He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung,
He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass'd,
Thrones to his footstep rock'd, and monarchs lay
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast
Their ancient idols down before his way,
Who in majestic march, from shore to shore,
The quenchless flame revered by Persia's children
bore.

[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in deathBishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:-"I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivanhoe did; and was something so perfectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of the poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.'

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition

and Revelation, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park: -"I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,' and in the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour of affliction-or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical; but the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude."

Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustrations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included the superstitions | of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatriesthe adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job-to the still existing rites of the Hindoos -would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author's time. The work was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published is all that remains of it, though the project was never distinctly abandoned.]

THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.

FROM SISMONDI'S "LITTERATURE DU MIDI."

VINCENZO MONTI, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the

1 "About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then conducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign litera

Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts-they are present, and clothed with

ture, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which it is used to introduce."-Memoir, p. 41.

life-before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style | of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments. In these political poems -the object and purport of which are so different -the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville's death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But,

1 The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes) on the general versatility of poets, seerns so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.-"Le cerveau d'un poète est d'une cire molle et flexible, où s'imprime naturelle

as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revo lution.

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character-he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body :

"Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,
Rest thou in deep and undisturb'd repose;
Till at the last great day, from slumber's bed,
Heaven's trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.

"Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour; Nor let the wanderer passing o'er thee, breathe Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.

ment tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l'alimente. La inuse du chant n'a pas de partie; c'est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d'arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse."

"Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire;
And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore
Where mercy's home hath been from days of yore."

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, Then turn'd to follow its celestial guide; But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, A lingering step, and oft reverted eyeAs when a child's reluctant feet obey

Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play.

Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast,
When from th' Eternal City's towers they pass'd,
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome,
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome,
Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower'd,
But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower'd
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem'd
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour
beam'd

On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven,
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire
Seem'd his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire;
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood,
A comet's glare, presaging woe and blood.
He waved his sword-its red, terrific light
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night;
While his left hand sustain'd a shield so vast,
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom
O'er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar;
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar,
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest,
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast,
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high
Breaks not their calm and proud security.

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies
Look'd fraught with omens, as to harmonise
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round
Not a leaf whisper'd-and the only sound
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone,
As if a storm within the woodland bowers
Were gathering. On they moved-and lo! the
towers

Of a far city! Nearer now they drew;
And all reveal'd, expanding on their view,

The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woesParis, the guilty, the devoted, rose !

In the dark mantle of a cloud array'd,
Viewless and hush'd, the angel and the shade
Enter'd that evil city. Onward pass'd
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies.
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw
That alter'd aspect, and, in breathless awe,
Mark'd the strange silence round. The deep-

toned swell

Of life's full tide was hush'd; the sacred bell,
The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled
Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe,
Inquiring glances, rumours whisper'd low,
Questions half-utter'd, jealous looks that keep
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep
That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard
At intervals, in many a broken word-
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press'd
Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast;
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries,
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs,
On their own thresholds striving to detain
Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain
Affection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour
Of fate and fury-Love hath lost his power!
For evil spirits are abroad, the air
Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there.
Fired by that thirst for victims which of old
Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll❜d,
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimm'd the day.
Blood, human blood, hath stain'd their vests and
hair,

On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare,
Scattering red showers around them! Flaming

brands

And serpent scourges in their restless hands
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high
The steel, th' envenom'd bowl; and, hurrying by,
With touch of fire contagious fury dart
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart.
Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain'd no more,
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour;
From every heart affrighted mercy flies,

While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies.
Then the earth trembles, as from street to strect
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet,
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze,
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas

Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone

Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press'd,
O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast;
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold
Death's awful banner to the winds unfold!
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high-
The dark impatience of the murderer's eye,
Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good,
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood
Dragg'd to a felon's death! Yet still his mien,
Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene;
│And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved!
Where have you borne your monarch?—He who
loved-

Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale,
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil;
The misty air is silent, as in dread,
And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o'erspread;
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest,
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray'd till the bitterness of death was pastEen for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction's power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad"Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?"Een thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes"To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried; "And my lost people, Father! be their guide!"

But the sharp steel descends-the blow is given, And answer'd by a thunder-peal from heaven; Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones !

THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.

THE Alcestis of ALFIERI is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which

his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that "fever at the core," that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy.

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language.

ACT I.-SCENE II. ALCESTIS, PHERES.

Alc. Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears!

For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate
Bereave thee of thy son.

Phe. What mean thy words?
Hath then Apollo-is there then a hope?

Alc. Yes! hope for thee-hope by the voice announced