grave,

To scare the passenger, who hurries on,
Muttering some words of terror and of pray'r.
Oh worthy monument of filial love,
Such as no son e'er raised unto father!
In future generations, even wilt thou
Bear witness to my deeds; but, of my grief
My sufferings, and torn heart, all will be
silent!

There will the parent linger with his child,
And tell my fearful story as a warning,
How that accursed parricide gave up
His father to the scaffold-then will pray
To heaven, “O, be no son again like him!",
Nay, more, when that which with its

66

sence now

pre

So horribly affrights us, has become
A legendary tale,-to me the curse
Will cleave unyielding. When our city's

pomp

And glory have declined, and it will seem Impossible to die for such a country,Still will the tyes of filial love be honour'dAnd therefore still the curse cleave to my name!

Yet conscience tells me that I acted rightlyAnd wilt thou not-Almighty Judge! acquit me?—

It is thy sacred will that man should hold The narrow path of rectitude,-nor heed The warring tenets of his fellow men,The rights of love, nor reasoning of vain wisdom

Nor even the anguish'd cry of the rent

heart.

We have given but a hasty sketch of this play. Indeed there are prevailing defects in Dr Raupach's style which almost baffle a translator.There is more of inconsistency and inequality in his manner, than we recollect ever to have met with in any other German author; for which reason we had almost resolved to introduce this article as "Hore Ruthenicæ, No. I."-for Doctor Raupach, though a native of Silesia, resides at St Petersburgh, and may possibly be the founder of a new school in that capital. We are convinced, however, that our readers will agree with us in allowing, that even in the short extracts which we have given, there are passages, here and there, of extraordinary merit. For example, the speech (in the first act) of Clara, beginning, "What?-hear I not, in thought, the trumpets blow," &c.

and that admirable reminiscence of Rinaldo, after describing his own real sufferings as a vision

"Yet-thank Heaven-
'Twas but a dream!"

In the soliloquy also which commences the fourth act, the comparison of the rainbow is introduced in such manner as to deserve the full praise of originality. To conclude, the subject, in itself, is interesting, and will soon be more generally known, when Lord Byron's tragedy (the "Doge of Venice") is given to the public.

THE aspects of external nature form a never-failing feast to the mind of the poet. In the contemplation of a cultivated valley, he feels a calm and tranquil delight; and every breeze that waves the ripening grain, awakens in his mind a train of delightful associations-the industry of man, and the return, which is to render him joyful. In the waving of a tree he discovers an image of graceful beauty-in the opening blossoms of a flower, a picture of innocent loveliness-in the murmur of the stream he hears the echo of tranquillity and surveys, in the golden clouds of sunset, a spectacle of grandeur and magnificence. Amid the mountainous solitude, where nought is to be seen but bleak rocks, precipitous crags, and savage desolation; and nought heard save the murmur of the distant torrent, his associations kindle into sublimity, and his feelings transport him into the melancholy wastes of imagination. The summer heaven, in its serene and cloudless azure, sinks into his soul an emblem of tranquil repose; while the mustering of the autumnal tempest impresses his spirit like a dark foreboding, and spreads over his thoughts the shadows of despondency.

The associations of a poet are wider than those of any other man, and his feelings are deeper. He takes an interest in things that to all other beings are indifferent; and sees a meaning in the silent works of nature, which to all others " are as a book sealed."

The objects on which a true poet delights most to expatiate, are those of innocence and beauty; such as waken feelings, which may be indulged without regret, and which tend to elevate our ideas of the lofty destiny of man. In his communications with the world, in his commerce with society, many things tend to strike him with chagrin, and to fret his temper. thoughts are not as their thoughts, and the thirst of fame is more congenial to his ideas than the love of riches; but in the prospect of a landscape, he perceives images of beauty and delight offering themselves to his unsated gaze, VOL. VIIL

His

WORDSWORTH.

"without money and without price;" silent beneath the cope of a still heaven, or stirred into a beautiful agitation by its breezes. It is harsh and unfeeling to say that many of the objects on which he lavishes his praise, are worthless and insignificant that the grace of a youthful figure was made to fall away into the decrepitude of old agethat the leaves were destined to fade, the flowers to wither, and the weeds to be cut down.

On the contrary, it is with feelings of grateful delight that we can behold Shakespeare, after he has fathomed, with a masterly reach, the depths of the human soul, dived into the recesses of our nature, and laid before us the reflected picture of our thoughts, passions, feelings, and affections-open his heart to the genial impulses of simple nature; and, as if his soaring spirit had never accustomed itself to other intercourse, luxuriate amid its innocent beauties, and rifle its sweets with an eloquence like the following,-it is from "The Winter's Tale." Perdita says,

"Here's flowers for you, Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram, The marygold, that goes to bed with the

sun,

And with him rises, weeping; these are

flowers

That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower de lis being one.. O, these I lack

To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend

To strew him o'er and o'er."

And Milton, in a poem, which is unquestionably among the mightiest productions of the human mind, and which is unrivalled for the long continued sublimity of its elevation; which divulges the secret mysteries of heaven and hell, and draws aside the veil of eternity, as if he were at times unconscious of his own mighty efforts and achievements, descends to the simplest images of pastoral description, and lavishes the attention he had just bestowed in the delineation of a celestial messenger, on the portraiture of flowers and shrubs. Witness the bower of Eve.

"The roof

Of thickest covert, was inwoven; shade, Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower,

Iris all hues, roses and jessamin
Rear'd high their flourish'd heads between,
and wrought

Mosaic; under foot the violet,
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay
Broider'd the ground."

Nor less exquisite is the following passage from Lycidas.

