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be the most important of his many and great discoveries. No praise can add to his deserved celebrity.

Note 11, page 597, col. 1.
Not to his affectionate spirit
Could the act of madness innate for guilt be accounted.

The act of suicide is very far from bring so certain an indication of insanity as it is usually considered by our inquests. But in the case of Chatterton, it was the manifestation of an hereditary disease. There was a madness in his family. His only sister, during one part of her life, was under confinement.

The law respecting suicide is a most barbarous one; and of late years has never been carried into effect without exciting horror and disgust. It might be a salutary enactment, that all suicides should be given up for dissection. This would certainly prevent many women from committing self-murder, and possibly might in time be useful to physiology.

Note 12, page 597, col. 2. The gentle Amelia.

In one of his few intervals of sanity, after the death of this beloved daughter, the late King gave orders, that a monument should be erected to the memory of one of her attendants, in St George's Chapel, with the following inscription: King Groago III caused to be interred near this place the body of M, or Gascoigny, Servant to the Princess Axelta; and this stone to be inscribed in testimony of his grateful sense of the faithful services and attachment of an amiable Young Woman to his beloved Daughter, whom she survived only three months. She died 19th of February 1811.

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First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a food seed. First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean: First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger. First shall vertue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish; Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemn Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only beginning: But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case. None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt: Great to thee my state seems, thy state is blest by my judgment: And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self, For yet (weigh this, alas:) great is not great to the greater. what judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus’ Such my minute greatness doth seem compar'd to the greatest. when Cedars to the ground fall down y the weight of an Emmet, or when a rich Rubie's price he the worth of a Walnut, or to the Sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle: Then by my high Cedar, rich Rubie, and only shining Sun, vertues, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed. oh, no,'no, worthy Shepherd, worth"can never enter a title,

Where proofs justly do teach, thus matcht, such worth to be nought
Let rot a Puppet abuse thy sprite. Kings Crowns do not help them
From the cruel headach, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal;
And precious Louches full oft are shak’t with a feaver.
If then a bodily evil in a bodily glove be not hidden,
Shall such morning dews to an ease to the heat of a love's fire?

Sidney's pentameters appear even more uncouth than his hexameters, as more unlike their model; for, in our pronunciation, the Latin pentameter reads as if it ended with two trochees.

Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,
Which should most mise ics cast on a worm that I am.
Fortune bus 'gan say, misery and misfortune is all one,
And of misfortune, fortune bath only the gift.
With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,
Still do I cross this wretch what so he taketh in hand.
Tush, tush, said Nature, this is all but a trifle, a man's self,
Gives haps or misbaps, even as he ordereth his heart.
But so his humor I frame, in a mould of choler aduated,
That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.
Love smiled, and thus said: What joyn'd to desire is unhappy :
But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail
None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul
Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:
Where thou poor Nature left'st all thy due glory, to Fortune
Her vertue is soveraign, Fortune a vassal of hers.
Nature alasht went lack: Fortune blusht : yet she replied thus:
And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.
Thus, thus, alas: woful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune;
But most wretched I am, now love awakes my desire.

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* to bolck or boke, is ructure.

* Slag is the dross of iron.

* Squeezing.

* Tinacria.

* Dash'd down.
“ i. e. Broiled sides crumpled.

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Sidney, who failed so entirely in writing hexameters, has written concerning them, in his Defence of Poesie, with the good sense and propriety of thought by which that beautiful treatise is distinguished. Let me not be thought to disparage this admirable man and delightful writer, because it has been necessary for me to show the cause of his failure in an attempt wherein I have now followed him. I should not forgive myself, were I ever to mention Sidney without an expression of rewerence and love.

« Of versifying,” he says, “there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other modern; the ancient inarked the quantity of each syllable, and, according to that, framed his verse; the modern, observing only number, with some regard of the accent; the chief life of it standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call Rhyme. Whether of these be the more excellent, would bear many speeches, the ancient, no doubt, more sit for musick, both words and time observing quantity, and more fit, lively to express divers passions by the low or lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter likewise with his Rhyme striketh a certain musick to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by another way, it obtaineth the same purpose, there being in either sweetness, and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before any vulgar language I know, is sit for both sorts; for, for the ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered with elisions: the Dutch so, of the other side, with consonants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding, fit for a verse. The French, in his whole language, hath not one word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving two, called Antepenultima; and little more hath the Spanish, and therefore very gracelessly may they use Dactyls; the English is subject to none of these defects. Now for Rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, yet we observe the accent very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely,

* That Cæsura, or breathing-place, in the midst of the verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have; the French and we never almost fail of Lastly, the very Rhyme itself the Italian cannot put in the last syllable, by the French named the Masculine Rhyme, but still in the next to the last, which the French call the Female, or the next before that, which the Italian call Sdrucciola : the example of the former, is Buono Suono ; of the Sdrucciolo, is Femina Semina. The French, on the other

