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VENICE.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Led to her gates. The path lay o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;

By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I came, in the great passage-boat,
From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,
Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower,
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelino-
Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate
And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then,
Him or his horoscope; far, far from me [there,
The forms of guilt and fear; though some were
Sitting among us round the cabin-board,
Some who, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough!"
And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd
Their parts at Padua, and were now returning;
A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow,
Careless, and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver,
Sings "Caro, Caro?"-"T is the Prima Donna!
And to her monkey, smiling in his face,
Who, as transported, cries, "Bravo! Ancora?"
"T is a grave personage, an old macaw,
Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps
Ashore, and with a shout urges along
The lagging mules; then runs and climbs a tree
That with its branches overhangs the stream,
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again.
'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh;
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.

At length we leave the river for the sea,
At length a voice aloft proclaims "Venezia!"
And, as call'd forth, it comes. A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose boast it was,
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves;
And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind
Blew from the north, the south; where they that came
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep,
A vast metropolis, with glittering spires,
With theatres, basilicas adorn'd;

A scene of light and glory, a dominion,

That has endured the longest among men.

And whence the talisman by which she rose, Towering? "T was found there in the barren sea. Want led to enterprise; and, far or near, Who met not the Venetian?-now in Cairo, Ere yet the Cafila came, listening to hear Its bells, approaching from the Red-Sea coast; Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving
Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad;
Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love,
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round
When in the rich bazar he saw, display'd,
Treasures from unknown climes, away he went,
And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long
From the well-head, supplying all below;
Making the imperial city of the East,
Herself, his tributary.

If we turn

To the Black Forest of the Rhine, the Danube,
Where o'er the narrow glen the castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his gate,
The baron lived by rapine-there we meet,
In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice;
Winning its way with all that can attract,
Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert,
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain
And his brave peers, each with his visor up,
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile,
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed
The wonders of the East! Well might they then
Sigh for new conquests!

Thus did Venice rise,
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came,
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet
From India, from the region of the sun,
Fragrant with spices-that a way was found,
A channel open'd, and the golden stream
Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt
Her strength departing, and at last she fell,
Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed;
She who had stood yet longer than the longest
Of the four kingdoms,-who, as in an ark,
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks,
Uninjured, from the old world to the new,
From the last trace of civilized life-to where
Light shone again, and with unclouded splendour.
Through many an age she in the mid-sea dwelt,
From her retreat calmly contemplating
The changes of the earth, herself unchanged.
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these,
Clothed in their purple? O'er the globe they fling
Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream!
What-but the last that styled themselves the
Cæsars?

And who in long array (look where they come-
Their gesture menacing so far and wide)
Wear the green turban and the heron's plume?
Who but the caliphs? follow'd fast by shapes
As new and strange-some, men of steel, steel-clad;
Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

In light and gay attire, with brow serene,
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest,
Lo, one by one, passing continually,

Those who assume a sway beyond them all;
Men gray with age, each with a triple crown,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys
That can alone, as he would signify,

Unlock Heaven's gate.

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES was born at the manor-house of Wootton, between Canterbury and Dover, on the 30th of November, 1762. By his mother, an EGERTON, he was descended from the most illustrious blood in Europe. Through his father, he claimed to be the representative of the old barony of Chandos. This pretension, which was prosecuted unsuccessfully before the House of Lords, was "the cherished madness" of Sir EGERTON; it has a ludicrous prominence in nearly all his writings; and its failure deeply imbittered his spirit. The perusal of Mr. BELTZ'S hostile and uncandid volume leaves the impression that this claim was well founded: but the case is a mysterious one, and was involved in great doubt, even before Lord ELDON spoke upon it.

In 1780, he entered Queen's College, Cambridge: he there devoted himself to poetry, neglected the regular studies, and left the university without a degree. He undertook the study of the law, and in 1787 was called to the bar; but never made any progress in the profession. His career as an author began by the publication of a volume of poems in 1785. In the succeeding years, he wrote the novels "Mary de Clifford," "Arthur Fitz Albini," and "Le Forester;" but was chiefly occupied with bibliographical and genealogical investigations. The "Censura Literaria," and the "Restituta," are familiar to the students of literary history. His edition of "Collins' Peerage," which employed him from 1806 to 1812, is probably the most laborious of all his works. In 1812, he published a series of Essays, under the title of "The Ruminator:" Lord BYRON, in one of his journals, speaks of having read them, and characterizes the author as "a strange, but able old man." "Occasional Poems" appeared in 1814; and "Bertram," a poem, in 1815. In 1814, he obtained a baronetcy. He became a member of the House of Commons in 1812, where he distinguished himself by procuring some important improvements in the law of copy-right. Upon the dissolution of that parliament in 1818, he withdrew to the continent, where, with little exception, he passed the remainder

