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Frail man, when paper-even a rag like All are not moralists, like Southey, when this,

He prated to the world of “PantisocSurvives himself, his tomb, and all that's racy"; his.

Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who

then And when his bones are dust, his grave a Seasoned his peddler poems with deblank,

mocracy: His station, generation, even his nation,

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank | Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;

In chronological commemoration, When he and Southey, following the same Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 805

path, Or graven stone found in a barrack's | Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).

station In digging the foundation of a closet,

Such names at present cut a convict May turn his name up as a rare deposit. figure,

The very Botany Bay in moral geogAnd glory long has made the sages smile;

raphy; 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion,

Their loyal treason, renegado rigor, wind


Are good manure for their more bare Depending more upon the historian's

biography. style,

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is Than on the name a person leaves be


845 hind.

Than any since the birthday of typogTroy owes to Homer what whist owes to

raphy; Hoyle:

A drowsy, frowsy poem called The ExcurThe present century was growing blind

sion, To the great Marlborough's skill in giving

| Writ in a manner which is my aversion. knocks, Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. Milton's the prince of poets—so we say;

But let me to my story: I must own, A little heavy, but no less divine:

If I have any fault, it is digressionAn independent being in his day

Leaving my people to proceed alone, Learned, pious, temperate in love and

While I soliloquize beyond expression; wine:


But these are my addresses from the But his life falling into Johnson's way,

throne, We're told this great high priest of all

Which put off business to the ensuing the Nine

session, Was whipt at college,-a harsh sire, -odd

Forgetting each omission is a loss to spouse,

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.

I know that what our neighbors called All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 825 longueurs

865 Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord (We've not so good a word, but have the Bacon's bribes;

thing, Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest | In that complete perfection which enacts;

sures Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well An epic from Bob Southey every describes);

spring-) Like Cromwell's pranks;—but although Form not the true temptation which truth exacts

allures These amiable descriptions from the The reader; but 'twould not be hard to scribes, 830 bring

870 As most essential to their hero's story, Some fine examples of the épopée They do not much contribute to his glory. | To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.



We learn from Horace, “Homer some- | When Nero perished by the justest doom times sleeps";

Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed, We feel without him, Wordsworth some- Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, times wakes,–

Of nations freed, and the world overTo show with what complacency he creeps, joyed, With his dear“_Waggoners,” around his Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon lakes. 876 his tomb;

965 He wishes for “a boat” to sail the deeps | Perhaps the weakness of a heart not Of ocean?-No, of air; and then he void makes

Of feeling for some kindness done, when Another outcry for "a little boat,"

power And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 880 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.




If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal But I'm digressing; what on earth has plain,

Nero, And Pegasus runs restive in his “Wag | Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 970

To do with the transactions of my hero, Could he not beg the loan of Charles's More than such madmen's fellow-manWain,

the moon's? Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Sure my invention must be down at zero, Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 885 And I grown one of many “wooden He feared his neck to venture such a spoons”. nag on,

Of verse (the name with which we CanAnd he must needs mount nearer to the 1 tabs please moon,

To dub the last of honors in degrees). Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?

I feel this tediousness will never do

'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down O Hesperus! thou bringest all good (In copying) this long canto into two; things

They'll never find it out, unless I own 980 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, The fact, excepting some experienced few; To the young bird the parent's brooding And then as an improvement 'twill be wings,

shown: The welcome stall to the o’erlabored I'll prove that such the opinion of the steer;

critic is Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone From Aristotle passim.-See IlointiKTS.

Whate'er our household gods protect
of dear,

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the Nothing so difficult as a beginning
mother's breast.

In poesy, unless perhaps the end;

For oftentimes, when Pegasus seems winSoft hour! which wakes the wish and ning melts the heart

The race, he sprains a wing, and down Of those who sail the seas, on the first day we tend, When they from their sweet friends are Like Lucifer, when hurled from heaven torn apart;

955 for sinning; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way Our sin the same, and hard as his to As the far bell of vesper makes him start, mend,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Being pride, which leads the mind to soar Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?

too far, Ah! surely nothing dies but something Till our own weakness shows us what we mourns.

960 | are.


But Time, which brings all beings to their To the kind reader of our sober clime, level,

This way of writing will appear exotic; And sharp Adversity, will teach at Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, last

10 Who sang when chivalry was more Man, and—as we would hope-perhaps Quixotic, the devil,

And revelled in the fancies of the time, 45 That neither of their intellects are vast: True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, While youth's hot wishes in our red veins kings despotic; revel,

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, We know not this—the blood flows on I chose a modern subject as more meet.

too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the How I have treated it, I do not know; ocean,

15 Perhaps no better than they have We ponder deeply on each past emotion. treated me


Who have imputed such designs as show As boy, I thought myself a clever fel- Not what they saw, but what they low,

wished to see: And wished that others held the same But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; opinion;

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are They took it up when my days grew more

free: mellow,

Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 55 And other minds acknowledged my And tells me to resume my story here. dominion:

20 Now my sere fancy “falls into the yellow | Young Juan and his lady-love were left Leaf," and Imagination droops her 1 To their own hearts' most sweet society; pinion,