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« Je ne dypas,” says the author, “que ces vers soient de quelque valeur, aussi ne les mets-je icy sur la nonstre en intention qu'on les trouve tels; mais bien estine. je qu'ils sont autant fluides que les Latins, et a tant veux-je que l'on pense nostre vulgaire estre aucunement capable de ce subject.” Pasquier's verses were not published till many years after they were written; and in the meantime Jean Antoine de Baif made the attempt upon a larger scale,_a toutesfois,” says Pasquier, “en ce subject si mauvais parrain que non settlement il ne fut suivy daucun, mais au contraire descouragea un chacun de sy employer. Daurant que tout ce qu'il en fit estoit tant despourveu de cette naif. vete qui doit accompagner nos ouvres, qu'auss; tos: que cette sienne poesie voit la lumière, elle motorut comme wn avorton.” The Abbé Goujet, therefore, had no reason to represent this attempt as a proof of the bad taste of the age: the bad taste of an age is proved, when vicious compositions are applauded, not when they are unsuccessful. Jean Antoine de Baif is the writer of whom the Cardinal du Perron said a qu'il eteit bon homme, mais quil étoit mechant poete François a


I subjoin a specimen of Spanish Hexameters, from an Eclogue by D. Esteban de Villegas, a poet of great and deserved estimation in his own country.

Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Filis,
Pastor el uno de cabras, clotro de blancas ovejas,
Amboo a dos tiernos, mozo, ambos, Arcades ambos,
Viendo que los rayos del Sol fatigaban al Orbe,
Y que vibrando fuego feroz la Canicula ladra,
Al puro cristal, que cria la suente sonora,
Llevados del son alegre de su blando ausurro,
Las plantas veloces mueven, los pasos animan,
Y altronco de un verde enebrose sientan amigos.

Tú, que los ergoidos sobrepujas del hondo Timavo
Peñones, generoso Duque, con tu inclita frente,
Siavaso tocate eleco demi rustica avena
Tus sienes, siacasollea a tu for til alono,
Francisco, del acento mio la sonora Talia,
Oye pio, responde grato, censura severo:
No menos al caro hermano generoso retratas,
Queal tronco prudente sigues, generoso naciste
Heroe, que guarde el Cielo dilatando tus anos;
Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Filis,
Pastores, las Musas aman, recrearte desean:
Tu, cuerdo, perdona entretanto la barbara Musa,

Quc presto, inspirando Pean con amigo Coturno,
Łn trompa, que al Olimpo [legue por elabrejo suelta,
Tufaina Ilevaran los ecos de Ganges al 1stro,
Yluego, torciendo el vuelo, del Aquilo al Austro.

It is admitted by the Spaniards, that the fitness of their language for the hexameter has been established by Villegas; his success, however, did not induce other poets to follow the example. I know not whom it was that he followed, for he was not the first to make the attempt. Neither do I know whether it was ever inade in Portuguese, except in some verses upon St Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, which are Latin as well as Portuguese, and were written as a whimsical proof of the affinity of the two languages. I have found no specimens in Italian. The complete success of the metre in Germany is well known. The Bohemians have learnt the tune, and have, like their neighbours, a translation of the Iliad in the measure of the original. This I learn accidentally from a Bohemian grammar; which slows me also, that the Bohemians make a dactyl of Achilles, probably because they pronounce the z with a strong aspirate.


With way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone, Life's upward road I journey'd many a day, And framing many a sad yet soothing lay, Beguiled the solitary hours with song. Lonely my heart and rugged was the way, Yet often pluck'd I, as I past along, The wild and simple flowers of poesy; And sometimes unreflecting as a child Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye. Take thou the wreath, Beloved it is wild And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves Amid gay flowers its melancholy leaves, And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brow. 1796.


The lily cheek, the “purple light of love,”
The liquid lustre of the melting eye, -
MARY of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph;-Wilt thou with a frown
Regard the theme unworthy 2–At that age
No MAld of Anc had snatch'd from coward man
The avenging sword of freedom: woman-kind
Recorded then no Roland's martyrdom;
No Conde's angel and avenging arm
Had sanctified again the Murderer's name,
As erst when Caesar perish'd : and some strains
Haply may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

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The Subject of the following poem may be found in the Third and Fourth Chapters of the First Book of Esdras.

GLAD as the weary traveller tempest-tost
To reach secure at length his native coast,
Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey oer and every peril past
Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full eyes with transport overflow;
So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,
And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn, to sing the Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.

Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court, Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort: Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride, And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's side, No more the Warrior wears the garb of war, Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car; No more Judaea's sons dejected go, And hang the head, and heave the sigli of woe. From Persia's rugged hills descend the train, From where Orontes foams along the plain,


From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They linge the cheek which nature form'd so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
McIt in the song, and swim adown the dance,
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
lu royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire.
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay, Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day; Without Judaea's watchful sons await, To touard the sleeping idol of the state. Three youths were these of Judah's royal race, Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace, To each the form of symmetry she gave, And haul:lity genius curs d each favourite slave; These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept, Served when he spake, and guarded while he, slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow; And when the dull and wearying round of power Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour, He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam, And lingering gaze toward his distant home; Or on Euphrates's willowy banks reclined Ilear the sad Harp moan fitful to the wind.

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light, And social converse cheers the livelong night, Thus spake Zorobabel : . Too long in vain For Zion desolate her sons complain; All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow, And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe. While Cyrus triumphed here in victor state A brighter prospect cheerd our exiled fate; Our sacred walls again he bade us raise, And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise. Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes, As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies, And spreads a moment's radiance oer the plain, Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And sternly silent shun to seek relief.
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?»

“Fair is the occasion,” thus the one replied, “Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the maddend soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.”

• And while,” his friend replied, “ in state alone, Lord of the eartlı, Darius fills the throne, Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing, My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King.»

To them Zorobabel : « On themes like these Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please: To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms, Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms. To him victorious in the rival lays Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; The purple robe his honour'd frame shall fold, The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold; A golden couch support his bed of rest, The chain of honour grace his favour’d breast; His the rich turban, his the car's array, O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way, And for his wisdom seated on the throne, For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known.”

Intent they meditate the future lay, And watch impatient for the dawn of day. The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute; To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. Iligh on his throne Darius tower'd in pride, The fair Apame graced the Sovereign's side: And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown. In transport o'er her faultless form he bends, Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call Judaea's Bards to grace the thronging hall. Hush'd is each sound, the attending crowd are mute, And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute:

When the Traveller on his way, Who has toil'd the livelong day; Feels around on every side The chilly mists of eventide, Fatigued and faint his weary mind Recurs to all he leaves bellind; He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth, The evening hour of social mirth. And her who at departing day Weeps for her husband far away. Oh give to him the flowing bowl Bid it renovate his soul! Then shall sorrow sink to sleep, And he who wept no more shall weep; For his care-clouded brow shall clear, And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.

When the poor man heart-opprest Betakes him to his evening rest, And worn with labour thinks in sorrow Of the labour of to-morrow : when sadly musing on his lot He hies him to his joyless cot, And loathes to meet his children there. The rivals for his scanty fare; Oh give to him the flowing bowl Bid it renovate his soul'

The generous juice with magic power Shall cheat with happiness the hour, And with each warn affection fill The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.

When, at the dim close of day,
The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude;
When he sits with mournful eye
To mark the lingering radiance die,
And lets distempered Fancy roam
Amid the ruins of his home;—
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
And joy shall bless the evening hour,

And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight, When from his pomp retired alone He feels the duties of the throne, Feels that the multitude below Depend on him for weal or woe; When his powerful will may bless A realm with peace and happiness, Or with desolating breath Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: Oh give to him the flowing bowl Bid it humanize his soul! He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song, Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King. Why should the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight? Alike to him if peace shall bless The multitude with happiness; Alike to him if frenzied War Careers triumphant on the embattled plain And rolling on o'er myriads slain, With gore and wounds shall clot; his scythed car. What though the tempest rage! no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne, And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride Beholds not liis own nature 2 where is he Who without a we can see The mysteries of the human mind, The miniature of Deity For Man the vernal clouds descending Shower down their fertilizing rain; For Man the ripen'd harvest bending Waves with soft murmur o'er the pleuteous plain. He spreads the sail on high,

The rude gale wafts him o'er the main ; For him the winds of heaven subscrvient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below !

Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side; Alike the wise, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath, Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot, Where PEAce and Love have blest his humble life? In vain his agonizing wife With tears bedevs her husband's face, And clasps him in a long and last embrace; In vain his children round his bosom creep, And weep to see their mother weep, Fettering their father with their little arms! What are to him the war's alarms? What are to him the distant foes? He at the earliest dawn of day To daily labour went his way; And when he saw the sun decline, He sate in peace beneath his vine— The King commands, the peasant goes, From all he loved on earth he flies, And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

What though yon City's castled wall Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade 1 What though her Priests in earnest terror call On all their host of Gods to aid Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower! In vain her gallant youths expose Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes ' In vain at that tremendous hour, Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms, Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid! By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round, Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground. Low shall the mouldering palace lie, Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, And through the shatter d roof descend the inclement sky.

Gay o'er the embattled plain Moves yonder warrior train, Their banners wanton on the morning gale! Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray, Their glittering helms give glory to the day; The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale; Far reaches as the aching eye can strain The splendid horror of their wide array. Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er Their glorious pomp the vultures soar! Amid the Conqueror's palace high Shall sound the song of victory; Long after journeying o'er the plain The traveller shall with startled eye See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.

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