The air, which before was sultry and hot, was now cool and refreshing; and every breeze was loaded with a thousand perfumes-the whole ground being covered with the richest aromatic plants. Many parts of this region are surely the most heavenly spots upon earth; and if Etna resembles hell within, it may with equal justice be said to resemble paradise without.

It is indeed a curious consideration that this mountain should reunite every beauty and every horror; and, in short, all the most opposite and dissimilar objects in nature. Here you observe a gulf, that formerly threw out torrents of fire, now covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, and, from an object of terror, become one of delight. Here you gather the most delicious fruit, rising from what was lately a black and barren rock. Here the ground is covered with every flower, and we wander over these beauties, and contemplate this wilderness of sweets, without considering that hell, with all its terrors, is immediately under our feet; and, that but a few yards separate us from a lake of liquid fire and brimstone.

But our astonishment still increases on casting our eyes on the higher regions of the mountain. There we behold, in perpetual union, the two elements that are at perpetual war—an immense gulf of fire, for ever existing in the midst of snows, which it has not power to melt; and immense fields of snow and ice for ever surrounding this gulf of fire, which they have not power to extinguish.

PATRICK BRYDONE.

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CXC.-THE LEXINGTON.

NIGHT rested on the sea-the moon alone,
O'er the wide waste of rolling waters shone;
The glorious sun had sunk in western skies,
And the dim stars looked down like angels' eyes,
As if they wept in heaven the approaching doom,
And dropped their tears o'er that untimely tomb!

The warm hand pressed, with many a generous token,
The long embrace once o'er, and farewell spoken,
The buoyant boat swift leaves the crowded shore;
To gaze on forms they shall behold no more,
Upon the deck friends strain their anxious eyes,
Till evening drops her curtain o'er the skies.
Now o'er the waters, where the wanderers sleep,
Went forth that train upon the treacherous deep;

They thought of friends to whom they should return, Nor thought, alas! those friends so soon would mourn.

In blissful dreams they think no more they roam,
But tread again the happy halls of home;
Childhood and Age, and Beauty brightly blest,
Thoughtless of danger on the dark waves rest;
When lo! there comes upon the ear a cry,
And the word Fire! sweeps roaring through the sky;
The red flames flash upon the rolling flood,
Till the wide waters seem one sea of blood;
On the cold blast dread Azrael comes in ire,
Waves his dark wings, and fans the fearful fire;
Wild o'er the deck, and with dishevelled hair,
Rush the sad victims shrieking in despair:
"Where is my son?" the frantic father cries,
And "Where my sire?" the weeping son replies.

Amid that scene of terror and alarms,
Dear woman, wailing, throws her ivory arms;
And shall she perish? nay, one effort saves-
Quick launch the boats upon the boiling waves;
They're lost! O God! they sink to rise no more!
A hundred voices mingle in one roar.

From post to post the affrighted victims fly,
While the red flames illumine sea and sky;
The piteous look of infancy appeals

For help, but oh! what heart in danger feels?
None save a mother's; see her clasp her boy!
Floating she looks to find her second joy;
She sees him now, and with a transport wild,
Save! save! oh save! she cries, my drowning child!
She waves her arms, and in the. next rude wave
The mother and her children find a grave;
Locked in her arms her boy sinks down to rest,
His head he pillows on her clay-cold breast;
A mother's love not death itself can part,
She hugs her dying children to her heart;
And fain would perish more than once to save
Her blooming boys from ocean's awful grave.

A sail! a sail! a hundred voices rave--
In the dim distance, on the brilliant wave,

She comes, and hope cheers up those hearts again,
They shall be saved-alas! that hope is vain!
The dastard wretch beholds the imploring crew,
Looks on the blazing boat, then bids adieu;
Leaves them to perish in a watery grave,
Rather than stretch his coward hand to save.
Go, thou inhuman being; be thy name

A demon's watchword, and the mark of shame;
Go teach the tiger what to thee is given,
And be the scoff of man, the scorn of heaven;
Be all those mourning mothers' tears thy own,
Till human feelings melt thy heart of stone.

Now o'er the ice-cold sea the victims swim,
Their limbs are helpless, and their eyes grow dim;
With cries for help, they yield their lingering breath,
As one by one they close their eyes in death;
The blazing wreck a moment shines more bright,
One cry is heard, she sinks, and all is night.
The moon hath set-a darkness shrouds the lee,
No voice is heard upon that moonless sea;
Soft pity spreads her wings upon the gale,
And few are left to tell the dreadful tale.

From down-beds warm, and from their joyous sleep,
Full many an eye afar shall wake to weep;
Full many a heart a hapless parent mourn,
From friends and home, alas! untimely torn.

