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
Of a Sicilian palace: the gay flowers
Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls,
And, in remoter spots, fresh waterfalls
That 'rose half hidden by sweet lemon bowers
A low and silver-voiced music made:

And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed
Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough,
And as in female trust seemed there to grow,
Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing:
And every odorous plant aud brighter thing
Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain,
That from the bosom of the spring
Starts into life and beauty once again,
Blossom'd; and there in walks of evergreen,
Gay cavaliers and dames high-born and fair,
Wearing that rich and melancholy smile
That can so well beguile

The human heart from its recess, were seen,
And lovers full of love or studious care
Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air,
And spirits that never till the morning sleep.
And, far away, the mountain Etna flung

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
Sick at the soul with sorrow: her quick eye

Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh
Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy,
The dark-eyed Guido whom she loved so well
(O how he loved Sicilian Isabel !)

Why came he not that night to share the joy
That sate on every face,' &c.

Dark Guido came not all that night, while she
His young and secret bride sate watching there,
Pale as the marble columns: She search'd around
And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry;
But if she heard a quick or lighter bound
Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight

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
To catch his sweet inimitable smile,

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;
For in that land the sward springs fresh and free
Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen
To break the glassy quiet of the sea:
And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel,
Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut hair,
Which in her white and heaving bosom fell
Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air
Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there;
And then his dark eyes sparkled, and he wound
The fillets like a coronet around

Her brow, and bade her rise and be a queen.
And oh! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand
Pressed 'gainst his parted lips, as tho' to check
In mimic anger all those whispers bland
He knew so well to use, and on his neck
Her round arm hung, while half as in command
And half entreaty did her swimming eye
Speak of forbearance, 'till from her pouting lip
He snatched the honey-dews that lovers sip,

And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully
She frowned, and wore that self-betraying air
That women loved and flattered love to wear.
Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay
Beneath the last light of a summer's day,
Tell (and would watch the while her stedfast eye,)
How on the lone Pacific he had been,
When the Sea Lion on his watery way
Went rolling thro' the billows green,
And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity:

And he would tell her of past times, and where
He rambled in his boyhood far away,

And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair
And mighty and magnificent, for he

Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god
Upon that land where first Columbus trod;
And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' tide,
And by Niagara's cataracts of foam,

And seen the wild deer roam

Amongst interminable forests, where
The serpent and the savage have their lair
Together. Nature there in wildest guise
Stands undebased and nearer to the skies;
And 'midst her giant trees and waters wide
The bones of things forgotten, buried deep,
Give glimpses of an elder world, espied
By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep,
When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth,
Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth.'

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
" A prey for wolves hard by the waters there,
And one lock of my black and curled hair,
• That one I vowed to thee my beauty! swims
'Like a mere weed upon the mountain river;
And those dark eyes you used to love so well
(They loved you dearly, my own Isabel),

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,
His pale face upwards to the careless day,
That smiled as it was wont; and he was found
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground,
And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold,
His black hair floated as the phantom told,

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.
The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light
Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along.
The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song,
And shook the red leaves from the forest trees;
And subterranean voices spoke. The seas
Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell
Came silently which seamen know so well;
And all was like an Omen. Isabel

Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay,
And there they found her at the break of day;
Her look was smiling, but she never spoke
Or motioned, even to say-her heart was broke:
Yet in the quiet of her shining eye

Lay death, and something we are wont to deem
(When we discourse of some such mournful theme),
Beyond the look of mere mortality.

She died-yet scarcely can we call it death
When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath;
She was translated to a finer sphere,

For what could match or make her happy here!
She died, and with her gentle death there came
Sorrow and ruin; and Leoni fell

A victim to that unconsuming flame,
That burns and revels on the heart of man;
Remorse. This is the tale of Isabel,

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
Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung,

And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod:
On the rough' boards the earth was gaily flung:
Methought the prayer which gave him to his God
Was coldly said :-then all, passing away,
Left the scarce-coffin'd wretch to quick decay.
It was an autumn evening and the rain

Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek
And call'd the deluging tempest back again,

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
Funereal (cypres, yew, and shadowy pine,

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,