of his days. Pecuniary embarrassment, induced by the indulgence of various expensive tastes, was understood to be the cause of this voluntary exile. He resided in Paris, Italy, but mostly at or near Geneva. In literature, he sought relief from the annoyances of contracted circumstances and disappointed hopes; and he was constantly engaged in writing and printing books. It is impracticable to give a complete list of his works. The best of those written while on the continent are, “Res Literariæ," 1820, 1821; "Letters from the Continent," 1821; "Gnomica," and "Letters on the Genius of Lord Byron," perhaps the most valuable of his productions, 1824; “Recollections of foreign Travel," 1825; "Imaginary Biography," and his own Autobiography, in 1834. His edition of "Milton," with a life of that poet, has made his name better known to the public than any other of his performances. He died at Campagne Gros Jean, near Geneva, on the 8th of September, 1837.

To no prose writer of our time is English literature beholden for finer passages of just thought, high sentiment, and finished eloquence, than to Sir EGERTON BRYDGES. But the effect of these is sadly impaired by repetitions, egotism, and all the infirmities of morbid passion. A judicious selection of his best paragraphs would form a volume of singular interest and beauty. To the success of his ardent wish to take a permanent place among the great authors of his country, there wanted nothing but patience, control of temper, and the prolonged concentration of his powers upon some one great work on some important subject. Unluckily for his ambition, the intensity of the desire paralyzed the vigour of

the effort.

His verse is the expression of sensitive feeling elevated and coloured by romantic fancy it is marked by a delicate sense of the beauties of nature, and displays great command of the resources of language. Under the criticisms of his friend, Lord TENTERDEN, he practised the art "de faire des vers difficilement." His sonnet upon "Echo and Silence" was pronounced by WORDSWORTH

the best sonnet in the language; and Mr. SOUTHEY said, that he knew not any poem in any language more beautifully imaginative. The two last lines finely imitate to the ear the thronging echoes which they describe. "The Winds," and the lines "Written on the Approach of cold Weather," are scarcely inferior; and the sonnets, "To Evening," and "To Autumn," are constructed with consummate skill. The sonnets on HARRY HASTINGS are a series of cabinet pictures, which deserve

careful study. They are in a style of art, to which, with the saving of a very few of Mr. WORDSWORTH'S Sonnets, the literature of this age is a stranger. In respect to finish, tone, and the magical effect by which a single image is made to flash the whole scene upon the mind, they remind us of the rural elegies of TIBULLUS. The life of the old sportsman is revived before us, with astonishing completeness. The name of the author of those sonnets will not die.

ECHO AND SILENCE.

In eddying course when leaves began to fly,

And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,

As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!

And, lo, she's gone!-In robe of dark-green hue 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward still, With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill !

THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER.
ONE morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play,
The eastern gates of heaven were open laid,
When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid,
From her sweet eyes who shed a soften'd ray.
Blushing and fair she was; and from the braid
Of her gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay:
Yet languid look'd and indolently stray'd
A while, to watch the harvest borne away.
But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale,

With buskin❜d legs, and quiver 'cross her flung, With hounds and horn she seeks the wood and vale, And Echo listens to her forest song.

At eve, she flies to hear her poet's tale, [among. And "AUTUMN's" name resounds his shades

THE WINDS.

SUBLIME the pleasure, meditating song,

Lull'd by the piping of the winds to lie,
While, ever and anon collecting, fly
The choir still swelling as they haste along,

And shake with full Æolian notes the sky.
A pause ensues: the sprites, that lead the throng,
Recall their force; and first, begin to sigh;
Then howls the gathering stream the rocking
domes among.

Methinks I hear the shrieking spirits oft Groan in the blast, and flying tempests lead:

While some aerial beings sighing soft [plead; Round once-loved maids their guardian wishes Spirits of torment shrilly speak aloft,

And warn the wretch, who rolls in guilt, to heed.

TO EVENING.

SWEET Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam,
Say, since the pensive strains thou once didst hear
Of him, the bard sublime of Arun's stream,
Will aught beside delight thy nicer ear?
Me wilt thou give to praise thy shadowy gleam,

Thy fragrant breath, and dying murmurs dear; The mists, that o'er thee from thy valleys steam, And elfin shapes that round thy car appear; The music that attends thy state; the bell

Of distant fold; the gently warbling wind And watch-dog's hollow voice from cottaged dell? For these to purest pleasure wake the mind; Lull each tumultuous passion to its cell; And leave soft, soothing images behind.

