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THIS eloquent divine and talented scholar was born in Ireland, towards the close of the last century, and received his education at Trinity College, Dublin. His diligence at this distinguished seat of science and literature, and the ac quirements which he made, especially in classical learning, have been fully attested in the numerous works which he has already given to the world. His views from the first were directed to the Church, and after having obtained in succession the degrees of Bachelor and Master of Arts, he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to the charge of a parish in the diocese of Meath. It was a place congenial to meditation, and furnished with that rich scenery which was calculated to nourish a love of the beautiful and picturesque, and here he resided for several years, wholly occupied with study, and his clerical duties. He then visited London at the time when public enthusiasm was at the height about the spirit-stirring events of the war in Spain, and Croly, who shared in the general impulse, resolved to repair to that country in person, and be a spectator of those achievements as a preliminary to which he acquired a knowledge of the Spanish language; but on the peace of 1815, by which Europe was laid open to England, he directed his course to Germany, and fixed his principal residence at Hamburgh. In the same year he went to Paris, and there his mind dwelt among those memorials of gigantic deeds which it was so well fitted to brood over and contemplate the relics of the Revolution, and its wars and changes, in the convulsion of which, Napoleon, its mighty offspring, was dethroned. On his return to England, and while these images were still fresh upon his mind, he produced his first poetical work, entitled, Paris in 1815, to which a second part was afterwards added. His character was at once established as a great poet, which encouraged him to persevere, so that he has since produced his Tragedy of Catiline, The Angel of the World, Gems from the Antique, and numerous fugitive poems, all impressed with the characteristics of the highest genius. Besides these, he has also distinguished himself as a prose writer of fiction of the highest order, of which his Salathiel, and Tales of the Great Saint Bernard, are a sufficient proof. Amidst these literary labours, his attention to his clerical duties and theological study was still paramount, and he produced several theological works of eminent merit, consisting chiefly of expositions of the Apocalypse; and in consequence of his views on these subjects, he has often been erroneously mistaken by the public for a mere follower of Edward Irving, and the modern Millenarians. Nothing can be more absurd. The early poetry of Croly abounds with his latest views upon the subject, and were given to the world long before Hatton Garden had heard a single note of the northern orator. He had studied the expositors of the early ages of the church for himself, and thus applied at the fountain-head, instead of lingering by any modern stream; and whatever may be thought of his soundness as an interpreter of St. John and the prophets, all parties of Christians must agree in the learning, the ingenuity, and the eloquence, with which they are unfolded, and the holiness of life which they are designed to inculcate. The Battle of Armaged. don, the personal Reign of Christ during a Thousand Years upon Earth, and the Restoration of Zion, are congenial subjects of grandeur and beauty, among which his spirit loves to dwell, and his sermons upon these transcendent themes are fraught with all the eloquence and inspiration of poetry.

While the clerical and literary labours of the divine and poet have been thus so conspicuous, they have not been wholly allowed to pass without those marks of distinction to which they were so justly entitled. His own University bestowed on him unsolicited the degree of Doctor in Divinity, and although his politics were uncompromisingly opposed to the ruling order of things, Lord Brougham, on being raised to the Chancellorship in 1831, gave him one of the livings in the gift of the Crown. In 1835, Lord Lyndhurst presented him to the Rectory of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, in which he still remains.

The poetry of Croly bears a considerable resemblance both in character and style to that of Milman. Grandeur and majesty, rather than tenderness or depth of feeling, are its prevailing characteristics; and therefore he excels in description, and chiefly in that of supernatural objects. He is thus eminently fitted for the high office of a religious poet, so that his sacred pieces are among the noblest specimens of lyrical poetry of which the present age can boast.

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Come, evening gale! the crimson rose
Is drooping for thy sigh of dew,
The hyacinth woos thy kiss to close
In slumber sweet its eye of blue.

Shine, evening star! the valley-stream
Hath lost the tinges of the sun,
And lingers for thy pearly beam,
To tell its bosom day is done.

Rise, evening moon! thy holy ray

To emblem heavenly hours is given, When earth shall on our eye decay, And all our path, like thine, be heaven.

CATILINE'S VISION.

CETHEGUS.

Take this,

[TO CATILINE.

'Twas thrust into my hand when I was brought

Before the Senate.

CATILINE.

(Reads) "Be firm; we are your friends, and friends to Catiline.

Signed CRASSUS and CÆSAR.”

