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Where stood Salvator, when the summer cloud

At noon-day, to Ausonia direr far
Than winter, and its elemental war,
Gather'd the tempest, from whose ebon shroud,
That cross'd like night a sky of crimson flame,
Stream'd ceaselessly the fire-bolts' forked aim :
While hurricanes, whose wings were frore with hail,

Sut sheer the vines, and o'er the harvest vale
Spread barrenness : Where was Salvator found,
When all the air a bursting sea became,
Deluging earth —On Terni's cliff he stood,
The tempest sweeping round.
I see him where the spirit of the storm
His daring votary led :
Firm stands his foot on the rock's topmost head,
That reels above the rushing and the roar
Of deep Vellino.—In the glen below,
Again I view him on the reeling shore,
Where the prone river, after length of course,
Collecting all its force,
An avalanche cataract, whirl’d in thunder o'er
The promontory's height,
Bursts on the rock : while round the mountain brow,
Half, half the flood rebounding in its might,
Spreads wide a sea of foam evanishing in light.

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I saw the ages backward roll'd,
The scenes long past restore:
Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold,
When first the Trojan stept on Tyber's shore—
The shepherds in the forum pen their fold;
And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed,
Goads with prone spear the heifer's foaming speed,
Where Rome, in second infancy, once more
Sleeps in her cradle. But—in that drear waste,
In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung
From cliff to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock
Lour'd o'er the untended flock,
And eagles on its crest their aerie hung :

And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when blaz'd
The lightning, and the savage in the storm
Some unknown godhead heard, and, awe-struck, gaz'd
On Jove's imagin'd form :—
And in that desert, when swoln Tyber's wave
Went forth the twins to save,
Their reedy cradle floating on his flood:
While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung,
While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath,
And mingled with their food
The spirit of her blood,
As o'er them seen to breathe
With fond reverted neck she hung,
And lick'd in turn each babe, and formed with fostering tongue:
And when the founder of imperial Rome
Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof,
His predatory home,
And hung in triumph round his straw-thatched roof
The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the pride
Of branching antlers wide :
And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar
His voice, that on the mountain echoes roll'd,
Stern preluding the war:
And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold,
And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den,
Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms of barbarous
men :
Then might be seen by the presageful eye
The vision of a rising realm unfold,
And temples roof’d with gold.
And in the gloom of that remorseless time,
When Rome the Sabine seiz'd, might be foreseen
In the first triumph of successful crime,
The shadowy arm of one of giant birth
Forging a chain for earth:
And tho' slow ages roll'd their course between,
The form as of a Caesar, when he led
His war-worn legions on,
Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful Rubicon.

Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been foretold
By word of human wisdom. But—what word,
Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet ! heard,
When Rome was marble, and her temples gold,

And the globe Caesar's footstool, who, when Rome
View'd th’ incommunicable name divine
Link a Faustina to an Antonine
On their polluted temple; who but thou,
The prophet of the Lord ' what word, save thine,
Rome's utter desolation had denounc'd
Yet, ere that destin'd time,
The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth,
Ring from her palace roofs.-Hear'st thou not yet,
Metropolis of earth !
A voice borne back on every passing wind,
Wherever man has birth,
One voice, as from the lip of human kind,
The echo of thy fame —Flow they not yet,
As flow'd of yore, down each successive age
The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage,
To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime,
Where genius dwells enthron'd?—

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Rome ! thou art doom'd to perish, and thy days, Like mortal man's, are numbered : number'd all, Ere each fleet hour decays. Though pride yet haunt thy palaces, though art Thy sculptur'd marbles animate: Though thousands, and ten thousands throng thy gate; Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore : Thy second reign shall pass, pass like thy reign of yore.—

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CAN I forget that beauteous day,
When, shelter'd from the burning beam,
First in thy haunted grot I lay,
And loos'd my spirit to its dream,
Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid
With ivy, dark with many a braid
That clasp'd its tendrils to retain
The stone its roots had writh’d in twain
No zephyr on the leaflet play'd,
No bent grass bow'd its slender blade,

The coiled snake lay slumber-bound :
All mute, all motionless around,
Save, livelier, while others slept,
The lizard on the sunbeam leapt,
And louder, while the groves were still,
The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill,
As if their chirp could charm alone
Tir'd noontide with its unison.

