village there was a freshness and coolness in the air: chimes come ever and anon on the breeze. at a wicker-gate they part, and take their last Many are the lines addressed to his beloved, fond look : he journeys onwards. The novelty all of which are tinged with a delicate beauty ; of the scenes banishes for awhile his thoughts of they contain nothing that can offend the most that hallowed hour. A child played beneath retiring modesty or the most fastidious taste, the noon-day sun by some cottage porch: he while there is everything to gratify the loving was thrilled with delight. But listen :- soul : they exhibit great elegance of fancy and When first I issued forth into the world,

manly vigour of style. Those who write on Well I remember--that unwelcome morn

this subject are generally so fulsome, that we When we rose long before the accustomed hour,

have more than once determined never more By the faint taper-light: and by that gate We just now swung behind us carelessly,

to read any amatory writing; but Alford is a gave thee the last kiss; I travelled on,

noble exception; he is tender and chaste; and Giving my mind up to the world without,

through the whole of these verses there runs a Which poured in strange ideas of strange things, –

golden vein of sincerity and truth. New towns, new churches, new inhabitants : And ever and anon some happy child

There are some spirits who are for ever Beneath a rose-trailed porch played as I passed;

telling us that this present life is dull, cold, And then the thought of thee swept through my soul, and cheerless; that little or no real happiness And made the hot drops stand in either eye.

is found below. Of such we would ask, what How different his second journey! no novelty means the beauty of the outward creation-the now; no new sweets to attract; the happy magnificence of the midnight heaven—the subchild, the rose-trailed porch, the quiet villages, limity of the crashing storm-the seasons, which and the busy towns, assuage not his grief. roll unerringly around,-winter, with its fine There was no beauty now,

frosty mornings and fire-side comforts ; spring, Of lands new seen-but the same dreary road with its buds, and blossoms, and light fresh Which bore me from thee first. I had no joy

green ; summer, with its oriental softness and In looking on the ocean; and full sad, With inward fretting and unrest, I reached

grace; autumn, with its ripened fruits, and That steep-built village, on the southern shore. fading leaves, and solemn, moaning winds ? And turning round, he gazes more tenderly and the invigorating air, and ere nightfall

What means the day, ushered in by twilight into her face, and says:

sinking away into dim and shadowy darkness; I remember well, one summer's night,

the dew that trembles on the early primrose, A clear, soft, silver moonlight, thou and I Sat a full hour together, silently;

the calm murmur of the sea when it ripples Looking abroad into the pure pale heaven.

on the shore, the echo of a distant rill, the Perchance thou hast forgotten: but my arm

sound of falling waters, the perfume of the rose, Was on thy shoulder, and thy clustering locks

the odour of bean-fields, the corn waving in Hung lightly on my hand, and thy clear eye Glistened beside my forehead : and at length

the cooling breeze, the flowing streams, the Thou saidst_"'Tis time we went to rest; and then glories of earth and heaven? Speak they no We rose and parted for the night: no words

langage to man's heart? Have they no tongue; But those were spoken, and we never since

no voice? And the tinkling of the sheep-bell, Have told each other of that moment.

when Vesper glimmers in the coming shades, How like the feeling of every youthful lover, the soft music of the village chimes, the swelland what a beautiful picture! A summer's ing anthem, the melody of gentle lyrists, the night-the sweet, soft moonlight, the arm fondly immortal minstrelsy of greater bards, the love laid upon the shoulder, the eye glistening with of kinsmen and their salutations, the quiet tenderness, the calm and breathless stillness, home, with the holy joy of the mother “when the "r'tis time we went to rest,” the quiet part- from out its cradled nook she sees her little bud ing with each other, with bosoms perchance too put forth its leaves ;" the fond wife, with her full and too happy for utterance. What a deli- sunny smile and tender affection, and heroic cious scene of true and faithful affection ! how devotedness, waiting to greet, with hallowed unlike the unhallowed attachment of the liber- endearments, the husband, after his daily latine; what music in the very silence ! The eye bour; the evening and the morning hymn, alone speaks, and what languageit breathes! The the fervent and humble prayer, the thrill of the hour so peaceful, so spiritual, so ethereal. The spirit when it first wakes to love, the deep place of interview and communion, the glorious glance of the eye when the beloved object is rolling planet; their light, the silver crescent near, the throbbings we feel when a magnificent and the million stars; their perfumes, the em- roll of music bursts upon the ear, the sweet purpled flowers. What luxurious moments ! awakening at dawn after a terrible dream, the how allied their happiness to the pure and golden fleecy clouds, the sunset, and sunrise, untainted bliss of Paradise. On them the dew the dark mountains stretching skyward, the seemed to fall more gently, the moon to shed a lakes and deep.sunk dells, the myriad insects more radiant brightness, and the stars to glim- that play in the unruffled quietude of evening, mer more resplendently.

