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His suppliant looks, as pro..e he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe!
'Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue.'

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

There, never could the spearman pass,
Or forrester unmoved;

There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there as evening fell,

In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of Gelert's Grave.'

To

Too late I stayed-forgive the crime;
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of the glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass!

Oh, who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings!

Stanzas.

When midnight o'er the moonless skies
Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And nought is wakeful but the dead:

No bloodless shape my way pursues,
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys;
Visions more sad my fancy views,
Visions of long-departed joys!

The shade of youthful hope is there,
That lingered long, and latest died;
Ambition all dissolved to air,

With phantom honours by his side.

What empty shadows glimmer nigh?
They once were Friendship, Truth, and
Love!

Oh, die to thought, to memory die, Since lifeless to my heart ye prove! These last two verses, Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes in his diary, terming them fine lines,' and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford.

HENRY LUTTRELL.

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Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing_versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770-1851), author of 'Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme,' 1820, and Crockford House,' 1827. Mr. Luttrell was a favourite in the circle of Holland House: 'none of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does.' The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree:

On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings,
The tree will return her as good as she brings.

Luttrell sat in the Irish parliament before the Union. He is said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton. The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia:'

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London in Autumn.

Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat
Full on the scorching pavement beat.
As o'er it the faint breeze, by fits
Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown
Stains every withering shrub in town.
Darkening the air, in clouds arise
Th' Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;

The November
First, at the dawn of lingering day,
It rises of an ashy gray;
Then deepening with a sordid stain
Of yellow, like a lion's mane.
Vapour importunate and dense,
It wars at once with every sense.
The ears escape not. All around
Returns a dull unwonted sound.
Loath to stand still, afraid to stir,

At rest, in motion-forced to roam
Abroad, or to remain at home,
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions- Be ye hot!'
Day is intolerable-Night

As close and suffocating quite:
And still the mercury mounts higher,
Till London seems again on fire.
Fog of London.

The chilled and puzzled passenger,
Oft blundering from the pavement, fails
To feel his way along the rails;
Or at the crossings, in the roll
Of every carriage dreads the pole.
Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun,
Blots from the face of heaven the sun.
But soon a thicker, darker cloak
Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke,

Which steam-compelling trade disgorges
From all her furnaces and forges
In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise,
Descends rejected from the skies;
Till struggling day, extinguished quite
At noon gives place to candle-light.
O Chemistry, attractive maid,
Descend, in pity, to our aid:
Come with thy all-pervading gases,
Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses,
Thy fearful energies and wonders,
Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders;
Let Carbon in thy train be seen,
Dark Azote and fair Oxygen,

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And Wollaston and Davy guide
The car that bears thee, at the side.
If any power can, any how
Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou;
And see, to aid thee, in the blow,
The bill of Michael Angelo;

Oh join-success a thing of course is-
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces;
Make all chimneys chew the cud
Like hungry cows, as chimneys should!
And since 'tis only smoke we draw
Within our lungs at common law,
Into their thirsty tubes be sent
Fresh air, by act of parliament.

HENRY GALLY KNIGHT.

Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR. HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1786-1846). The first of these, 'Ilderim, a Syrian Tale,' was published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale,' 'Alashtar, an Arabian Tale,' 1817. Mr. Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, Hannibal in Bithynia.' Though evincing poetical taste and correctness in the delineation of Eastern manners-for Mr. Knight had travelled-these poems failed in exciting attention; and their author turned to the study of our medieval architecture. His 'Architectural Tour in Normandy,' and 'Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century'-the latter a splendidly illustrated work-are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature.

SAYERS-HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. DR. FRANK SAYERS, of Norwich (17631817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was out of date.' The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology,' 1790; Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary,' 1793; Nuge Poetica,' 1803; Miscellanies,' 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr. Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida' (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of 'Letters from France,' Travels in Switerland,' 'Narrative of events in France,' 'Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations,' &c. In 1823 she

collected and re-published her poems. To one of the pieces in this edition she subjoins the following note: 'I commence the sonnets

with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason: it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.'

Sonnet to Hope.

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love!

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart!
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;

Say hat for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,

Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye,
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian; but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the American war, he espoused the British interest with so much warmth, that he had to leave the new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He took orders in the Church of England, and was some time tutor to the nephew of Lord Chandos, near Southgate. His son-who was named after his father's pupil, Mr. Leigh-was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he continued till his fifteenth year. 'I was then,' he says, 'first deputy Grecian; and had the honour of going out of the school in the same rank, at the same age, and for the same reason as my friend Charles Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my speech. It was understood that a Grecian was bound to deliver a public speech before he left school, and to go into the church afterwards; and as I could do neither of these things, a Grecian I could not be.' Leigh was then a poet, and his father collected his verses, and published them with a large list of subscribers. He has himself described this volume as a heap of imitations, some of them clever enough for a youth of sixteen, but absolutely worthless in every other respect. In 1805 Mr. Hunt's brother set up a paper called 'The News,' and the poet went to live with him, and write the theatrical criticisms in it. Three years afterwards, they established, in joint-partnership, The Examiner,' a weekly journal conducted with distinguished ability. The poet was more literary than political in his tastes and lucubrations; but unfortunately, he ventured some strictures on the prince

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regent, terming him a fat Adonis of fifty,' with other personalities, and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. The poet's captivity was not without its bright side. He had much of the public sympathy, and his friends-Byron and Moore being of the numberwere attentive in their visits. One of his two rooms on the groundfloor' he converted into a picturesque and poetical study: 'I papered the walls with a trellis of roses; I had the ceiling coloured with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with Venetian blinds; and when my bookcases were set up, with their busts and flowers, and a pianoforte made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side of the water. I took a pleasure, when a stranger knocked at the door, to see him come in and stare about him. The surprise on issuing from the Borough, and passing through the avenues of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb declared there was no other such room except in a fairy tale. But I had another surprise, which was a garden. There was a little yard outside railed off from another belonging to the neighbouring ward. This yard I shut in with green pailings, adorned it with a trellis, bordered it with a thick bed of earth from a nursery, and even contrived to have a grass-plot. The earth I filled with flowers and young trees. There was an apple-tree from which we managed to get a pudding the second year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be perfect. A poet from Derbyshire [Mr. Moore] told me he had seen no such heart's-ease. I bought the 'Parnaso Italiano' while in prison, and used often to think of a passage in it while looking at this miniature piece of horticulture :

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My little garden,

To me thou'rt vineyard, field, and wood, and meadow.

Here I wrote and read in fine weather, sometimes under an awning. In autumn, my trellises were hung with scarlet-runners, which added to the flowery investment. I used to shut my eyes in my arm-chair, and affect to think myself hundreds of miles off. But my triumph was in issuing forth of a morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the large one belonging to the prison. The latter was only for vegetables, but it contained a cherry-tree, which I twice saw in blos

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This is so interesting a little picture, and so fine an example of making the most of adverse circumstances, that it should not be omitted in any life of Hunt. The poet, however, was not so well fitted to battle with the world, and apply himself steadily to worldly business, as he was to dress his garden and nurse his poetical fancies. He fell into difficulties, from which he was never afterwards wholly free. On leaving prison, he published his Story of Rimini,' an talian tale in verse, containing some exquisite lines and passages. * Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries

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