"Return, Sicilian muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers

Satirical poetry, we have always considered as the very lowest that can lay any claim to the appellation. It is pleasing and gratifying to think that Prior,

one of the most admirable satirists that ever lived, could yet have an eye to the beauties of nature, so acutely alive, as to enable him to pen a description like the following:

"I know not why the beech delights the glade

With boughs extended, and a rounder shade;

While towering firs in conic forms arise,
And with a pointed spear divide the skies;
Nor why again the changing oak should
The yearly honour of his stately head ;
shed
Whilst the distinguish'd yew is ever seen,
Unchanged his branch, and permanent his

(99),

Why does one climate, and one soil endue
The blushing poppy with a crimson hue;
Yet leave the lily pale, and tinge the violet
blue?
Why does the fond carnation love to shoot
A various colour from one parent root;
While the fantastic tulip strives to break
In twofold beauty, and a parted streak ?
The twining jassmine, and the blushing rose,
With lavish grace their morning scents dis-
close,

The smelling tub'rose and jonquil declare,
The stronger impulse of an evening air?
Whence has the tree (resolve me) or the

flower

A various instinct, or a different power? Why should one earth, one clime, one stream, one breath,

Raise this to strength, and sicken that to death?

Whence does it happen that the plant which well

We name the sensitive, should move and feel?

Whence know her leaves to answer her command,

And with quick horror fly the neighbouring hand?

Along the sunny bank, or watery mead, Ten thousand stalks their various blossoms spread.

Peaceful and lowly in their native soil, They neither know to spin, nor care to toil; Yet with confess'd magnificence deride Our vile attire, and impotence of pride. The cowslip smiles-in brighter yellow dress'd

Than that which veils the nubile virgin's breast.

A fairer red stands blushing in the rose, Than that which on the bridegreom's vestment flows.

Take but the humblest lily of the field; And if our pride will to our reason yield, It must, by sure comparison, be shewn That on the regal seat great David's son, Array'd in all his robes, and types of power, Shines with less glory, than that simple flower."

This may be contrasted with Cowper's admirable lines on the variety of the tint in the foliage of forest trees, in the first book of the Task.

" Attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth, Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks

Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood

Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost

boughs.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some,
And of a wannish gray; the willow such
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf,
And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,
Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.
Some glossy-leav'd, and shining in the sun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours
bright."

If this assemblage of trees be fine, still finer, we think, is the assemblage of flowering shrubs, which he has collected and contrasted together; so distinctly and admirably are they painted, that the diversified hues and odours of each, are as if present to the senses.

The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars."

We commenced our extracts with an enumeration of flowers, and shall conclude them by two others of equal value. Earnestly would we rejoice were all the writings of Shelley as exquisite and innocent as the following lines:"A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the spring arose on the garden fair, Like the spirit of love felt every where; And each flower and shrub on earth's dark breast,

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss

In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's

s-veet want,

As the companionless sensitive plant.

The snow-drop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mix'd with fresh odour,

And the hyacinth purple, white and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense.

And the rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest,

Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast,

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a Mœnad, its moonlight-colour'd cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed thro' clear dew on the tender sky.

And the jessamine faint, and sweet tube

rose,

The sweetest flower, for scent, that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden, in perfect prime."

Of all contemporary authors, we do not know any one who has painted the aspects of nature with a more faithful and felicitous pencil than Southey. In this respect, his works abound with passages, whose merit is above all praise. His forests wave, and his waters gleam before us. We almost hear the rustling of the leaves, and the murmuring of the stream. His delineation of objects renders them all but palpable. We perceive their colour, and form, and consistence, so exactly and distinctly, we almost imagine we could touch them. As a man of imagination and genius, he has few equals; though his flights are, perhaps, less original than the re-casting of other thoughts in the mould of a powerful will. In Thalaba, he leads us from the burning sands of the desert, to the regions of eternal frost; and after alluding to

"The beautiful fields

Of England, where amid the growing grass The blue-bell bends, the golden king-cup shines,

In the merry month of May,” We find him equally at home in the description of the luxurious beauty of an Asiatic garden.

"Where'er his eye could reach,

Fair structures rainbow-hued arose ; And rich pavilions thro' the opening woods Gleam'd from their wavy curtains sunny gold;

And winding through the verdant vale,
Flow'd streams of liquid light;
And fluted cypresses rear'd high

Their living obelisks.

And broad-leaved plane-trees in long colonnades

O'erarched delightful walks,

Where round their trunks the thousandtendril'd vine

Wound up, and hung the boughs with greener wreaths,

And clusters not their own. Wearied with endless beauty did his eyes Return for rest? Beside him teems the earth

With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak'd; And here the lily hangs her head of snow; And here, amid her sable cup, Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest

star,

The solitary twinkler of the night;
And here the rose expands

Her paradise of leaves.

And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness,
From cluster'd Henna, and from orange

groves,

That with such perfumes fill'd the breeze,

As Peris to their sister bear, She hangs, encaged, the captive of the Dives. When from the summit of some lofty tree,

They from their pinions shake"

The sweetness of celestial flowers, And, as her enemies impure, From that impervious poison far away Fly groaning with the torment, she the while Inhales her fragrant food. Such odours flow'd upon the world, When at Mahommed's nuptials, word The everlasting gate of Paradise Back on its living hinges, that its gales Might visit all below; the general bliss Thrill'd every bosom; and the family Of man,

Went forth in heaven, to roll

for once, partook one general joy."

We heartily commiserate the man whose heart is not alive to the beauties of external nature; and in whom the alternation of day and night, and the vicissitude of the seasons, awaken no feeling of delight and admiration. Assuredly to such a one, the key to a mighty volume of exquisite pleasure is the most dignified trains of human asa-wanting. Assuredly to him some of sociation are as 66 a book sealed,"