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IF but attentively we look

THE NETTLE.-A FABLE.

In Nature's wide-extended book,
Explore each page with curious eye,
And into ev'ry corner pry;
Throughout this sublunary ball,
There's nought so useless or so small,
There's nought so mean, but it will

still

Proclaim its Heavenly Author's skill;
And, like the bee, a moral mind
In the rank weed may honey find;
Advice, instruction, may deduce
Ev'n from the hemlock's pois'nous juice;
Can truth fom ev'ry flow'r exact,
And wisdom from a leaf extract.
Look but abroad, there's not a blade
On which so oft we careless tread,
Nor flow'r within the garden's round,
Nor shrub within the forest's bound,
Nor beast that roams the sandy plain,
Nor fish that wantons in the main,
Nor bird that cleaves the yielding skies,
Nor insect nearer earth that flies,
But to th' enlighten'd Christian's heart
Some useful lesson may impart.'
Mark yonder unsuspecting child,

thoughtless, sporting on the wild! The blue-bells tempt his little hand Beneath the hedge-row as they stand, But whilst he strives the prize to gain, Backwards he starts, and shrieks with pain;

Unconscious of the Nettle's pow'r
Its leaves he touch'd in luckless hour,
And soon his fingers, swell'd and red,
With burning blisters are o'erspread.
It was the slightness of the touch
That hurt his little hand so much:
Had he but taken firmer hold,
And grasp'd it resolue and bold,
The harmless weed had lost its sting,
And proved an inoffensive thing.

Now ruminate awhile, and say,
Does this a moral, too, convey,
Yes,-doubtless! When, by siu betray'd,
Man wanders through the dubious shade,

When passion rules his youthful prime,
And folly urges on to crime,

When the vain world, by arts unbless'd,
Instils its poison in his breast,
Whilst, urged by lawless appetite,
He loves the wrong, and spurns the
right,

Her threat'ning lash should conscience shake,

And bid the trembling wretch awake,
Aghast he starts! he looks within,
And finds his breast th' abode of sin :
His actions all in judgment rise,
And call for vengeance from the skies.
Whither, ab, whither shall he fly?
To Heav'n he dares not turn his eye!
His own vile self he dares not view;
Where shall he go? what must he do?

See, see Religion's heavenly form
Approach amidst this mental storm:
With guiding hand she points the way,
That leads from darkness unto day.
She proffers aid. But what the price?
Does she requiré no sacrifice ?
Will she bestow her rich reward,
Her precepts if we disregard ?
Ah no! he treads her paths awhile,
And hopes to share her constant smile,
But when she talks of self subdued,
Of passions quell'd, and pride withstood,
Of daily crosses, anxious cares,
Continual watchings, constant prayers,
Of Satan's wiles, and Satan's pow'r,
Of dark temptation's trying hour,
Denials frequent, inward strife,
And all the Christian warrior's life,
And when she says, contempt and scorn
With patient meekness must be borne,
Content from ev'ry thing to part
That's near and dear unto his heart;
Ev'n life itself he must resign
(If God require), and not repine ;-
He shrinks!--The price he dare not pay:
But deeply sighs, and turns away!"

The terms he marks as too severe,

And deems the heav'nly maid austere, ~

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IF you have received no translation of the Latin Epigram, which your respectable cor: respondent, Mr. Law, expressed a wish to see, and you should deem the following verse to contain the sense of the Latin, it is much at your service: from the custom mentioned in the epigram has no doubt origipated the expression, “ sub rosa,” under the rose, when secresy is to be observed.

June, 1818.

Yours,

J. H.

TRANSLATION OF THE LATIN EPIGRAM.
THE rose is Venus' pride;-the archer boy
Gave to Harpocrates his mother's flower,
What time fond lovers told the tender joy,
To guard with sacred secrecy the hour.
Hence, o'er his festive board the host up-hung
Love's flower of silence, to remind each guest,
When wine to amorous sallies loosed the tongue,

Under the rose what pass'd, must never be express'd.

Analytical Review.

CHILDE HAROLD'S Pilgrimage. Canto the Fourth. By Lord Byron. 8vo. 12s. Murray, London, 1817.

