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It may here perhaps be necessary to add, that time, and the soothing attentions of his beloved sister, restored at length to perfect peace, and to the almost certain hope of pardon from the deity, the hitherto agitated mind of Clifford.—I can also add, that time saw the union of Caroline and Edward, and that with them, at the hospitable mansion of the Courtenays, Clifford passed the remainder of his days.

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NUMBER XXIV.

Sweet is the odour of the Morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;

Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,

At which her blossoms close, her music dies— For then, while languid Nature droops her head, She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.

Helen Maria Williams.

Some of the sweetest passages in the productions of the poets ancient or modern, may be drawn from their descriptions of evening and night scenery, and many of these elegant sketches have been committed to memory for their peculiar truth, and beauty. Even when the delineation is merely that of inanimate nature, still the pensive train of thought which we usually associate with the decline of a fine day, or the tranquil lustre of a moon-light night, brings with it a fascinating charm; but when with these are mingled or contrasted the

passions of the human breast, an interest of a stronger kind is excited, and the picture becomes complete. What can harmonise better with the sensations of love or friendship than those delicious tints which a setting sun frequently diffuses over the face of nature, or what more congenial to the gentlest emotions. of the heart than the landscape lighted up by the soothing splendor of an autumnal moon. How are the tortures of an agonised mind, the wilder passions of the soul, heightened by the contrast of scenery such as this! When sorrow, disappointment and despair exert their energy surrounded by images of the most beautiful repose, they rush upon the eye in so bold and prominent a style as instantly and forcibly to arrest our feelings and compel our keenest attention.

Omitting therefore those evening and night pieces however celebrated, which include not the play of human passions, I shall confine myself to the selection of a few of the most exquisite specimens where the affections of the heart are mingled or contrasted with the adjacent scenery, confident that the passages adduced will amply reward those who cultivate.

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a taste for elegant literature and pathetic imagery.

In the Argonautics of APOLLONIUS RHO DIUS a description of this kind, in which the inquietude of Medea is opposed to the tran quillity of all around her, has been justly, admired, and may indeed be considered as one of the most highly finished scenes in the poetry of antiquity. It has been thus happily translated:

Night on the earth pour'd darkness; on the sea,
The wakesome sailor to Orion's star

The village dog

And Helice turn'd heedful. Sunk to rest
The traveller forgot his toil; his charge
The centinel; her death-devoted babe
The mother's painless breast.
Had ceas'd his troublous bay.
Was hush'd at this dead hour;
Lock'd in the arms of silence. She alone,
Medea slept not.

Each busy tumult and darkness slept,

Numerous imitations have been given of these beautiful lines, though not one, perhaps, has attained to the excellence of the original. The "Nox erat, et placidum carpebant fessa soporem" &c. &c. of Virgil, and the similar

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