the million birds, and the loud and divine har. After a separation, our poet and his fair one monies of universal nature-what mean these? meet again : it is “the leafy month of June," Call we these dull, cold, and cheerless! Oh! when the sky is one fine transparent blue, and around man's soul they cast a mighty and gi, the roses flower in all their beauty, and the king- gantic influence, drawing out his energies and cups adorn the grassy meadows, and the elders his powers. Their everlasting solitudes, and whiten the hedge-rows, and the gay poppy everlasting murmurings, and everlasting love

liness, have breathed out and rolled upwards, ing; and as with nature, so with those books, and spread onwards a tremendous anthem of which are the melodies of nature. There is tempest sounds and clear, silvery tones, massive, the blind old man of Scio, and there is the ponderous, indestructible!

elegant bard of Mantua; both are pregnant Life teems with happiness: he who is content with delight, but not of the same kind. Dante is happy; here lies the secret of earthly bliss ; and Petrarch, Spencer and Young, Ben Johnson man's happiness is in his own soul; our mis- and Thomson, Hall and Hazlitt, are each disfortunes may prove so many sources of divine tinct and different, but each calculated to give felicity; it depends on ourselves; we have his own peculiar pleasure. We can love them power to make, power to unmake; hardships all; but surely it were vain to expect that each cannot shackle the mind, that is free; it can would afford a like gratification. Herein we never be imprisoned, never enchained, unless generally err; we anticipate that the smooth, we ourselves forge the fetters. Should afflic- polished line will stir us like the clarion's blast; tion come, and woe, and desertion, there is one but is it less to be enjoyed on this account: bosom which fondly beats to ours, and which -is the rose less beautiful because it is not so loves us with an infinite love. Ah! they give slender as the lily of the valley—the violet less a richer and a deeper scent to the domestic graceful because it differs from the hyacinthaffections; they throw a halo of exquisite sun- the honeysuckle less to be admired because its shine on the home of our regard ; they breathe blossom is not so white and starry as the cleinto it a more hallowed and a more unutterable matis,—the hawthorn, because it is not streaked blessedness. The family are linked together with the cerulean tint of the iris—the summer in a more confiding and tender sensibility; and flowers of England, because they are not so there is unity of heart and unity of spirit: we luxuriant as those beneath the golden colouring may be the most happy whilst the most sorrow- of an Italian evening ?-and is Herrick with his ful. There is ever some mitigating circum- daffodils and daisies to be despised, because in stance--some light from the nether heaven, his love of simple beauty he minds not the some delicious accents from above.

grander and sublimer features of the universe ? And with these opposers of the true and And in painting, do we grow weary of Claude holy, there is ever the axiom-if, indeed, it be Lorraine's golden beauty, and Ludovico Caan axiom—that possession cloys: perhaps it racci's masterly Transfiguration, and Tintoret's is the popular, the pervading opinion; the mul- wild and extravagant sketches, and Correggio's titude believe in it; the merchant on change, graceful elegance deepening oftentimes to granthe student in the study, the noble in his hall, deur, and Parmegiano's simple yet severe style, the minister in the pulpit, alike receive it; and Vandycke's soul-breathing portraits, and they seem never to have questioned it: and Murillo's mellowed softness, and Vinci's subwhen we ask any for a proof of its verity, they limity in his Last Supper, and Teniers' transare astonished, and often confounded. We deny parency, and Nicholas Poussin's Paradise and its truth: we do so firmly and conscientiously. Deluge, and Snyders' magnificent Stag-hunt, and Possession does not necessarily cloy: we never Rembrandt's lively imagination, and Wilson's have experienced it.