Stranger! that roam'st in solitude : Thou, too, 'mid tangling bushes rude, Seek in the glen, yon heights between, A rill more pure than Hippocrene, That from a sacred fountain fed The stream that fill'd its marble bed. Its marble bed long since is gone, And the stray water struggles on, Brawling thro' weeds and stones its way. There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day, Nature languishes in light, Pass within the gloom of night, Where the cool grot's dark arch o’ershades Thy temples, and the waving braids Of many a fragrant brier that weaves Its blossom thro’ the ivy leaves. Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof, Where the moss mats its thickest woof, Shalt hear the gather'd ice drops fall Regular, at interval, Drop after drop, one after one, Making music on the stone, While every drop, in slow decay, Wears the recumbent nymph away. Thou, too, if ere thy youthful ear Thrill'd the Latian lay to hear, Lull'd to slumber in that cave, Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave; A goddess, who there deign'd to meet, A mortal from Rome's regal seat, And o'er the gushing of her fount, Mysterious truths divine to carthly ear recount.

John K.E.A.T.s, one of the most poetical of Poets, and therefore by nature one of the most refined of men, was of the humblest origin, having been born, October the 29th, 1796, at a livery-stable in Moorfields, which belonged to his family. He received the rudiments of a classical education at the school of Mr. Clarke, at Enfield, where, in the person of the master's son, Mr. Charles Cowden Clarke, the editor of the “Riches of Chaucer," he had the luck of finding a friend possessed of discernment enough to see his genius, and warm-heartedness to encourage it. He was afterwards apprenticed to a surgeon and apothecary; but inheriting a small independence (which, however, he used in the most generous manner), he did not stop long with him, but devoted himself entirely to poetry. Mr. Clarke introduced him to Mr. Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Leigh Hunt, through the medium of the “Examiner,” to the public,-which introduction, while it procured instant recognition of his genius, attracted towards him, in consequence of the party-politics then raging, the hostility of the critics on the opposite side, who paid him the unhappy compliment of being unusually bitter and ungenerous. The result was, not his death, as some have supposed,—but undoubtedly an embitterment of the causes which were then leading to it, and which originated in a consumptive tendency. Mr. Keats left England in the year 1820, to try the warmer climate of Italy, and, on the 24th of February, in the year following, died at Rome in the arms of his friend, Mr. Severn, the artist, who had accompanied him on the voyage, and attended his bedside like a brother. Mr. Shelley, who loved him, and who enthusiastically admired his genius (as he has evinced in the beautiful elegy, entitled “Adonis"), invited him to come and take up his abode with himself; and he would have done so, had life been spared him. But fate had disposed otherwise; and the ashes of his inviter, no great while afterwards, went to take up their own abode in the same burial-ground. His death was embittered by a passion he had for a young lady, who returned his affection; but, amidst all his sufferings, his love of poetical beauty did not forsake him. He said, in anticipation of his grave, that he already “felt the daisies growing over him." He requested, however, in the anguish of disappointed hope, that his friends would inscribe upon his tomb, “Here lies one whose name was writ in water;" and they did so.

Mr. Keats was under the middle size, and somewhat large above, in proportion to his lower limbs,-which, however, were neatly formed; and he had any thing in his dress and general demeanour but that appearance of “laxity," which has been strangely attributed to him in a late publication. In fact, he had so much of the reverse, though in no unbecoming degree, that he might be supposed to maintain a certain jealous care of the appearance and bearing of a gentleman, in the consciousness of his genius, and perhaps not without some sense of his origin. His face was handsome and sensitive, with a look in the eyes at once earnest and tender; and his hair grew in delicate brown ringlets, of remarkable beauty.

Mr. Keats may truly be pronounced a Poet of the most poetical order, for he gave himself up entirely to the beautiful, and had powers of expression equal to an excess of sensibility. His earlier poems, especially the “Endymion,” are like a luxuriant wilderness of flowers and weeds (“weeds of glorious feature"); his latest, the “Hyperion,” was a growing wood of oaks, from which the deepest oracles of the art might have been looked for. Indeed, there they were, as far as he gave his thoughts utterance. It has been justly said, that he is “ the greatest You Ng Poet that ever appeared in the lan. guage;" that is to say, the greatest who did not live to be old, and whose whole memory will be identified with something both young and great. His lyrics (the Odes to the Nightingale and the Grecian Vase) are equal to the very finest we possess, both for subtle feeling and music. His “Eve of St. Agnes,” is as full of beauty as the famous painted window he describes in it; and there was such a profusion in him of fancies and imaginations, analogous to the beautiful forms of the genius of the ancient Poets, that a university-man expressed his astonishment at hearing he was not a Greek scholar. Of our lately deceased Poets, if you want imaginative satire, or bitter wailing, you must go to the writings of Lord Byron; if a thoughtful, dulcet, and wild dreaminess, you must go to Coleridge; if a startling appeal to the first elements of your nature and sympathies (most musical also), to Shelley; if a thorough enjoyment of the beautiful— for beauty's sake—like a walk on a summer's noon in a land of woods and meadows, you must embower yourself in the luxuries of Keats.

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