of nature, and an ingenious imitat remarked, that "naturally eloqu and accurate similitudes are fami ignorance."

Hospitable, generous, human possessing, in short, every natura the venerable Palafox, bishop of life, for the arts and sciences, an ciety in general, by serving the ‹ a good education; and, if it be character to the man, what ho; fine and amiable a being! Unde the South American will imit him, he will love his country a will prefer to wealth, the pub` tice, labour, and order will be ready to the other.

The different products and ments where they are raise are shipped, their value exc neral kingdom, thirty-four mal: all this, together with of Spanish America, are No. 1.

It is probable, that 1a greater degree of ent! stance, at least, can be The passage is take "The Blazon of Genti his "Compleat Gentle and runs thus

"Christ was a gentle ther, (as I have read,): glorye of this worlde ( not) have borne coat-ar. telleth me) were gentle. ed from that worthy co: the tract of time, and per kindred, and they were co In the same hook

of Semirara

179

POETRY.

hou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies!

Like them, thou fallest uever more to rise!
Oh tragile flower! for thee my heart's in pain!
Haply a world is hid from mortal eyes,
Where thou may'st smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin bloom, that ever shall remain.

Canto II.

What art thou, Love? or who may thee define?
Where lies thy bourne of pleasure or of pain?
No sceptre, graved by Reason's hand, is thine,
Child of the moisten'd eye and burning brain,
Of glowing fancy, and the fervid vein,
That soft on bed of roses lov'st to rest,

And crop the flower where lurks the deadly bane!
Oh many a thorn those dear delights invest,
Child of the rosy cheek, and heaving snow-white breast!

Thou art the genial balm of virtuous youth,

And point'st where Honour waves her wreath on high;
Like the sweet breeze that wanders from the south,

Thou breath'st upon the soul, where embryos lie
Of new delights, the treasures of the sky!
Who knows thy trembling watch in bower of even,
Thy earliest grateful tear, and melting sigh?
Oh never was to yearning mortal given

So dear delights as thine, thou habitant of heaven!

Wo that thy regal sway, so framed to please,
Should ever from usurper meet control!
That ever shrivell'd wealth, or gray disease,
Should mar the grateful concord of the soul!
That bloated sediment of crazing bowl
Should crop thy blossoms which untasted die!

Or that the blistering phrase of babbler foul
Should e'er profane thy altars, framed to lie

Veil'd from all heaven and earth, save silent Fancy's eye!

Oh I will worship even before thy bust,

When my dimm'd eye no more thy smile can see!
While this deserted bosom beats, it must

Still beat in unison with hope and thee!
For I have wept o'er perish'd ecstacy,

And o'er the fall of beauty's early prime!
But I will dream of new delights to be,

When moon and stars have ceased their range sublime,
And angels rung the knell of all-consuming Time!

Canto III.

ON THE SPANISH CHARACTER

[From Southey's Poet's Pilgrimage.]

Strange race of haughty heart and stubborn will,
Slavery they love and chains with pride they wear;
Inflexible alike in good or ill,

The invet'rate stamp of servitude they bear.
Oh! fate perverse, to see all change withstood,
· There only where all change must needs be good!

But them nor foe can force, nor friend persuade;
Impassive souls in iron forms enclosed,

As though of human mould they were not made,
But of some sterner elements composed,
Against offending nations to be sent,
The ruthless ministers of punishment.

Where are those Minas after that career
Wherewith all Europe rang from side to side?
In exile wandering! Where the Mountaineer...
Late, like Pelayo, the Asturian's pride?
Had Ferdinand no mercy for that life,
Exposed so long for him in daily, hourly strife!

From her Athenian orator of old

Greece never listened to sublimer strain

Than that, with which, for truth and freedom bold,
Quintana moved the inmost soul of Spain.

What meed is his let Ferdinand declare-
Chains, and the silent dungeon, and despair!

