sweets of such poetry as Mr Cornwall's; and to refresh our fancies, and strengthen and compose our good affection, among the images of love and beauty, and gentle sympathy and sorrow, with which it everywhere presents us. It is time, however, to impart a portion of these soothing strains to our readers also; as we are sure we have already said more than enough to explain to the intelligent the opinion we entertain of them, and the principle on which we conceive them to be constructed. The first, and, in our opinion, the finest poem in the book, is the Sicilian Story;' the outline, and a good deal of the details of which, are taken from a well known tale in the Decameron. It is in the sweet and irregular measure of Lycidas -though in a much more familiar and dramatic strain of diction than any of the Miltonic varieties. The following verses appear to us extremely beautiful. 'One night a masque was held within the walls And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed The human heart from its recess, were seen, Eternally its pyramid of flame High as the heav'ns, while from its heart there came Hollow and subterranean noises deep, And all around the constellations hung Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky, As to do honour to that revelry. Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed Why came he not that night to share the joy Dark Guido came not all that night, while she Drew her white hand to see his raven hair Come down in masses like the starless night; And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore; (He whom the wild and wanton Nymphs of yore Stole from Alcmena's Son :) But one, and then Another passed, and bowed, and passed again.' pp. 8–10. Her brother, who had always thwarted her love, passes near her; and in accents of hate and bitter scorn, pronounces the name of Guido. She shudders at the ill-omened sounds; and the poet proceeds to describe how the lovers had passed the morning. That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green; Her brow, and bade her rise and be a queen. And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully And he would tell her of past times, and where And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god And seen the wild deer roam Amongst interminable forests, where pp. 13-15. She retires heart-broken from the banquet; and dreams that her beloved stands before her, and says Awake and search yon dell, for I Though risen above my old mortality, Have left my mangled and unburied limbs Are shut, and now have lost their light for ever. p. 15. -and then he proceeds to bid her take his heart from his bosom, and bury it beneath the basil tree which they had planted together, which should flourish for ever in memory of their loves. In the morning, half in agony, and half disbelieving, she journeys to the fatal ravine-and there finds the mangled body of the youth whom her brother had murdered. There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, And like the very dream his glassy eye Spoke of gone mortality. p. 19. She obeys the directions of the spirit; and the basil tree-nourished by that precious deposite-towers and blossoms in rare and unnatural beauty. Her brother, however, finds the heart, and casts it in the sea. Immediately the tree withers-and Isabel, missing her worshipped relic, flies from her cruel brother's house, and lives crazy and lonely in the woods and caves. At last she wandered home. She came by night. Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay, Lay death, and something we are wont to deem She died-yet scarcely can we call it death For what could match or make her happy here! A victim to that unconsuming flame, And of her love the young Italian. pp. 27, 28. The Worship of Dian,' and the Death of Acis,' are very elegant and graceful imitations of the higher style of Theocritus; and remind us of Akinside's Hymn to the Naiads-though there is more grace and tenderness, and less majesty. Gyges is the story of old Candaules, attempted in the -style of Beppo and Don Juan-and not quite successfully attempted. Mr C. has no great turn for pleasantry; and no knack at all-and we are glad of it-at scorn and misanthropy. The two following stanzas, which have nothing to do with the story, are touching. I saw a pauper once, when I was young, Borne to his shallow grave: the bearers trod And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod: Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek p. 59. The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did creak, And thro' the black clouds ran a lightning vein, And then the flapping raven came to seek Its home its flight was heavy, and its wing Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering. The Falcon' is an exquisite imitation, or versification rather, of a beautiful and very characteristic story of Boccacio. Though thrown into a dramatic form, the greater part of it is a very literal version of the words of the original-and the whole is perfectly faithful to its spirit. Nor do we remember to have seen any thing in English so well calculated to give a just idea of the soft and flowing style, and of the natural grace and pathos of that great master of modern literature. Then follow a number of little poems, songs, sonnets, and elegiesall elegant and fanciful. The following is entitled Marcelia. ' -It was a dreary place. The shallow brook That ran throughout the wood there took a turn, And widened: all its music died away, And in the place a silent eddy told That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees And spicy cedar) clustered, and at night Shook from their melancholy branches sounds And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for thro' the day They stood quite motionless, and looked methought Like monumental things which the sad earth From its green bosom had cast out in pity, To mark a young girl's grave. Never may net Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope, |