waste, and hints his suspicions to Lord Wildwaste, who begins to doubt Castagnello, but not his lady. One day, however, Lady Wildwaste, having spoken to Castagnello in a friendly manner, to cheer up his mind with regard to his future prospects in life, the unfortunate man kneels gratefully, and kisses her hand. At this moment, Wildwaste and his friend enter the room, and, the worst construction being put upon Castagnello's behaviour, he is banished from his brother's house. The truth is afterwards found out; but Castagnello, after having in despair attempted to commit suicide, from which he is prevented, retires and dies in a

convent.

It will easily be perceived that this novel is too much filled with horrors and crimes; the extracts, however, are sufficient to shew that some parts of it are ably written. In the beginning of the tale there is an injudicious attempt to invest the character of Corneli with some of that mysterious gloom and energy of wickedness which is frequently represented in Lord Byron's writings. This kind of stage effect was not very sublime, even when new, and has now entirely lost its powers of delusion. In the poem of Lara, for instance, this gloom and mystery of external ap. pearances was carried to the utmost, and was seen there approaching to the verge of an idle and ignoble species of poetical quackery, unfit to give permanent satisfaction to the mind. The intellect, viewing such characters as the Corsair externally, can find no sublimity in their passions or crimes. But a poetical sympathy, with such vehe

ment movements of pride and passion, produces a sort of extension of internal existence, which may be communicated to the most vulgar and ignorant minds; for these are always eager to sympathise with ranting force, and a vehement spirit of action, or with fond attachment and hatred; which are things that extend the natural passions of the multitude into a kind of poetry, but which do not make their minds encounter unwelcome light, by being lifted into the feeling of fixed and unchangeable relations. The first step beyond those passions, which have their limits within the nature of the individual, is when tragic pathos depends upon the sentiment of abstract justice. In that case, the mind is awakened to a feeling of fixed relations, existing independently of itself and of its temporary movements. And a single step beyond the feeling of submission to the feeling of justice carries the mind into the love of abstract beauty. In some of Lord Byron's more recent productions, his Lordship has renounced the fierce bravadoing tone with which he first fired ardent souls, and, in Don Juan, he evidently inclines more towards sarcasm, reflection and tears. The passions cannot, with truth, be represented as grand in their uninterrupted sweep, but only as pathetic, in their broken force, or in regretful tenderness and remorse. In Anastasius, this is done with great power. The story of Euphrosine conveys a feeling of pity and remorse, which goes through the mind's innermost core, and is the most perfect pathos of unavailing "desiderium" and natural affection.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LESS FAMILIAR LATIN CLASSICS. No. IV. Silius Italicus.

DEAR SIR,

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ.

THE Occasion of the following episode may be very shortly explained. It is the poetical account of the celebrated serpent which impeded the march of the army of Regulus. Serranus, the son of Regulus, is supposed, by the poet, to have taken shelter, after the rout of Lake Thrasimene, in the cottage of a veteran who had served under his father; and, by him, the story is related to the son of his old general.

The defect of the "Punica" of Silius Italicus, or rather of its claim to the technical denomination of an epic poem, is in its plan. There is no unity of interest, unless we conceive it to arise from the opposition of the Republic of Carthage to the Romans being continued throughout the poem. It is, in fact, a chronicle versified and beautifully versified; and is valuable as a document of historical reference, as well as a source of poetical recreation.

The action is carried through seventeen books, and the glories of Scipio succeed to those of Hannibal. Paulus Emilius is killed at Cannæ, in the tenth

book, and Scipio triumphs in the seventeenth-the statue of the conquered Hannibal forming part of the procession.

"Sed non ulla magis mentes oculosque tenebat,
Quàm visa Annibalis campis fugientis imago.'

I am, &c. &c.

Where Bragada's slow river scarce contains
Its shrinking current, midst the Lybian plains,—
And yet no stream more daringly expands
Its vent'rous waters o'er those burning sands,-
There, pleased, we drink, or, by the river's edge,
Sit, tired but happy, in the cooling sedge.
Fast by the bank, a dark'ning grove defies
The sultry warfare of those burning skies,
A wood of gloomy shadow, and of hue
As if by Styx's hellish waves it grew.
From the deep arches of those antique trees,
Borne on the flagging pinions of the breeze,
A horrid odour strikes, and through the screen
Of blacken'd trees a cave is darkly seen,

With downward windings struggling deep, to shun
The piercing glances of the tyrant sun.

Here, horror to relate! a monster fell,

Born in the spite of Earth, was found to dwell;
Nor eye hath witness'd, nor tradition told
Of such a serpent, coil'd in such a fold;
There, dark, in many a loathsome knot he lay,
Sullying the splendour of the outer day.
Around the shore are scatter'd fragments seen,
That tell where many a bloody feast hath been,-
The lion hath been there his thirst to slake;
His bones beneath the whitening sun-beams bake.
The timid antelope, whom quenchless heat
Hath driv'n to venture near the dark retreat,

His slender limbs are crush'd.-The venomous breath
Brings down the vulture, hovering near-to death.
Gorged with repast, and tired with slaughter, then
Sluggish he lies, and heaves within his den,
And sleeps a death-like sleep; and, should he feel
The waking thirst of such a murd'rous meal,
Mound-like he lies across the river's course,
And dams the current with resistless force,
Through the vext stream his restless folds are spread,
The further bank supports his scaly head.