For this hath England borne so brave a part!
Spent with endurance, or in battle slain,

Is it for this so many an English heart

Lies mingled with the insensate soil of Spain!

Is this the issue, this the happy birth

In those long throes and that strong agony brought forth!

From Mador of the Moor, a poem, by James Hogg, author of the Queen's Wake, Pilgrims of the Sun, &

The rainbow's lovely in the eastern cloud;
The rose is beauteous on the bended thorn;
Sweet is the evening ray from purple shroud,

And sweet the orient blushes of the morn;
Sweeter than all, the beauties which adorn
The female form in youth and maiden bloom!
Oh why should passion ever man suborn
To work the sweetest flower of nature's doom,
And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom!

Oh fragile flower! that blossoms but to fade!
One slip recovery or recal defies!

Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies!

Like them, thou fallest never more to rise!
Oh fragile flower! for thee my heart's in pain!
Haply a world is hid from mortal eyes,
Where thou may'st smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin bloom, that ever shall remain.

Canto II.

What art thou, Love? or who may thee define?
Where lies thy bourne of pleasure or of pain?
No sceptre, graved by Reason's hand, is thine,
Child of the moisten'd eye and burning brain,
Of glowing fancy, and the fervid vein,
That soft on bed of roses lov'st to rest,

And crop the flower where lurks the deadly bane!
Oh many a thorn those dear delights invest,

Child of the rosy cheek, and heaving snow-white breast!

Thou art the genial balm of virtuous youth,

And point'st where Honour waves her wreath on high;
Like the sweet breeze that wanders from the south,
Thou breath'st upon the soul, where embryos lie
Of new delights, the treasures of the sky!
Who knows thy trembling watch in bower of even,
Thy earliest grateful tear, and melting sigh?
Oh never was to yearning mortal given

So dear delights as thine, thou habitant of heaven!

Wo that thy regal sway, so framed to please,
Should ever from usurper meet control!
That ever shrivell'd wealth, or gray disease,
Should mar the grateful concord of the soul!
That bloated sediment of crazing bowl
Should crop thy blossoms which untasted die!

Or that the blistering phrase of babbler foul
Should e'er profane thy altars, framed to lie
Veil'd from all heaven and earth, save silent Fancy's eye!

Ob 1 will worship even before thy bust,

When my dimm'd eye no more thy smile can see! While this deserted bosom beats, it must

Still beat in unison with hope and thee! For I have wept o'er perish'd ecstacy, And o'er the fall of beauty's early prime!

But I will dream of new delights to be,

When moon and stars have ceased their range sublime,
And angels rung the knell of all-consuming Time!

Canto III.

[From Ackermann's Repository.]

OH FARE THEE WELL

This Poem is attributed to Lady Byron.

On fare thee well! and must the sigh
Embodying the words that sever,
Meet those as heartful that reply
Oh fare thee well! farewell for ever!

Then be it so, but still the heart
That swore to love thee, swore so true,
Shall never from its faith depart,
No-nor for ever banish you.

For ever, Oh! concealed there lies
Obdurate, in that word the source
That leads to ill our destinies
And plants within thy breast remorse.

For ever! No-shall sullen pride
Thy bosom seal-excluding there
Of feeling-the returning tide
And cherish still thy throb-despair!

Oh! yield not, father of my child,
Once tender, ever dearest still;
Oh! yield not to those fancies wild,
That agitate thy fevered will;

To that capricious restless train,
Not born of Reason's healthful kind,
That havoc in thy fertile train,

And canker in thy nobler mind:

Yield not to these, Oh! by this kiss,
Which on thy infant's lips I press,
And by that one-as pure-of bliss
That promised years of happiness:

Ah! how illusive they are fled!

And since no solace of my care Can yield sweet slumbers to thy bed, Or sooth thine hours of anguish there

Then fare thee well-in this adieu
Think not for ever that we part,
When all the husband died in you,
He was sepulchred in my heart.