be the most important of his many and great discoveries. No praise can add to his deserved celebrity. Note 11, page 597, col. 1. Not to his affectionate spirit Could the act of madness innate for guilt be accounted. The act of suicide is very far from being so certain an indication of insanity as it is usually considered by our inquests. But in the case of Chatterton, it was the manifestation of an hereditary disease. There was a madness in his family. His only sister, during one part of her life, was under confinement. his hexameters, as more unlike their model; for, in our Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me, The law respecting suicide is a most barbarous one; and of late years has never been carried into effect Fortune thus 'gan say, misery and misfortune is all one, without exciting horror and disgust. It might be a salutary enactment, that all suicides should be given up for dissection. This would certainly prevent many women from committing self-murder, and possibly might in time be useful to physiology. Note 12, page 597, col. 2. The gentle Amelia. In one of his few intervals of sanity, after the death of this beloved daughter, the late King gave orders, that a monument should be erected to the memory of one of her attendants, in St George's Chapel, with the following inscription: King GEORGE III caused to be interred near this place the body of MARY GASCOIGNE, Servant to the Princess AMELIA; and this stone to be inscribed in testimony of his grateful sense of the faithful services and attachment whom she survived only three months. This may probably be considered as the last act of his life; a very affecting one it is, and worthy of remembrance. Such a monument is more honourable to the King, by whom it was set up, than if he had erected a pyramid. SPECIMENS, ETC. And of misfortune, fortune hath only the gift. Where thou poor Nature left'st all thy due glory, to Fortune Sidney has also given examples in his Arcadia of Anacreontic, Phaleucian, Sapphic, and Asclepiad verse, all written upon the same erroneous principle. Those persons who consider it ridiculous to write English verses upon any scheme of Latin versification, may perhaps be surprised to learn that they have read, as blank verse, many lines which are perfect Sapphics or Phalcucians. Rowe's tragedies are full of such lines. The Censura Literaria supplies me with two choice samples of Stanihurst's Virgil. Neere joynctlye brayeth with rufflerye rumboled Ætna: Ding'd with this squising and massive burthen of Etna, THE annexed Specimens of Sir Philip Sidney's hexa-Men say that Enceladus, with bolt haulf blasted, here harbrought, meters will sufficiently evince that the failure of the attempt to naturalize this fine measure in his days, was owing to the manner in which the attempt was made, not to the measure itself. First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed, First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean: First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger. First shall vertue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish; Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize, Her praise, whence to the world all praise bath his only beginning: But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case. None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt: Great to thee my state seems, thy state is blest by my judgment: And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self, For yet (weigh this, alas!) great is not great to the greater. What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus? Such my minute greatness doth seem compar'd to the greatest. When Cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an Emmet, Or when a rich Rubie's price be the worth of a Walnut, Or to the Sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle: Then by my high Cedar, rich Rabie, and only shining Sun, Vertues, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed. Oh, no, no, worthy Shepherd, worth can never enter a title, T'ward Sicil is seated, to the welkin loftily peaking, A soyl, yeleapt Liparen, from whence with flounce furye flinging, A clapping fier-bolt (such as oft with rounce rebel hobble, side, hath both the male, as Bon Son; and the Female, as Plaise, Taise, but the Sdrucciola he hath not, where the English hath all three, as Due, True, Father, Rather, Motion, Potion, with much more, which might be said, but that already I find the trifling of this discourse is too much enlarged.»> The French attempted to introduce the ancient meStanihurst's Virgil is certainly one of those curiosities tres some years before the trial was made in England. in our literature which ought to be reprinted. Yet notwithstanding the almost incredible absurdity of this Pasquier says, that Estienne Jodelle led the way in the version, Stanihurst is entitled to an honourable remem-year 1553, by this distich upon the poems of Olivier de brance for the part which he contributed to Holinshed's Maigny, «lequel,» he adds, «est vrayement une petit chef d'œuvre.» Collection of Chronicles. None of our chroniclers possessed a mind better stored, nor an intellect more perpetually on the alert. Sidney, who failed so entirely in writing hexameters, has written concerning them, in his Defence of Poesie, with the good sense and propriety of thought by which that beautiful treatise is distinguished. Let me not be thought to disparage this admirable man and delightful writer, because it has been necessary for me to show the cause of his failure in an attempt 'wherein I have now followed him. I should not forgive myself, were I ever to mention Sidney without an expression of reverence and love. Phœbus, Amour, Cypris, veut sauver, nourrir et orner plaist sinon de te chanter, et servir et orner: Si vaine est ma fureur, si vain est tout ce que des cieux Vueillez Dieux que l'amour r'entre dedans le Chaos: Qui me ruine le corps, qui me ruine le cœur. Mais que ma Sourde se change, et plus douce escoute les voix, Voix que je seme criant, voix que je seme, riant, Et que le froid au feu perde sa lente vigeur: Qui me ruine le corps, qui me ruine le cœur. « Of versifying," he says, there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other modern; the ancient marked the quantity of each syllable, and, according to that, framed his verse; the modern, observing only number, with some regard of the accent; the chief life of it standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call Rhyme. Whether of these be the more excellent, Pour finir ma douleur, pour finir cette cruauté, would bear many speeches, the ancient, no doubt, more fit for musick, both words and time observing quantity, and more fit, lively to express divers passions by the low or lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter likewise with his Rhyme striketh a certain musick to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by another way, it obtaineth the same purpose, there being in either sweetness, and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before any vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts; for, for the ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered with elisions: the Dutch so, of the other side, with consonants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding, fit for a verse. The French, in his whole lanhath not one word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving two, called Antepenultima; and little more hath the Spanish, and therefore very gracelessly may they use Dactyls; the English is subject to none of these defects. Now for Rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, yet