[With frantic exultation

Then Rome is ours! These names are victory!—

This dungeon's hot.-What time is 't o' the night?—
The Senate's pillows shall be red by morn!
Away now with the scabbard! War's let loose!
My stirrup shall give law;-I'll have all Rome

Kissing the dust before my horse's hoof.

Revenge! swift, full, and bloody!—(TO VALERIUS) Sir, your hand!

Your touch is fever.

VALERIUS.

CATILINE (to the rest)

Hunt the city through:

Summon our friends!-Tell them the time is come, That they have long'd for!-That I'm roused at last! Break up their banquets,-shake them from their beds.— Torches and swords!-We'll storm the Capitol?

[He looks at the list.

What characters are these, thus writ with flame?—

[He turns away, musing.

To smite the proud accuser in the teeth,—
Strip pale Hypocrisy, and show the world

The heart within its cloak,-teach Scorn to weep,—
Trample the trampler,-in the zealot's face

Fling his own brand,―root out the slanderer's tongue!
Does not the chamber shake?-Look there-look there!
[Tottering, and pointing to the ground.
VALERIUS (supporting him.)

His trouble has exhausted him.

CETHEGUS (assisting.)

He faints.

CATILINE (starting up, and still pointing to the ground.)

Do you see nothing?

CETHEGUS.

Take him to the gate.

CATILINE.

No grave?-no giant form, laid at its length?
Look-look-it rises-Marius in his mail!—

[As to a vision

Thou mightiest and most awful summoner!
Death's majesty,-life's terror,-that hast come,
Passing the gates that none can see and live!
Is not thy visitation gracious?-Hark!
He groans, and, with a fearful heaviness,
His eye is cast upon the earth:-but speak!—
Great spectre, Demi-god!—I know thou'rt come,
To give our lingering swords the lightning's edge,
And put a soul in our too nerveless flesh,
Fit for Rome's final slaughter!-Answer me!—
He will not speak!-Then, Demon! by thy bed
In burning hell, what wrath of fate is theirs,
Who war against their country?-See! he frowns,—
His eye grows meteor-like,-he rends his mail,-
And, with his dagger, stabs his naked breast!

[He falls into their arms.

VALERIUS.

Bear him away,-in mercy!

CATILINE (bursting from them, as following the vision) He rises, darkening all the air!-He's gone!

[He falls,-the Scene closes.

From Catiline.

A PARISIAN FAUXBOURG.

'Tis light and air again: and lo! the Seine, Yon boasted, lazy, livid, fetid drain!

With paper booths, and painted trees o'erlaid,
Baths, blankets, wash-tubs, women, all but trade.
Yet here are living beings, and the soil

Breeds its old growth of ribaldry and broil.

A whirl of mire, the dingy cabriolet

Makes the quick transit through the crowded way;
On
spurs the courier, creaks the crazy wain,
Dragg'd through its central gulf of mud and stain;
Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd,
Naked, contagious, cringing, and yet proud.
The whole a mass of folly, filth, and strife,
Of heated, rank, corrupting, reptile life;
And, endless as their oozy Tide, the throng
Roll on with endless clamour, curse, and song.

Fit for such tenants, lour on either side
The hovels where the gang less live than hide;
Story on story, savage stone on stone,

Time-shatter'd, tempest-stain'd, not built, but thrown.
Sole empress of the portal, in full blow,

The rouged grisette lays out her trade below,

Ev'n in her rags a thing of wit and wile,

Eye, hand, lip, tongue, all point, and press, and smile.
Close by, in patch and print, the pedlar's stall
Flutters its looser glories up the wall.
Spot of corruption! where the rabble rude
Loiter round tinsel tomes, and figures nude;
Voltaire, and Lais, long alternate eyed,
Till both the leper's soul and sous divide.
Above, 'tis desert, save where sight is scared
With the wild visage through the casement barr'd;
Or, swinging from their pole, chemise and sheet
Drip from the attic o'er the fuming street.

From Paris in 1815,

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

It was the wild midnight,-
A storm was on the sky;
The lightning gave its light,
And the thunder echo'd by.

The torrent swept the glen,

The ocean lash'd the shore;
Then rose the Spartan men,

To make their bed in gore.

Swift from the deluged ground
Three hundred took the shield;
Then, in silence gather'd round
The Leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word,
He bade no trumpet blow;
But the signal-thunder roar'd,
And they rush'd upon the foe.

The fiery element

Show'd with one mighty gleam,
Rampart, and flag, and tent,

Like the spectres of a dream.

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