Fair Baltimore, thy children too must weep
A father, husband, brother, in the deep,
And beauty's eye shall often melt in tears,
O'er the sad tale in future days and years;
The lisping child will to its mother cling,
And ask what day its father home will bring;
Alas! poor child, no father comes to thee--
He sleeps, unshrouded in the dark blue sea;
No more thy mother shall build up the fire,
To welcome home her husband, and thy sire;
No more the mother, when the day is done,
Shall long to look upon her gifted son;
No more shall clasp him to her beating breast,
And breathe a prayer that he may still be blest;
Far from his mourning mother's arms he sleeps,
Nor knows the friend who o'er his fate now weeps.

How many a tear shall yet, alas! be shed,
O'er the wide tomb that holds so many dead!
Mysterious are thy ways, O God! yet just
Thou art in all things-let us bow and trust.

MILFORD BARD.

CXCI.-MEMORIES OF KINDNESS.

WHAT are those gems in the heart's casket, that gleam with such steady lustre? What are those stars in the galaxy of life, that twinkle with so pure a ray? The memories of kindness.

Hearts that are the most susceptible of gratitude and generosity, cherish most deeply the memories of kindness. Touching instances of their force occur throughout the life of Politiano, one of the early poets of Italy. His birth was in obscurity, about the year 1454; and the kindness of the Medicean family-who distinguished themselves as the patrons of genius-supplied him with the means of obtaining a good education. This favor he engraved, as he ought, on the tablet of unfading remembrance.

Attracted by his precocity, and zeal in the prosecution of study, Lorenzo de Medici, whom you know in history by the title of the Magnificent, invited him to become a member of his household. Thus protected from want, and fortified by friendship, he devoted himself with indefatigable in'dustry to the learning that he loved.

His first poem that received publication was written at the age of fourteen. It contained 1400 lines, and, though not free from the faults of a juvenile production, breathed the true spirit of genius, and contributed to the establishment of a purer taste among the people. Not satisfied with the cultivation of poetical flowers, he disciplined his young mind by the severer study of languages, with criticism and illustration of ancient authors. Thus he examined 'Ovid, 'Suetonius, the younger Pliny, °Statius, and Quintilian, portions of whose works, rendered more valuable by his explanations, were given to the public. At the close of his annotations on oCatullus, a slight record informs the reader that he was then at the age of seventeen. Previously to this, he had made considerable progress in translating the Iliad into Latin verse, and had composed a poem, which in elegance was pronounced scarcely inferior to the Georgics of Virgil.

The miscellaneous writings of Politiano prove the variety and extent of his erudition. The emendations on ancient literature with which they are interspersed, he was accustomed daily to repeat to his benefactor, Lorenzo de Medici, as they took their quiet rides on horseback, amid the luxuriant scenery of Florence.

With these congenial subjects he mingled, as he advanced in years, those which were less fascinating, but more distinguished by utility. The system of jurisprudence that prevailed at that time in Italy was principally the Roman civil law, founded on the constitution of the emperor Justinian. It became important that the few existing copies of that work should be compared, collated, and simplified for general comprehension; and this laborious undertaking was com mitted to Politiano.

His habits of research and investigation in this extensive field, purchased for him a high rank among the professors of law,,-a science not often combined with the graceful and brilliant favors of the Muse. Popular applause followed his career, and of course rivalry and °detraction. One of his remarks, at this period of his life, it may be well to remember::

"I am no more elated by adulation, or dejected by obloquy, than astonished at finding my own shadow of unequal length at different times; never having been led by that circumstance to suppose myself a taller man in the morning than at noon-day."

The parting interview of the grateful poet with his patron, is touchingly narrated by Roscoe, the accomplished biographer of Lorenzo de Medici. When the time came that this great man was to die, having taken leave of his nearest relatives, and given to the son who was to inherit his honors, the last precepts of political wisdom and paternal love, he desired once more to see the man whose genius he had delighted to foster. As Politiano approached, de Medici raised himself with difficulty on his couch, and affectionately taking both the hands of the poet, waited with a placid countenance till the sobs and tears of the latter should subside. But the tempest of grief only grew more violent from the attempt to restrain it, till at length, rushing to his apartment, and prostrating himself, he yielded to the agony of its control. When its turbulence had abated, he was again summoned to his dying benefactor, and reclining by his side, and bending over the pallid face that he might lose no whisper of that faint, decaying voice, he listened to his parting words, poured forth the eloquence of gratitude, and exchanged the last farewell.

Brief, however, was to be the separation. After the death of Lorenzo de Medici, a cloud of sorrow settled on the mind of Politiano. As he was one day adapting to the mournful music of his lute, some elegiac verses he had composed as a tribute to his benefactor, he suddenly fell from a high flight of marble steps, and, in consequence of the injuries he sustained, expired.

In this slight biographical sketch, we see the strong influences of a life-long gratitude on the susceptibility of the poetic temperament, as they were illustrated some four hundred years ago. We would scarcely expect, or wish, a similar exhibition in our own differing times.