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We led the bending beggar on his way,
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray)
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And sigh'd to think that little was no more,
He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness
live!"

'Twas all he gave, 't was all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight.

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined!

Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good! Blest Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. As studious Prospero's mysterious spell Drew every subject-spirit to his cell; Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And through the frame invisibly convey The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; Man's little universe at once o'ercast, At once illumined when the cloud is past.

LOCH-LONG.

BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,

When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Bore me from thy silver sands,

Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, gray with age, the dial stands;
That dial so well known to me!
-Though many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead :
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain hold.

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last;
And, thy shady region pass'd,
Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood;
Great Ocean's self! (Tis He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)
Where many an elf was playing round,
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant feet
Advancing as in haste to meet;
The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain;
All into midnight shadow sweep-
When day springs upward from the deep!
Kindling the waters in its flight,
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads to friendship and to thee!
Oh, blest retreat and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her-the Lady of the Glen!

1

GINEVRA.

Ir ever you should come to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,

As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broider'd with flowers and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart—

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Along it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That, by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child-her name Ginevra ;
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But how the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd.
But that she was not!

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Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, Ginevra."

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There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

THE FOUR ERAS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noontide harmony;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their pray'r,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

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A few short years-and then these sounds shall The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin; The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine: And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, "'T was on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

DON GARZIA.

AMONG the awful forms that stand assembled
In the great square of Florence, may be seen
That Cosmo, not the father of his country,
Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.
Clad in rich armour like a paladin,
But with his helmet off, in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass;
And they who read the legend underneath
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is
A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls
Could speak and tell of what is done within,
Would turn your admiration into pity.
Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest,
All he discover'd when the fit was on,

All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd
From broken sentences, and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest chronicler.

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia,
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer,)
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni,
His best beloved, the glory of his house,
Return'd not; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas,
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer;
And, having caused the body to be borne
In secret to that chamber, at an hour
When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother,
Who little thought of what was yet to come,
And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand
A winking lamp, and in the other a key
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led;
And, having entered in and lock'd the door,
The father fix'd his eyes upon the son,
And closely question'd him. No change betray'd
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up
The bloody sheet. "Look there! Look there!"
he cried,

"Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand! Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. "What!" he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,

The boy breathed out, "I stood but on my guard." "Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wrong'd

thee,

Who would not set his foot upon a worm?
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all."
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood;
And, kneeling on the ground, "Great God!" he
cried,

"Grant me the strength to do an act of justice,
Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas,
How can I spare myself, sparing none else?
Grant me the strength, the will,--and oh! forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
"T is a most wretched father who implores it."
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom;
And then, but while he held him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turned away his face,
And stabb'd him to the heart.

Well might De Thou,

When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The ancient palace-through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop awhile to dwell
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall
Together, as of two in bonds of love,
One in a cardinal's habit, one in black,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew,
The terrible truth.

Well might he heave a sigh
For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf, and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale;
His wife, another, not his Eleanora,
At once his nurse and his interpreter.

THE FOUNTAIN.
It was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture-in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honour'd with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock fill'd, overflow'd it;
Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees; discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down; admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a child a-Maying.

The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approach'd
The hour for stir and village-gossip there,
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear'd,
Appear'd and vanish'd, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.

At length there came the loveliest of them all,
Her little brother dancing down before her;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink;
And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tip-
Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, [toe,
Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue.

Then, hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou hadst endow'd them with immortal youth; And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts-of all thy works the fairest.

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VENICE.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Led to her gates. The path lay o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I came, in the great passage-boat,
From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,
Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower,
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelino-
Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate
And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then,
Him or his horoscope; far, far from me [there,
The forms of guilt and fear; though some were
Sitting among us round the cabin-board,
Some who, like him, had cried, “Spill blood enough!"
And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd
Their parts at Padua, and were now returning;
A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow,
Careless, and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver,
Sings "Caro, Caro?"-"T is the Prima Donna !
And to her monkey, smiling in his face,
Who, as transported, cries, "Bravo! Ancora?"
"T is a grave personage, an old macaw,

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To the Black Forest of the Rhine, the Danube,
Where o'er the narrow glen the castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his gate,
The baron lived by rapine-there we meet,
In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice;
Winning its way with all that can attract,
Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert,
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain
And his brave peers, each with his visor up,
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile,
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed
The wonders of the East! Well might they then
Sigh for new conquests!

Thus did Venice rise,
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came,
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet
From India, from the region of the sun,
Fragrant with spices-that a way was found,
A channel open'd, and the golden stream
Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt
Her strength departing, and at last she fell,
Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed;
She who had stood yet longer than the longest

Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Of the four kingdoms,—who, as in an ark,

Ashore, and with a shout urges along

The lagging mules; then runs and climbs a tree
That with its branches overhangs the stream,
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again.
'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh;
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.