natural loveliness, and Reynolds' expression, Once a man, overcome with trials and sorrow, and Gainsborough's exquisite Cottage-girl, and looked around on those things which had in West's striking picture of Death on the Pale the hour of sunshine gladdened and delighted Horse, and Blake's terrible and ghastly emhim, and having found no comfort and no satis- bodiments, and Michael Angelo's superhuman faction, he uttered the sentiment that possession vastness of thought, and Titian's unrivalled cloyed : one and another took it up, until it is colouring ? now well-nigh the prevailing creed. Away And in sculpture, is the eye dimmed by with this empty echoing !

gazing on the fair form of Venus just issuing One great argument which seems to confirm from the bath, with her beautiful countenance this deeply-rooted idea is, that the reality ever expressive of soft voluptuousness; and the endisappoints the anticipation. This fault is gen- chanting statue of Niobe with its deep despair erally chargeable on ourselves, and not neces. and agonizing sorrow; and the Apollo's magni. sarily in the thing itself; we too frequently ficence; and the Juno with lips sweet as a roseexpect that every delight will flow from one bud; and the Minerva, with head uplifted in object; this is not fair or reasonable: a flower serene pensiveness to heaven; and the Laocoon, is calculated to yield one kind of pleasure, and of which Pliny speaks in terms of the highest the roll of thunders another ; the happiness deri- eulogium, and which amid its sufferings, breathes ved from hearing the soft cadence of the village out such awful quietude as to still the pulsations bell is distinct from that of the loud crashing of the heart; and the Dying Gladiator, with of sweeping winds; the lute, with its liquid his broken hopes and solemn gloom depicted notes floating across some peaceful landscape, so truly; and Hercules resting for awhile after from that of the organ's swell along “ the dim having plucked the golden apples in rich Hespcathedral aisles ;" the gently flowing rivulet erian gardens; and Polycletus' famous Flora, from the impetuous stream ; whereas we too with her delicate drapery; and Actæon defendoften imagine that one of these will yield us ing himself against his dogs ; and Myro's cethe enjoyments of the rest; and when we find lebrated Discobulus ? --and of modern times is it our expectations disappointed, we deepen the wearying to behold Bacon's classical Narcissus discordant sound that possession cloys.

gazing at the semblance of his own fair form Possession does not necessarily cloy. A fine in the deep flowing waters, and wishing to gaze winter scene will produce different feelings in for ever; and Bailey's dreamy slumber in his the heart from that of a sweet summer's even- Sleeping Nymph, and his ideal of exquisite grace and holy chastity in his Eve at the Foun- range the fields; and Danby's Fairest flowers, tain, so full of delicate touches; and Behn's and Cooke's As now the shade of eve, and eloquent persuasiveness and anxious desire in Webbe's Swiftly o'er the mountain's brow, and his Cupid and the Doves ; and Canova's hal-Callcott's unrivalled O snatch me from these lowed devotedness of woman and careless in- tempestuous scenes ; and Haydn's immortal difference of man in his Venus and Adonis ; canzonets, and his Creation, so picturesque of and the repentance seen in the sunken eye of beauty and loveliness, with music lively as the his Magdalene, as if she had forsaken the world lark's, yet majestic as the surging of the billowy for ever, and knew nothing but the name of ocean; and Handel's stupendous choruses, and her God; and the muscular sinew and heroic magnificent Dead March. firmness of his Ajax, and the bland sweetness And in literature, will the melodious line of of his Graces, and the mild complacency of his Izaak Walton and Goldsmith become less soft Paris, and the innocent charms of the Infant and less beautiful? And are we ever satiated John, and the manliness and fond beguilment with Cædmon's Fall of Man, and Chaucer's displayed in Mars and Venus, and the soft Canterbury Tales, and Herbert's holy hymns, tenderness and playful affection of Psyche and and Herrick's simple ditties, and Shakspeare's Cupid ; and Chantrey's Resignation, with eye magnificent music, and Sir Philip Sidney's gentle up-turned to the clear bright sky, giving as it tones, as of Arcadian rills, and Donne's vigorwere the human will to the divine, and reposing ous and penetrating glance, and Giles Fletcher's on the bosom of the Supreme ; and Flaxman's hallowed theme, and Wither's spiritual em. Mercury and Pandora; the one so light and blems, and Browne's sweet pastorals, and airy, and the other so perfect in feminine beauty; Camden's antiquarian research, and Overbury's and Sievier's blushing Musidora about to bathe flowery scenes, and Jeremy Taylor's richness of in the limpid stream ; and Westmacott's en- thought and profuseness of imagery, and Drumchanting Psyche? The oftener we gaze, the mond’s chaste love sonnets, chanted far away deeper our admiration ; beauties come out which in the north, and Cowley's lively essays and wereunseen before, and associations cling around quiet contentment on the banks of Thames, and them : associations weave theirunfading chaplet. Milton's sublimity and oppressive grandeur, and Perhaps, beheld amid the luxuriant loveliness Dryden's stately verse, and Nathaniel Lee's deep of the southern landscape, and beneath the gush of tempest-sounds, and Evelyn's thoughts purple and golden light of the southern sky, on Forest Trees, and Barrow's fulness, and they become the divinity of the scene; they Baxter's holiness, and Henry More's quaint breathe over the spot a deep, hushed stillness, but expressive conceptions, and Clarendon's and the charming shapes and forms of creation renowned History, and Hale's pleasant tracts, become in after times woven with the sculptured and Locke's metaphysical inquiries, and Addimarble, and we cannot look on the one without son's graceful writings, and Pope's brilliant recalling the other. Thus we never tire; thus satire, and Swift's biting language, and Parnell's possession does not necessarily cloy; and thus charming Hermit, and Somerville's Chase, and will these noble works of art ever put on a Steele's humorous and masterly delineations, and sweeter grace, and exert a more impassioned Defoe's wondrous tale, and Mandeville's graphic influence.

