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I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than.though not ungrateful-1 can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, -to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, trüe in counsel and trusty in peril-to a friend often tried and never found wanting ;-to yourself.” Under these circumstances his lordship could not, perhaps, have selected a person more deserving of so great an honour. This canto commences with an allasion to the fallen grandeur of Venice. :

« In Venice Tasso’g echoes are no more,

And silent rows the sõngless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear :
Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all'festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy !"

The songs extracted from the Jesusalem of Tasso, tħe favourite poet of Italy, which once formed sở considerable'a part of the pleasures to be found in sailing on the Venetian cadals, are now a novelty to the Venetians themselves. The loss of their independevice has deprived them of the relish which the recitation of these beautiful stanzas' was wont to produce in their days of liberty and freedom'; and their repetition in the presett'altered condition of the country, would in accord with those melancholy and dejected feeling's" which must be ever present to their minds. Liberty, indeed, is one of those inestimable treasures, the valve of which is seldom duly appreciated till its loss has been experienced. When this catastrophe takes place, the mind anxiously long's for a thousand delights which it was accustomed to experience, and vainly regrets the absence of those pleasures which were tasted, perhaps, without gratitude, and lost, perhaps, without an effort to preserve them;

In the eighth, ninth, and tenth stanzas, which we here transcribe for the perusal of our readers, may be found a spirit which has seldom breathed in his lordship’s former productions.

I've taught me other tongues—and in strange eyes

Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ;
Nor is it barsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with-ay, or without-mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,
Not without cause ; and sbould I leave behind

The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

Perhaps I loved it well: and shonld I lay
My asbes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it- if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine

My hopes of being remembered in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,-

If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

" My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honoured by the nations-Jet it be-
And light the laurels on a loftier head !
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me
!Sparta bath many a wortbier son Iban he."
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ;
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree

I planted,—they have torn, me,- and I bleed :
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed."

The fall of Britain, predicted in stanza xvii., we hope is still far, very far distant | though it must be confessed it would be well for us to take warning from the sudden depression which other states have experienced We have, perhaps, arrived at the zenith of our grandeur, and have enjoyed a period of greatness scarcely exceeded by the most celebrated nations of antiquity: we still stand unrivalled for the degree of liberty we enjoy, and the almost aninterrapted pleasures we experience; and we are induced to hope and trust that the measures adopted by our present and future legislators, will secure to our descendants, for nomerous generations, that pre-eminence as a nation wbich we ourselves so happily enjoy.

The twenty-first, twenty-second, twenty-third, and twenty-fourth stanzas, bearing an analogy which the reader cannot misinterpret, we here present to his notice, for the extreme beauty of their language, and the undoubted justness of the remarks which they contain :

“Existence may be borne, and the deep-root

Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolate bosoms : mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence,--not bestow'd
In vain should such example be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,

Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear,-it is but for a day.

“ All suffering dotb destroy, or is destroy'd,

Even by the sufferer; and, in each event
Ends :—some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd,
Return to whence they came-with like intent,
And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent,
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time,
And perish with the reed on which they leant;

Some seek deyotion, toil, war, good or crime,
According as their souls were form’d to sink or climb:

" But ever and anon of griefs subdued

There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ;
And sligbt. withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a soaud-
A tone of music,-summer's eve, or spring,

A flower-the wind-the ocean- which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound;

“And bow and why we know not, nor can trace

Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesigned,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres wbom no exorcism can bind,

The cold--the changed— perchance the dead - anew,

The mourned, the loved, the lost, too many!- yet how few !" The following are the concluding lines of a description of evening, the whole of which we regret that our confined pages will not allow us to extract:

« Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters ; all its bues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new colour as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till — tis gone-and all is gray." The thirtieth, and following stanzas, contain a tribute to the memory of Petrarch; a long and learned note being supplied at the end of the volume on the subject of his attachment to Laura, which would seem to reflect more criminality on their mutual affection than many admirers of the celebrated poet are willing to allow that it deserves. That a purely Platonic love did in any instance ever subsist, the author of this note seems very much to question; but he is decidedly of opinion that the conduct of Petrarch to the dear idol of his affections exbibited none of that super-human forbearance which has generally been attributed to it. That he was seriously and deeply enamoured of real flesh and blood, and not with a mere creature of bis imagination, is clearly and plainly demonstrated from innumerable passages in his sonnets; and whether it was even that pure and exalted passion which it has sometimes been denominated, and which the talents of many eminent characters have been exerted to prove that it was, will at least admit of a doubt. There are implanted by nature in our breasts certain feelings, which, however bridled by habit or restrained by prudence, will now and then disdain control and assert their prerogative , and it was in moments like these, we may presume, that Petrarch, shrinking as he is known generally to have done, at the very idea of any thing bordering upon crimi

nality, composed those more than ardent lines which are occasionally interspersed amongst his compositions. Love, indeed, as we all know, is a passion which will admit of control as little as the raging wind or the flowing tide; and even Petrarch himself, indulging bis passion af hé anquéstionably did, must have been under its almighty influence.

e ebe poä puote
Amor, che non catena il cielo unisce ?
Egli già trahe de le celesti rote

Di terrena belta Diana aceeså
E d'Ida il bel fanciallo al ciel rapisce."

Tusso.
The stanzas relating to Tasso, Ariosto, Angelo, Alfieri, Galileo, Machiavelli, Dante,
and Boccacio, are extremely fide; nor are those which contain the description of lake
Thrasimene, and the allusion to the celebrated båttle which took place near it, when

“An earthquake reeld upbeededly away,” less beautiful. After having appropriated three stanzas to a concise description of the engagement, he proceeds,

« Far other scene is Thrasimene now;
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta’en--
A little rill of scanty stream and bed-
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ;

And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
Made the earth wet, and turn’d the unwilling waters red.”

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The Cascate del Marmore of Terni is álluded to in the following sublime stanzas:

“ The roar of waters !-- from the headlong height

Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ;
The hell of waters! where they bowl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

“ And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again

Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald :- how profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearsul vent

« To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parept of rivers, which flow gusþingly,
With many windings, through the vale :--Look back!
Lo; where it comes like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread, -a matchless cataract,

“ Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their beams upshorn :

Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,

Love watching Madness with analterable mien.” We were not prepared, we must confess, after having discovered so many decisive proofs of profound classical attainments in this and the other productions of the noble author, to meet with so poor a compliment to his youthful application as the following lines contain:

26 I abborr'd Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake,

The drill'd dull lesson, forc'd down word for word

In my repugnant youth." And we scarcely know how to réconcile the exalted opinion we had formed of his literary acquirements, with the candid ackaowledgment contained in stanza lxxvi.

-". Though time bath taught
My mind to meditate what then it learned,
Yet sach the fixed inveteracy wrought
By the impatience of my early thought,
That, with the freshness wearing out before
My mind could relish what it might have sought,

If free to choose, I cannot now restore

Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor.” We are informed in a note which does honour to the agthor's feeliugs, that this aversion was not produced by the conduct of his preceptor Dr. Joseph Drury, of whom he speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude, but was purely the result of his own desoltory habits; for though he was not“ a slow," he confesses that he was idle boy."

The stanzas relating to Rome and her heroes, contained between lxxviii. and clxiii. we very much admire; and we think the digression to our Cromwell in stanzas lxxxv. and lxxxvi. particularly beautiful and just. Nor must we altogether pass over the apostrophe on love from cxx. to cxxv., although we cannot perfectly acquiesce in the decided opinions expressed by the author on this subjeet. He may indeed be convinced

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