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more than all Shakespeare. He leaves untouched the mockery : and misanthropy, as well as much of the force and energy of the noble Lord's poetry-and betakes himself only to its deep sense of beauty, and the grace and tenderness that are so often and so strangely interwoven with those less winning characteristics. - It is the poetry of Manfred, of Parisina, of Haidée and Thyrsa, that he aims at copying, and not the higher and more energetic tone of the Corsair, or Childe Harold, or Don Juan. He has indeed borrowed the manner of this last piece in two of the poems in this little volume—but has shown no great aptitude for wit or sarcasm, and has succeeded only in the parts that are pathetic and tender. There is a great deal of tlie diction of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and some imitation of their beanties : But we think the natural bent of his genius is more like that of Leigh Hunt than any other author.--He has the same play of fancy, and the same capacity of deep and delicate feeling, together with the same relish for the old Italian poetry, and the plain and simple pathos of Dante and Boccacio.-- We doubt, however, whether he has equal force of original talent, or whether he could have written any thing so good, on the whole, as the beautiful story of Rimini: But he has better taste and better judgment-or, what perhaps is but saying the same thing, he has less affectation, and far less conceit. He has scarcely any other affectation, indeed, than is almost necessarily implied in a sedulous imitator of difficult models and no visible conceit at all. On the contrary, we cannot help supposing him to be a very natural and amiable person, who has taken to write poetry, more for the love he bears it, than the fame to which it may raise him—who cares nothing for the sects and factions into which the poetical world may be divided—but, regarding himself as a debtor to every writer who has given him pleasure, desires nothing better than to range freely over the whole Parnassian garden, stealing and giving odour' with a free spirit and a grateful and joyous heart.

It is this apparent devotion to the purer part of his art and the total exclusion of all contentious and dogmatical matter, that constitutes the great charm of his writing. The fever of party spirit, and the bitterness of speculative contention, have of late years infected all our literature; and Poetry itself, instead of bem ing the balm and anodyne of minds hurt and ruffled with the rugged tasks and angry struggles of the world, has too often been made the vehicle of moral and political animosity, religious antipathy and personal offence. We cannot always, with all our philosophy, escape the soil and tarnish of those contagious pursuits; but it is delightful to turn from them awhile, to the unalloyed

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 Dem cameron. 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 :
W And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed
on Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough,

And as in female trust seemed there to grow, vur Like woman's love ʼmidst 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,
Op Wearing that rich and melancholy smile

That can so well beguile amaga w The human heart from its recess, were seen, i

And lovers full of love or studious care

Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, slich 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. A
Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd sometimes
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 :
(0 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 mořn 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 cye,),
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 thạt 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 pangled 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. Shę obeys the directions of the spirit; and the basil tree--noyrished 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

cayes.

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 yoices 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 fine; 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

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