TO A LADY IN ILLNESS.

NEW to the world, when all was fairy ground,
And shapes romantic stream'd before my sight,
Thy beauty caught my soul, and tints as bright
And fair as fancy's dreams in thee I found.
In cold experience when my hopes were drown'd,
And life's dark clouds o'er-veil'd in mists of night
The forms that wont to fill me with delight,
Thy view again dispell'd the darkness round.
Shall I forget thee, when the pallid cheek,

The sighing voice, wan looks, and plaintive air,
No more the roseate hue of health bespeak?
Shall I neglect thee as no longer fair?
No, lovely maid! If in my heart I seek,
Thy beauty deeply is engraven there.

TO AUTUMN, NEAR HER DEPARTURE.
THOU maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest,
And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair;
Thy melancholy voice, and languid air,
As if, shut up within that pensive breast,
Some ne'er-to-be-divulged grief was prest;

Thy looks resign'd, that smiles of patience wear, While Winter's blasts thy scatter'd tresses tear; Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest! Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight

That dazzling Summer shall of her be born; Let Summer blaze; and Winter's stormy train Breathe awful music in the ear of Night;

Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn, And from thy glance will catch th' inspired strain.

Collins. D

TO MARY.

FROM THE NOVEL OF MARY DE CLIFFORD.

WHERE art thou, Mary, pure as fair,
And fragrant as the balmy air,
That, passing, steals upon its wing
The varied perfumes of the spring?
With tender bosom, white as snow;
With auburn locks, that freely flow
Upon thy marble neck; with cheeks
On which the blush of morning breaks;
Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams
The radiance of enchantment seems;
A voice, whose melting tones would still
The madness of revenge from ill;
A form of such a graceful mould,
We scarce an earthly shape behold;
A mind of so divine a fire
As angels only could inspire!—
Where art thou, Mary? For the sod
Is hallow'd where thy feet have trod;
And every leaf that's touch'd by thee
Is sanctified, sweet maid, to me.
Where dost thou lean thy pensive head?
Thy tears what tender tale can shed?
Where dost thou stretch thy snowy arm?
And with thy plaintive accents charm?
But hold! that image through my frame
Raises a wild tempestuous flame.

HASTINGS' SONNETS.*

I.

OLD Harry Hastings! of thy forest life
How whimsical, how picturesque the charms!
Yet it was sensual! With thy hounds and horn,
How cheerily didst thou salute the morn!
With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife,
Sounding through all the woodland glades alarms.
Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew,
But thy skill'd eye and long experience knew.
The herds were thy acquaintance; antler'd deer
Knew where to trust thy voice, and where to fear;

And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear; [rise; And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would And echoes dancing round repeat their ec

stacies.

"Scarce any English reader of biographical anecdotes is unacquainted with the character of HENRY HASTINGS, of Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, given by Lord SHAFTESBURY; which may be seen in the Connoisseur,' in Gilpin's New Forest,' and in the last edition of 'Collins' Peerage,' &c. He was son of an Earl of HUNTINGDON; he lived through the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, JAMES I., and CHARLES I, and died on the verge of a hundred years of age. Like CLAUDIAN'S 'Old Man of Verona,' he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life amid the woods and fields. His father was GEORGE, fourth earl, who died in 1605; HENRY died 5th October, 1650, aged ninety-nine. There is something exceedingly picturesque in the account of this HARRY HASTINGS' life; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets not unaptly describe it."

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A century did not thy vigour pale,

Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud;

And thy halloos were gay, and clear, and loud, To thy last days, through covert, hill, and vale: The keepers heard it on the autumnal gale,

And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud, Their labours to the cherish'd service vow'd, Delighted their old merry lord to hail. The forest girls peep'd out, and buxom wives,

And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives,

Which to their smiles the gladsome veteran deigns.

Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest!

III.

Then comes the rude and hospitable hall:

Mark how abound the trophies of the chase! How thick they mingle on the armour'd wall! What antler'd ornaments the portals grace! There blazon'd shields the proud remembrance call Of many a noble, many a princely race; And many a glorious rise, and many a fall,

As upward they the stream of ages trace. How glad the old man, far from civil brawl,

Of a more tranquil being boasts th' embrace! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake

At the gay burst of his exulting song;

And all, his joyous bounty to partake,

Leap to his call, and round his table throng.

IV.

To-morrow will the music of their cries

Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, As with the dawn he to the covert hies,

And seeks his prey amid the sylvan reign. Behold the merry men chanting in his train, See how the coy stag listens with surprise! In troops they hasten to their depths again; And with big tears his fate the mark'd one eyes. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, A mingled day of joy and grief proclaim: A tempest gathers, and the welkin fills,

And for another morning saves the game. Then on the Book of Sports the veteran pores, And deems it wiser spell than learning's lores.