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft And the sad truth which hovers o'er my With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; desk


60 Turns what was once romantic to bur- Sighed to behold them of their hours bereft, lesque.

Though foe to love; and yet they could

not be And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 25 Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 'T is that I may not weep; and if I | Before one charm or hope had taken wing.

weep, 'T is that our nature cannot always bring Their faces were not made for wrinkles, Itself to apathy, for we must steep


65 Our hearts first in the depth of Lethe's Pure blood to stagnate, their great spring,

hearts to fail; Ere what we least wish to behold will The blank gray was not made to blast sleep:

30 their hair, Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; But like the climes that know nor snow A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

nor hail

They were all summer: lightning might Some have accused me of a strange design assail Against the creed and morals of the | And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 70 land,

A long and snake-like life of dull decay And trace it in this poem every line: 35 Was not for them—they had too little clay.

I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very They were alone once more; for them to be fine;

Thus was another Eden; they were But the fact is, that I have nothing never planned

Weary, unless when separate: the tree 75 Unless it were to be a moment merry, Cut from its forest root of years—the A novel word in my vocabulary.





Dammed from its fountain-the child Mixed in each other's arms, and heart in from the knee

heart, And breast maternal weaned at once for Why did they not then die?—they had ever,

lived too long Would wither less than these two torn. Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;

apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-80 Years could but bring them cruel things

or wrong; The heart-which may be broken: happy | The world was not for them. nor the world's they!

art Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile

For beings passionate as Sappho's song; mould,

Love was born with them, in them, so The precious porcelain of human clay,

intense Break with the first fall: they can ne'er

It was their very spirit, not a sense. behold The long year linked with heavy day on day,

- 85

They should have lived together deep in And all which must be borne, and never

woods, told;

Unseen as sings the nightingale; they While life's strange principle will often

were lie

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Deepest in those who long the most to die.

Called social, haunts of hate, and vice, and care:

220 “Whom the gods love die young," was How lovely every free-born creature said of yore,

broods! And many deaths do they escape by The sweetest songbirds nestle in a pair;

90 | The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow The death of friends, and that which Flock o'er their carrion, just like men slays even more-

below. The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,

Now pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving Except mere breath; and since the silent

sleep, shore

Haidée and Juan their siesta took, Awaits at last even those who longest

| A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, miss

For ever and anon a something shook The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would grave

95 creep; Which men weep over may be meant

| And Haidée's sweet lips murmured like a to save.



A wordless music, and her face so fair They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour

Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,

the air; For it had made them what they were: the power

155 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream Of love had first o'erwhelmed them from Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind such skies,

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the When happiness had been their only dower, dream,

235 And twilight saw them linked in pas The mystical usurper of the mindsion's ties;

O’erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Charmed with each other, all things | Good to the soul which we no more can charmed that brought

bind; The past still welcome as the present | Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) thought.

Senseless to feel, and with sealed eyes to see.




her lone head


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She dreamed of being alone on the sea- Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the shore,

beat Chained to a rock; she knew not how, Of his quenched heart; and the seabut stir

dirges low

270 She could not from the spot, and the Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's loud roar

song, Grew, and each wave rose roughly, | And that brief dream appeared a life too threatening her;

long. And o'er her upper lip they seemed to pour,

245 And gazing on the dead, she thought his Until she sobbed for breath, and soon face they were

Faded, or altered into something newFoaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and Like to her father's features, till each high

trace Each broke to drown her, yet she could not | More like and like to Lambro's aspect die.


With all his keen worn look and Grecian Anon-she was released; and then she grace; strayed

And starting, she awoke, and what to O'er the sharp shingles with her bleed view? ing feet,

250 O Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets And stumbled almost every step she made; she there? And something rolled before her in a 'Tis—tis her father's—fixed upon the sheet,

280 Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid; 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopped Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking to meet

fell, Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to and grasped,

255 see And ran, but it escaped her as she clasped. Him whom she deemed a habitant where

dwell The dream changed:-in a cave she stood, The ocean-buried, risen from death, to

its walls Were hung with marble icicles, the work Perchance the death of one she loved too Of ages on its water-fretted halls,


285 Where waves might wash, and seals | Dear as her father had been to Haidée, might breed and lurk;

260 It was a moment of that awful kindHer hair was dripping, and the very I have seen such—but must not call to balls

mind. Of her black eyes seemed turned to tears, and mirk

| Up Juan sprang to Haidée's bitter shriek, The sharp rocks looked below each drop And caught her falling, and from off they caught,

the wall

290 Which froze to marble as it fell—she Snatched down his sabre, in hot haste to thought.


Vengeance on him who was the cause of And wet, and cold, and lifeless, at her all. feet,

265 Then Lambro, who till now forbore to Pale as the foam that frothed on his speak, dead brow,

Smiled scornfully, and said, “Within Which she essayed in vain to clear (how my call, sweet

A thousand scimitars await the word; 295 Were once her cares, how idle seemed Put up, young man, put up your silly

they now!)



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