we observe the accent very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely. guage, « Je ne dy pas,» says the author, « que ces vers soient de quelque valeur, aussi ne les mets-je icy sur la monstre en intention qu'on les trouve tels; mais bien estimeje qu'ils sont autant fluides que les Larins, et à tant veux-je que l'on pense nostre vulgaire estre aucunement capable de ce subject.» Pasquier's verses were not published till many years after they were written; and in the meantime Jean Antoine de Baif made the attempt upon a larger scale,—« toutesfois,» says Pasquier, «en ce subject si mauvais parrain que non seulement il ne fut suivy d'aucun, mais au contraire descouragea un chacun de s'y employer. D'autant que tout ce qu'il en fit estoit tant despourveu de cette naif veté qui doit accompagner nos œuvres, qu'aussi tost que << That Casura, or breathing-place, in the midst of the cette sienne poësie voit la lumière, elle mourut comme un avorton.» The Abbé Goujet, therefore, had no reaverse, neither Italian nor Spanish have; the French and we never almost fail of. Lastly, the very Rhyme itself son to represent this attempt as a proof of the bad taste the Italian cannot put in the last syliable, by the French of the age: the bad taste of an age is proved, when vinamed the Masculine Rhyme, but still in the next to cious compositions are applauded, not when they are unsuccessful. Jean Antoine de Baif is the writer of the last, which the French call the Female, or the next before that, which the Italian call Sdrucciola: the exwhom the Cardinal du Perron said «qu'il étoit bon ample of the former, is Buono Suono: of the Sdruc-homme, mais qu'il étoit méchant poëte François.» ciola, is Femina Semina. The French, on the other que Tú. los erguidos sobrepujas del hondo Timavo Great Que presto, inspirando Pean con amigo Coturno, Y luego, torciendo el vuelo, del Aquilo al Austro. It is admitted by the Spaniards, that the fitness of their language for the hexameter has been established by Villegas; his success, however, did not induce other poets to follow the example. I know not whom it was that he followed, for he was not the first to make the attempt. Neither do I know whether it was ever made in Portuguese, except in some verses upon St Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, which are Latin as well as Portuguese, and were written as a whimsical proof of the affinity of the two languages. I have found no specimens in Italian. The complete success of the metre in Germany is well known. The Bohemians have learnt the tune, and have, like their neighbours, a translation of the Iliad in the measure of the original. This I learn accidentally from a Bohemian grammar; which shows me also, that the Bohemians make a dactyl of Achilles, probably because they pronounce the % with a strong aspirate. Minor Poems. Nos hæc novimus esse nihil. ་ THE lily cheek, the « purple light of love,» As erst when Cæsar perish'd: and some strains THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and Fourth Chapters of the First Book of Esdras. GLAD as the weary traveller tempest-tost So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign, Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod, Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court, And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe. From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves, Now on his couch reclined Darius lay, Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace, Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow; And when the dull and wearying round of power Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour, He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam, And lingering gaze toward his distant home; Or on Euphrates's willowy banks reclined To them Zorobabel : « On themes like these Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; A golden couch support his bed of rest, For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known.»> Intent they meditate the future lay, And watch impatient for the dawn of day. The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, And now Darius bids the herald call Judæa's Bards to grace the thronging hall. As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light, Hush'd is each sound, the attending crowd are mute, And social converse cheers the livelong night, Thus spake Zorobabel: Too long in vain For Zion desolate her sons complain; All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow, And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe. Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign, << Fair is the occasion,» thus the one replied, "Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.>> And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute: When the Traveller on his way, The chilly mists of eventide, He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth, Then shall sorrow sink to sleep, And he who wept no more shall weep; For his care-clouded brow shall clear, And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear. When the poor man heart-opprest Betakes him to his evening rest, And worn with labour thinks in sorrow Of the labour of to-morrow: When sadly musing on his lot He hies him to his joyless cot, And loathes to meet his children there, The rivals for his scanty fare; Oh give to him the flowing bowl! Bid it renovate his soul! The generous juice with magic power Shall cheat with happiness the hour, And with each warm affection fill The heart by want and wretchedness made chill. When, at the dim close of day, The bowl shall better thoughts bestow, When the wearying cares of state Or with desolating breath Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: Oh give to him the flowing bowl! Bid it humanize his soul! He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile. song, Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the Why should the wearying cares of state What though the tempest rage! no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne, And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the crown. Where is the Man who with ennobling pride For Man the vernal clouds descending Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. The rude gale wafts him o'er the main ; For him the winds of heaven subservient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below! Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side; Alike the wise, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath, Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death. Why goes the Peasant from that little cot, Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life? In vain his agonizing wife With tears bedews her husband's face, And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies. What though yon City's castled wall Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade? What though her Priests in earnest terror call On all their host of Gods to aid? Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower! In vain her gallant youths expose Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes! In vain at that tremendous hour, Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms, Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid! By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round, Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground. Low shall the mouldering palace lie, Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, And through the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky. Gay o'er the embattled plain Moves yonder warrior train, See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky. |