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When gazing on night's radiant orb the sigh
Of passionate fondness stole from parted lips.
Outglowing the fresh rose-bud? or with lays
Heroic sounded, and with trumpet peal
Awoke the hurly of the battle field,

Where steel-girt warriors rushed in bannered lines
On to the death-strife, and gold-sceptred kings
Became at evening hour the eagle's food?
Or, fired with seraph themes sublime, poured forth
The minstrelsey of heaven to mortal ears,
Revealing those high mysteries of a world,
From all but inspiration's eagle glance
For ever veiled, who in her dreamings rapt,-
The bright enthusiast,-starward gazing wins
A beatific glimpse? And is, sweet bard,
Thy daring spirit fled? thy fancy lost,
That once with such ecstatic visions burned?
All gone? all faded? like the enchanted isles
So beautiful, sunlighted, and serene,
Which in the Atlantic deep have oft, 'tis said,

*

The Fata Morgana-first observed by some Danish and Irish fishermen about Anno Domini 900, and from that period to the fourteenth century frequently seen by the Anglo-Saxon and French fishermen and mariners at

sea.

Similar meteorological phenomena have been also seen at Ramsgate, and by Father Angelucci on the coast of Sicily. Query, Instead of the beautiful "Atlantis of Plato being, according to M. Bailly's theory, either Greenland, Spitzbergen, or Nova Zembla, might it not have been one of these ocean Mirages, as the French term them, disappearing from the sight on a near approach, instead of being sunk by a convulsion of nature in the Atlantic Ocean?-Vide Iceland Ann Ortelius in Tesauro Geo, an ancient Saxon Poem.

By mariners been seen; where shore, and cliff,
And tufted orange-bower, and flowery mead,
And forests with arcades of blooming trees,
And palm-crowned cape, and airy castle piled
Amid the rainbow clouds, with scattered flocks
And smoke-ascending cot in breezy shade,
Gladdened the weary sea-boy with the hope
Of harbour and delectable repose,
After long storms and toil, till vanished all,
At evening, into nothingness the dim
And fairy dream of ocean!-Well-a-day!
And must poetic Genius too expire?
Is there no ransom from the dreary grave
For Nature's noblest gifts?

No: with the clown, The veriest shallow-pated loon that tills

The soil for bread, and the base miser who

Hath but one hope, one thought, and they for gold, The bitter root of Evil's baneful tree,

Must Genius, filled with bright imaginings,

And glorious fires, and energies, and thoughts
That make him more than mortal, sink in death,
And dwell amid the vileness of the tomb,
As from the rosy skies and cloud-wrought pomps
That wait upon his western throne, the sun
Beneath the dark damp caves of ocean sinks!

Son of the harp! obscurity's dim night Lay heavy on thee; but the struggling fire

That burnt within thy bosom, burst through all
Th' oppressive gloom, and as the morning pours
Her light o'er the wide rosy-mantled skies,
And night, discomfited, retreats before
Her magic beam, which lifts the misty veil
From Nature's face, that the fond sun may view
And worship her beauty, so thy genius broke
In glory on the world, and clearly showed
Thy upward path with thorny roses showered,
That led to Fame's proud temple in the clouds.
Noble enthusiast! then the chords thy hand
Swept with a master spirit, o'er all hearts
Flinging thy sweet enchantments, and the steep
Won rapidly, despite grim Envy's fiends
And dire Manduci, raised by wizard foes

To fright thee from thy purpose. The high mount
Achieved, thou from its summit viewedst below
A prospect beautiful, sublime, and vast!

But life's low sun was setting on the scene;
And though tumultuous joy rushed through thy veins
At the fair prospect,-all thy foes subdued,

And toils and troubles past, while music rose
From every forest bower, and hill, and vale,
A hymn of triumph to thy merit due;
Yet did a softened sadness o'er thee steal,
Dimming thine eye with a regretful tear,
As thou, like Moses on famed Pisgah's top,
Beheld'st that far-off Canaan's beauteous land

Bounded by death's dark flood, o'er which thy foot
Was fated ne'er to pass.-T' th' temple porch
Of burning sapphire now the Poet turned
His anxious gaze, and saw within the hall
RENOWN upon her sunbright dazzling throne,
Surrounded by a thousand glittering shapes
And thronging radiances. He heard his name
By her pronounced, and saw her blissful smile;
His welcoming heard too the thunder-swell
Of twice ten thousand trumpets :-but the pomp
Floated uncertain in his fading sight:-

He sunk upon the threshold, and expired!

LETTER CXX.

L- Cottage.

MY KIND Friend,

You have now received from me, in the course of a long-continued correspondence, a great number of letters containing most of the principal leading events of my story ;-and a long tedious tale of misery and perpetual disappointment has it been to me. How often have I hoped, and felt but too confident, as fresh and surprising prospects broke upon me, and new friends were raised up, who, pitying my situation, strenuously endeavoured to serve me and turn the tide of relentless fortune, that all my troubles were past; that permanent comfort, peace, and happiness would shine forth like the evening sun after a day of darkness and storms; and all be tranquillity and brightness to the close. But I have no longer a hope left, that there can be any substantial comfort or happiness in this life reserved for me. Every new expectation has been blighted in the bud; every prospect that seemed to dawn upon me in light and beauty has been quickly

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