Da cui torcer non lice Pur orma nè sperar pietade alcuna ! Che Natura puo dar larga, e fortuna, These most beautiful and affecting lines contain no thought which has not been a thousand and a thousand times expressed; yet their influence is enchanting, for they realise, in a moment, mingled with mysterious delight, that ineffable fear of death which is interwoven with life, and which is natural to all men; for "willing" as the spirit even of the good may be, "to depart and to be with Christ, which is far better," its frail companion shudders at a change which consigns her to worms, and darkness, and dissolution; "the flesh is weak," and trembles into dust. Alessandro Guidi has been crowned by Mr. Mathias with the thickest laurels; and fairly to him may be conceded all the glory that is due to one of the vainest and sublimest of poets. He speaks of himself frequently, and always in strains so boastful, that he would appear utterly disgusting and contemptible, did he not sing his own praises in language so captivating, and with such genuine dignity of thought and splendour of imagery, that we either forget or forgive the egotism of the man, in the overwhelming majesty of the poet. He actually seems to speak the truth; and truth is never offensive when we believe it heartily, unless it condemns ourselves. Airy grandeur and irresistible impetuosity are the characteristics of his style; his genius is Grecian, but his spirit is Roman. Gladly and unfearingly I turn to our English Lyrics, and begin with a very small example, which, however, (like the taper in the second stanza) grows clearer and brighter the more it is contemplated. "The wretch, condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies, And every pang that rends his heart Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray." GOLDSMITH. Is this poetry? Every one feels that it is. Is it fine versification? In that respect, also, it is unexceptionable. Now, the same ideas might be given in prose, without being deemed extravagant,- while in point of diction they could hardly be more humbly attired. Yet he who should attempt to do this, with equal effect, in any other form than the original, would find that he had set himself to catch a rainbow, and bend it in a contrary direction. There is the subject, a captive under sentence of death, yet nursing in secret, almost from despair, the hope of life, with every pang. Here he is transformed into a benighted wanderer, whom the apparition of that cherished deceiver meets amidst the darkness and allures from afar, under the semblance of a stream of light from a cottage window, brightening as he approaches; while we, who fear the illusion may prove an ignis fatuus, are prepared to see him suddenly ingulphed in a morass. Poetry is the shorthand of thought;-how much is expressed here in less than threescore syllables! — TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO FELL IN THE REBELLION OF 1745. "How sleep the brave, who sink to rest "By Fairy-hands their knell is rung, COLLINS. Again; what a quantity of thought is here condensed in the compass of twelve lines, like a cluster of rock crystals, sparkling and distinct, yet receiving and reflecting lustre by their combination. The stanzas themselves are almost unrivalled in the association of poetry with picture, pathos with fancy, grandeur with simplicity, and romance with reality. The melody of the verse leaves nothing for the ear to desire, except a continuance of the strain, or, rather, the repetition of a strain which cannot tire by repetition. The imagery is of the most delicate and exquisite character, - Spring decking the turfy sod; Fancy's feet treading upon the flowers there; Fairy hands ringing the knell; unseen Forms singing the dirge of the glorious dead; but above all, and never to be surpassed in picturesque and imaginative beauty, Honour, as an old and broken soldier, coming on far pilgrimage to visit the shrine where his companions in arms are laid to rest; and Freedom, in whose cause they fought and fell,-leaving the mountains and fields, the hamlets, and the unwalled cities of England delivered by their valour,—hastening to the spot, and dwelling (but only for "a while,") "a weeping hermit there." The sentiment, too, is profound: "How sleep the brave! not how sweetly, soundly, happily! for all these are included in the simple apostrophe, "How sleep the brave!" Then, in that lovely line, 66 "By all their country's wishes blest," 66 is implied every circumstance of loss and lamentation, of solemnity at the interment, and posthumous homage to their memory, by the threefold personages of the scene, living, shadowy, and preternatural beings. As for thought, he who can hear this little dirge sung," as it is, by the "unseen form" of the author himself, who cannot die in it, without having thoughts, " as thick as motes that people the sunbeams," thronging through his mind, must have a brain as impervious to the former, as the umbrage of a South American forest to the latter. There are in it associations of war, peace, glory, suffering, life, 66 death, immortality, which might furnish food for a midsummer day's meditation, and a midwinter night's dream afterwards, could June and December be made to meet in a poet's reverie. FROM THE EXEQUY, ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE. (By Henry King, Bishop of Chichester; born 1591, died 1669.) "Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed, 66 My last good night!' thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake; Till age, or grief, or sickness, must It so much loves; and fill the room Stay for me there; I will not faile And follow thee with all the speed Of life, almost by eight houres' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsie gale !" What a "last good night!" is this! and oh! what a one "good morrow!" to last for eternity, when such partners awake from the same bed, in the resurrection of the just! Is there the "man born of a |