IF any thing were wanting to establish the character of Lord Byron as a poet, the publication of the present volume has accomplished it. Childe Harold may now be considered a finished performance, and, as such, will hereafter rank with the first and best compositions which our own or any other country has ever produced. In this poem we behold the genuine effusions of a mind highly cultivated, and richly adorned with ancient and modern learning, and a fancy singularly exuberant and playful. We see nothing like the worthless unmeaning jargon which has so frequently been dignified with the name of poetry, and which in these latter days has so completely inundated the printing offices and booksellers' shops; the powers of the judgment have been exercised as well as the wanderings of the imagination indulged, and all the various energies of the noble poet seem to have been concentrated in the composition of this beautiful and excellent poem. The other productions of his lordship's pen, although unrivalled for the sublimity and originality of the characters pourtrayed in them, no less than for the elegance and beauty of their style, have generally been given to the world unfinished and incomplete; but the present poem, which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of his lordship's compositions, to the gratification of all real admirers of versification is now laid before the public in a perfect state. Whether it is that the singular richness and luxuriance of the stanza which he has selected are peculiarly adapted to the subject; or whether the uncommon powers of mind possessed by the author render him capable of adopting any metre he chooses, we can scarcely decide; but this we know, that the frequent recurrence of the same rhyme, which would be regarded as no inconsiderable difficulty by inferior versifiers, produces a harmony and sweetness peculiarly agreeable. It is evident that composition requires no effort with Lord Byron; he has not to rack his brains and fathom his memory for a rhyme or a simile, nor to consult his dictionary before he can spin out a line; but every conception of his mind, or phantom of his imagination, is involuntarily produced and embodied in elegant verse, evidently without trouble or exertion to the author. This conviction has not been produced without a careful examination of all his lordship's productions; nor has the prejudice entertained in his favour been confirmed without making a fair comparison of his merits with those of other modern poets: his works, indeed, demand attention before they can be properly and fully understood; and require comparison before their excellence can be fairly estimated. Indeed, we doubt not it will be said of Byron hereafter, as it has already been said of Homer, " carminibus vives semper tuis," if it be not, we shall be greatly disappointed in our pleasing anticipations of the improved taste and superior endowments of the future generations of mankind. Not, indeed, that we would presume to determine who shall be the favourite of posterity, but we are convinced that in the expression of this opinion we shall be sanctioned by the concurrence of thousands possessed of superior talents and acquirements amongst our contemporaries. The buzz of disapprobation which his rivals have attempted to raise against him will not survive their own malicious aspersions, and both will soon be forgotten with the few and inconsiderable failings which it must be acknowledged by his greatest admirers that he possesses.

3 N

With his lordship's private affairs we do not consider ourselves authorised to interfere; he may have acted rashly and imprudently, but we cannot imagine that his noble and exalted character has ever descended to the acts of baseness which have been attributed to him, and we would, at least, whilst the case is involved in such impenetrable mystery, adopt the charitable determination of remaining neuter on the subject. The ardour of his feelings and the singular constitution of his mind may have precipitated him into errors which, if the cool calculations of prudence had been attended to, he might have avoided, but it is before a higher tribunal than that of a periodical review or any other human ordeal that the degree of his criminality can be fully ascertained. The worst construction that can be put upon his conduct entitles him to our commiseration,

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Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail."

Canto III. Stanza II.

We question whether his compositions have not received a tinge from his misfortunes, which has rendered them doubly interesting, and we must confess ourselves to have enjoyed peculiar pleasure from the perusal of those stanzas in the former cantos which relate to the peculiar feelings cherished by Harold, with whom the author seems to have identified himself in many instances.

"Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome

Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake

For Nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake."
Canto III.

We utterly disagree in our opinion of Childe Harold with those fastidious critics who have heaped such volumes of unmerited abuse upon his head, and we candidly avow that the loss of his sociéty in the present canto forms the principal ground of objection, if such it may be termed, which we feel towards it.

The poem in its complete state is dedicated to Mr. Hobhouse, a gentleman who is equally distinguished by his intimate friendship with Lord Byron, his extensive literary acquirements, and his political principles; and to him, we are given to understand, the world is indebted for many of the valuable notes which are subjoined to the present volume. "It has been their fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable-Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to them a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently."

The dedication is commenced by the following friendly acknowledgment :"After an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,- to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom

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, true 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 allusion to the fallen grandeur of Venice. :-

"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless 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, the favourite poet of Italy, which once formed so considerable a part of the pleasures to be found in sailing on the Venetian canals, are now a novelty to the Venetians themselves. The loss of their independence 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 present altered condition of the country, would ill accord with those melancholy and dejected feelings which must be ever present to their minds. Liberty, indeed, is one of those inestimable treasures, the value of which is seldom duly appreciated till its loss has been experienced. When this catastrophe takes place, the mind anxiously longs 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 should 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 should I lay
My asbes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it—if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. Itwine

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