Thoughtless of such a danger, we explore-
My friends and I-the melancholy shore.
We breathe-we know not why-a passing pray'r,
To ev'ry unknown Power presiding there,
And fearful, though unconscious of the cause,
We enter on the Cavern's yawning jaws.
Lo! from its entrails a Tartarean breath
Is volumed forth-and in the gale is death;
It rushes forth more angry than the east,
When all his cavern'd fury is releas'd;
And, then, methought I heard a deeper sound,
With less of earth, but rising through the ground-
The rock on which we trod, I felt to move,
And darker shadows swept along the grove.
Vast as those Titan giants erst who strove,
Sons of the earth, against the rule of Jove,
VOL. VIII.
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Translations from the less familiar Latin Classics. No. IV.
Vaster than that which erst Alcides strake,
Amid the flags of the Lernæan lake,
The ringed monster rous'd him from his lair,
And breath'd a sickness on the tainted air.
We fly; and panting with our headlong fear,
Strive, in faint shouts, to make our comrades hear,
In vain-Tremendous hissings load the wind,
And we can feel the monster's breath behind.
Havens, whom dread almost of sight bereaves,
Clings to a tree, and hides amid the leaves;
When lo! mine eyes beheld the serpent clasp
The black and quivering oak, with spiral grasp,
And, in gigantic circles winding round,
Tear from its roots and level with the ground,
-A mossy tower-I saw it bend and break-
I heard the final crash and smother'd shriek.
Aquinus, just as hapless, tried the wave,
Nor found his differing choice avail to save;
Seiz'd in the middle of the stream, his blood
Ting'd with a deeper stain, that faithless flood-
Half drown'd-half crush'd,-it hath no life for him-
The monster hath entomb'd him, limb by limb.
Alone I scap'd-and told, as wretches tell,
Sav'd from some horrid chance, what hap befell.
Then sudden fury seiz'd our leader's breast,
To wreak full vengeance on this hateful pest;
In rage he draws his blade, and with him go,
Both horse and foot, to see the reptile foe;

There the spear'd horsemen march-the bowmen here-
The huge Balista moves far in the rear,

And turrets, wheel'd t' approach a hostile wall-
Prepared to stand, whatever may befall.

Hard hoofs, and ceaseless shoutings shake the ground,
Till the wide cave re-echoes with the sound;
But all give back, and all are silent when
The roused suake rolls slowly from his den.
He eyes us and his eyes shoot keener fires;
Louder and louder his hot breath expires-
High in the air his restless head he's flung,
And seems to lick it with protruded tongue.
But when the startling trumpets ring, at length
He twists him sudden, in convulsive strength,
As suddenly the massive folds subside,

And, at full length, and with the lightnings' glide,
In all his ire, he rushes on the line-

Then wheel the horses round, the shouts decline-
The broken cohorts mix-and 'midst the press,
Is the fell snake in all his ghastliness.
Above the tottering standards-crossing spears-
Writhing, with sudden leap, his crest he rears,
And down he comes resistless, dire as fate,
And man and horse are crush'd beneath the weight.
Then, on a thought, he flies, as in disdain,
And with strange swiftness bounds along the plain,
Then nears the troops again, and, from his track,
Standard, and steed, and phalanx, all give back.

Our leader foams, and cries, "What, will ye fly
"A serpent's pow'r, ye youth of Italy?
"Is Rome's best chivalry o'ermatch'd to wake
"And scotch the fury of one Lybian snake?
"If all your strength has found a sudden death,
"Struck with the blast of that pestiferous breath;

[Jan.

"Or, if the reptile's eye your valour awes-
"Or ye wax faint to see his bloody jaws,

"Alone your general ventures, through the storm
"Of sand and stench, on this portentous worm."-
He said, nor paus'd, but, with determined force,
Drove at the twisting snake his shrinking horse;
And, straining to the task his sinews, sped
A whizzing javelin at the monster's head.
Deep in that hideous head, the weapon stood,
And a loud shout proclaim'd the following blood.
The madden'd monster spins in rage to feel
The pang and shock of the encumb❜ring steel;
And blindly dashes, with tremendous force,
In dizzy circles, round the frighted horse;
Nor joy, nor peril Regulus confounds,
Firm he eludes the foe's successive bounds,
And, with an apt and strongly stiffen'd rein,
Makes many a turn, elusive, on the plain-
To Marus, then, when greater were afraid,
'Twas granted to afford his leader aid.
This hand, in all that warlike host, was found
The readiest to inflict a second wound;
Deep, in that body, ring'd with many a joint,
I plunged, in desperate strength, my steely point,
Just as the terrors of that forked tongue
Above the charger's fault'ring haunches hung,
And the lost rider deem'd his fate was near,
And felt the poison hissing in his ear.

Struck with fresh pain, and stopp'd in his intent,
On me the reptile's open mouth is bent,-
But now the cohort launches dart on dart,
Barb follows barb, and smart succeeds to smart.
Still with new pangs the baffled monster burns,
Convulsive writhes, and threatens all, by turns,
Till the discharged Balista maims, at length,
And breaks th' array of his enormous strength;
Then the crush'd spine refuses to supply
The vengeance threaten'd by the burning eye,
And the raised head twists in increasing pain,
And the tired mouth breathes hissings, now in vain.

Then were the reptile's volumed entrails riven
By the Phalarica, and strongly driven,
By the unerring archer, venturing nigh,
A shaft is buried deep in either eye.

With many a gasp the eddying air he draws,
And belches back envenom'd from his jaws;

In vain, with swords and heavy poles they wound
His writhing tail, and pin it to the ground,
Till the huge beam from the vast engine sped
With final bruise, quells the still threat'ning head ;
Then all his length he stretches on the shore,-
And slowly gasps-and dying-moves no more.
But from the mournful River there arose
A sound, as of the voice of many woes,-
Along the waves it came, that grove beside,
And there-within that darksome cavern,-
Ah! too prophetic of our future doom,
Of sad mischances and of ills to come!
For when upon those sullen waters crept
That wail of death, and all their Naiads wept,
'Twas no vain augury;-as thou can'st tell,
O Son of Regulus-alas! too well.

-died;