At length we leave the river for the sea,
At length a voice aloft proclaims “Venezia!”
And, as call'd forth, it comes. A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose boast it was,
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves;
And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind

Blew fromthe north, the south; where they that came

Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep,
A vast metropolis, with glittering spires,
With theatres, basilicas adoṛn'd;

A scene of light and glory, a dominion,

That has endured the longest among men.

And whence the talisman by which she rose, Towering? "T was found there in the barren sea. Want led to enterprise; and, far or near, Who met not the Venetian?-now in Cairo, Ere yet the Cafila came, listening to hear Its bells, approaching from the Red-Sea coast; Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks,
Uninjured, from the old world to the new,
From the last trace of civilized life-to where
Light shone again, and with unclouded splendour.
Through many an age she in the mid-sea dwelt,
From her retreat calmly contemplating
The changes of the earth, herself unchanged.
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these,
Clothed in their purple? O'er the globe they fling
Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream!
What-but the last that styled themselves the
Cæsars?

And who in long array (look where they come-
Their gesture menacing so far and wide)
Wear the green turban and the heron's plume?
Who but the caliphs? follow'd fast by shapes
As new and strange-some, men of steel, steel-clad;
Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

In light and gay attire, with brow serene,
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest,
Lo, one by one, passing continually,

Those who assume a sway beyond them all;
Men gray with age, each with a triple crown,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys
That can alone, as he would signify,
Unlock Heaven's gate.

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES was born at the manor-house of Wootton, between Canterbury and Dover, on the 30th of November, 1762. By his mother, an EGERTON, he was descended from the most illustrious blood in Europe. Through his father, he claimed to be the representative of the old barony of Chandos.

This pretension, which was prosecuted unsuccessfully before the House of Lords, was "the cherished madness" of Sir EGERTON; it has a ludicrous prominence in nearly all his writings; and its failure deeply imbittered his spirit. The perusal of Mr. BELTZ's hostile and uncandid volume leaves the impression that this claim was well founded: but the case is a mysterious one, and was involved in great doubt, even before Lord ELDON spoke upon it.

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In 1780, he entered Queen's College, Cambridge: he there devoted himself to poetry, neglected the regular studies, and left the university without a degree. He undertook the study of the law, and in 1787 was called to the bar; but never made any progress in the profession. His career as an author began by the publication of a volume of poems in 1785. In the succeeding years, he wrote the novels "Mary de Clifford," "Arthur Fitz Albini," and "Le Forester;" but was chiefly occupied with bibliographical and genealogical investigations. The "Censura Literaria," and the Restituta," are familiar to the students of literary history. His edition of "Collins' Peerage," which employed him from 1806 to 1812, is probably the most laborious of all his works. In 1812, he published a series of Essays, under the title of "The Ruminator:" Lord BYRON, in one of his journals, speaks of having read them, and characterizes the author as "a strange, but able old man." "Occasional Poems" appeared in 1814; and “Bertram," a poem, in 1815. In 1814, he obtained a baronetcy. He became a member of the House of Commons in 1812, where he distinguished himself by procuring some important improvements in the law of copy-right. Upon the dissolution of that parliament in 1818, he withdrew to the continent, where, with little exception, he passed the remainder

of his days. Pecuniary embarrassment, induced by the indulgence of various expensive tastes, was understood to be the cause of this voluntary exile. He resided in Paris, Italy, but mostly at or near Geneva. In literature, he sought relief from the annoyances of contracted circumstances and disappointed hopes; and he was constantly engaged in writing and printing books. It is impracticable to give a complete list of his works. The best of those written while on the continent are, “Res Literariæ," 1820, 1821; "Letters from the Continent," 1821; " Gnomica," and "Letters on the Genius of Lord Byron," perhaps the most valuable of his productions, 1824; "Recollections of foreign Travel," 1825; "Imaginary Biography," and his own Autobiography, in 1834. His edition of "Milton," with a life of that poet, has made his name better known to the public than any other of his performances. He died at Campagne Gros Jean, near Geneva, on the 8th of September, 1837.

To no prose writer of our time is English literature beholden for finer passages of just thought, high sentiment, and finished eloquence, than to Sir EGERTON BRYDGES. But the effect of these is sadly impaired by repetitions, egotism, and all the infirmities of morbid passion. A judicious selection of his best paragraphs would form a volume of singular interest and beauty. To the success of his ardent wish to take a permanent place among the great authors of his country, there wanted nothing but patience, control of temper, and the prolonged concentration of his powers upon some one great work on some important subject. Unluckily for his ambition, the intensity of the desire paralyzed the vigour of the effort.

His verse is the expression of sensitive feeling elevated and coloured by romantic fancy: it is marked by a delicate sense of the beauties of nature, and displays great command of the resources of language. Under the criticisms of his friend, Lord TENTERDEN, he practised the art "de faire des vers difficilement." His sonnet upon "Echo and Silence" was pronounced by WORDSWORTH

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