sketches, and Berkeley's high-spun idealisms, And in music, do the romantic beauty of and Blair's masculine energy, and Johnson's Mozart's Zauberflöte, and the spirit-stirring majestic periods, and Collins' inimitable Ode outpouring of his Don Giovanni, and the so- to the Passions, and Lyttleton's tender monody lemnity of his Requiem, lose any of their power on the death of his wife, and Gray's exquisite by too frequently rolling their divine sounds Elegy and storm-like Pindaric sweep, and Maon the ear :--and do we ever tire with hearing son's classical idioms, and Langhorne's amiable Arne's sweet melodies and his fine Artaxerxes, lines and translation of Plutarch's Lives, and and Beethoven's gigantic conceptions uttering Blackstone's immortal Commentaries on his their storm-like harmonies, and his ravishing country's laws, and M.Pherson's wild mountainstrains of beauty, and his bursts of tremendous strains, and Chatterton's songs of days gone passion, and his chastened accents of sorrow; by, and Falconer's sea descriptions, and Bruce's and Weber's richness in Oberon, with its strange, delightful pæan to the early spring, and Logan's unearthly harmony, and the mournful simplicity long-remembered welcome to the cuckoo, and of his last waltz; and Rossini's Italian airs, and Walton's monument of English poetry, and Mendelssohn's sweeping majesty, and Bach’s Beattie's embodiment of his youthful aspirations immortal strains, and Crotch's exquisite Pales- and feelings in the charming Minstrel, and tine, and Glück's Alceste, and Anselm Faidit's Smart's Hymn of David, and Barnard's affectthrilling love-songs, and Christopher Tye's fine ing ballad of Auld Robin Gray, and Gibbon's anthem, I will exalt thee O Lord, and Bird's splendid diction and extensive learning, and Non nobis Domine, and Gibbon's solemn com- Sterne's pathos and moving pity, and Adam binations, and Cavalli's bold expression, and Smith's great work on the Wealth of Nations, Cesti's graceful Cara e dolce Libertâ, and Sal- and Warburton's paradoxes and dogmas, and vator Rosa's wild utterances of minstrelsy, re- Lowth's beautiful Hebrew melodies, and Watts' sembling the deep gloom of his paintings; and Songs for Childhood, and Burke's exuberant Purcell's Te Deum, second only to Handel's, fancy and dazzling paintings, and Chatham's and his elegant Tell me why, my charming fair; magnificent oratory, and Canning's elegant and Corelli's pastoral sweetness, and Tartini's speeches, and Beckford's fine orientalism, and impassioned Sonatas, and Perez's pure southern Hannah More's moral sentiments, and Roscoe's intonations, and Boyce's pathetic By the waters Life of Lorenzo de Medici, and Mackintosh's of Babylon, and his chaste duet, Together let us clear, silvery argument, and Hallam’s Constitu

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