V.

A hundred years to live, and live in joy!
O what a favour'd fate! The blessed air,
In all its purity of leaf and flower;
The woodland peace, the contemplative hour;
The stillness which no city-broils annoy;

Security from envy, malice, care;
The gales that fragrance to the spirit bear; [fair;
The scenes in nature's unstain'd brightness
The lulling murmur of the lonely trees;
The ambient bracing of the buoyant breeze;
The very health on forest-beauty's face;

The form robust in woodland pastures bred ;With what a tranquil and uncumber'd pace

Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead!

VI.

But is congenial quiet, and of frame

Sound health, sufficient? Does not mind demand Food and exhilaration? Conscience, ever Busy within us, must fulfil its aim!

Around us circles an aërial band,

Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour; And not alone the senses to employ,

As the pure channels of our earthly joy! There is, within, a deity, whose desires We must sustain and feed by mental fires; The insate mind, but from without supplied, Languishes on a weak imperfect food; If sustenance more spiritual be denied, With flame consuming on itself 't will brood!

VIL.

But in this rural life, mid nature's forms
Of grandeur and of beauty, why assume
That Harry Hastings had no inward joy
Of sentiment, and conscience-cherish'd thought?
When splendour of internal structure warms
The bosom's lighted mirrors, which allume
The soul's recesses, spirits then employ
Their skill in webs with mingled figures wrought.
Part from within of heavenly elements,

They add to what external sense supplies;
Then mind and conscience give their pure assents,
And airy shapes start up, and visions rise;
And though the fancies pass unspelt away,
Perchance they form the sunshine of the day!

VIII.

There is exhilaration in the chase

Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb'd some misty mountain's height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace: Then worshipping the sun, on silver floods And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass

Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly checker'd landscape pass,

And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind.

ON MOOR PARK,

FORMERLY THE SEAT OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, WHOSE HEART WAS BURIED IN THE GARDEN THERE.

To yonder narrow vale, whose high-sloped sides Are hung with airy oaks, and umbrage deepWhere through thick shades the lulling waters creep: And no vile noise the musing mind derides, But silence with calm solitude abidesTemple with joy retired, that he might keep A course of quiet days, and nightly sleep Beneath the covering wings of heavenly guidesVirtue and peace! Here he in sweet repose Sigh'd his last breath! Here Swift, in youth reclined, Pass'd his smooth days.-Oh. had he longer chose Retreats so pure, perchance his nicer mind,

That the world's wildering follies and its woes To madness shook, had ne'er with sorrows pined!

WRITTEN AUGUST 20, 1807. THOUGH in my veins the blood of monarchs flowPlantagenet and Tudor-not for these With empty boast my lifted mind I please; But rather that my heart's emotions glow With the pure flame the muse's gifts bestow: Nor would it my aspiring soul appease, In rank, birth, wealth, to loll at sensual ease, And none but folly's stupid flattery know. But yet when upstart greatness turns an eye Of scorn and insult on my modest fame, And on descent's pretensions vain would try To build the honours of a nobler name,

With pride defensive swelling, I exclaim, [vie!” "Base one, e'en there with me thou dost not

WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 10, 1825. STERN, unexpecting good, unbent by wrong, I travel onward through this gloomy scene, With brow of sorrow, yet erect in mien; Meek to the humble, in defiance strong, To folly's, envy's, hatred's, falsehood's throng: Yet knowing that the birth and grave between There ever will, as ever there have been, Be friendships fickle, warfares deep and long! If I have taught the truths of wisdom's lore,

If I have drawn the secrets of the heart, And raised the glow that mounts o'er grief and illIn my plain verse though bloom no single flower, And not a ray of wit its lustre dart,

Its naked strength o'er death will triumph still!

WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826. HIGH name of poet!-sought in every age

By thousands-scarcely won by two or three,As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage My bleeding feet are doom'd their war to wage, With awful worship I have bow'd to thee! And yet perchance it is not fate's decree, This mighty boon should be assign'd to me, My heart's consuming fever to assuage.― Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep

Within the bosom's innermost recesses, And rarely burstest forth to human ear, Break out!-and, while profoundly magic sleep With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, Let me the music of thy murmurs hear.

WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, 1826. PRAISE of the wise and good!-it is a meed

For which I would lone years of toil endure; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure! As onward I with weary feet proceed, My swelling heart continues still to bleed; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed !—

With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask; But yet it comes not, or it comes in doubtSlave to the passion of my earliest choice,

From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out.

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