But when, as chanced, from limbs and wearied veins, Then ancient statesmen took their daily range Round one small spot, and shuddering talked of change; Wealth, 'mid his coffers, feared the approaching war, Vague unused terrors crept upon the brave, Then follows a magnificent character of Burke, proving how just Mr. Kenyon can be to real greatness in every shade of opinion. The following stanza, from a beautiful poern called" Upper Austria," has the same rare merit of fairness and candor. O Liberty! thou sacred name In spite of check, in spite of thrall, The spirited and original anacreontic, entitled "Champagne Rose," was composed under very peculiar circumstances. Having improvised, while looking at the bubbles upon a glass of pink champagne, the exceedingly happy line that begins the song, Mr. Kenyon was challenged to complete it on the spot. He undertook to do so within twenty minutes, and accomplished his task, as very few besides himself could have done. Lily on liquid roses floating So floats yon foam o'er pink Champagne- Floating away on wine! Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear, So we but float on wine! And true it is they cross in pain Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, Hear unconcerned the oar, That dips itself in wine! The charming stanzas with which I conclude my extracts form part of a poem written to illustrate an engraving in Finden's Tableaux; one of the many kindnesses which I owe to Mr. Kenyon. It would be difficult to find verse more melodious, or more pure. THE SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN. Who knows not, fair Sicilian land! Yes! land thou wert of fruits and flowers, By Jove made glad with suns and showers, Those hollow creeds have passed away, And Christian altars overlay Yon temple's old foundation stone; And where, within some deep shy wood, The devious pilgrim, far beguiled, And bowed in heart, not less than deed, There, while his secret soul he bares, That lonely altar bending by, The traveler passing unawares, Shall stay his step, but not too nigh, And hearkening to those unforced prayers, Albeit the creed he may deny, Thy shrines are lovely, wheresoe'er, Green tendriled plants, in many a ring * The present cathedral of Syracuse was formerly a temple of Minerva. As if it came that brow to greet, * I love thee ever. Open door That welcomes to the house of God! Free as the pathway or the sod, Whence journeying pilgrim, 'mid broad air, I wish more people would write such lucid and melodious verse; but I have a suspicion that among the many who call themselves poets, there are very few indeed who can. R XXX. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. THOMAS CHATTERTON-ROBERT SOUTHEY-SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE-WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. FROM Bath we proceeded to Bristol, or rather to Clifton, traversing the tunnels this time with as gay a confidence as I should do now. Of Bath, its buildings and its scenery, I had heard much good; of Bristol, its dirt, its dinginess, and its ugliness, much evil. Shall I confess-dare I confess, that I was charmed with the old city? The tall, narrow, picturesque dwellings with their quaint gables; the wooden houses in Wine-street, one of which was brought from Holland bodily, that is to say in ready-made bits, wanting only to be put together; the courts and lanes climbing like ladders up the steep acclivities; the hanging gardens, said to have been given by Queen Elizabeth to the washerwomen (every thing has a tradition in Bristol); the bustling quays; the crowded docks; the calm, silent, Dowry Parade (I have my own reasons for loving Dowry Parade) with its trees growing up between the pavement like the close of a cathedral; the Avon flowing between those two exquisite boundaries, the richly tufted Leigh Woods clothing the steep hillside, and the grand and lofty St. Vincent's Rocks, with houses perched upon the summits that looked ready to fall upon our heads; the airy line of the chain that swung from tower to tower of the intended suspension bridge, with its basket hanging in mid air like the car of a balloon, making one dizzy to look at it;-formed an enchanting picture. I know nothing in English landscape so lovely or so striking as that bit of the Avon beyond the Hot Wells, especially when the tide is in, the ferry-boat crossing, and some fine American ship steaming up the river. As to Clifton, I suspect that my opinions were a little heretical |