Although our argument was quite forgot;
But, calling the attendants, went to dine
At Maddalo's:-yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him,
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim.
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; som deadly change in love
Of one vow'd deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not
But in the light of all-beholding truth;
And having stamped this canker on his youth,
She had abandoned him: and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not:-he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness:
These now were lost-it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colour of his mind seemed yet unworn:
For the wild language of his grief was high-
Such as in measure were called poetry.
And I remember one remark, which then
Maddalo made: he said- Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.'"

The following is a quaint imitation of the older English poets, and has some beautiful thoughts :

"Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
"Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Tan wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of % trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure,

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Every thing almost

Which is nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

"Our boat is asleep in Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast,
And the oars and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there,

To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,

And the rocks above and the streams below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,

And the Apennine shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of aery gold

The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.

Day had awakened all things that be,

The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee:
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.

All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever knew or can be known."

From a volume of scattered and fugitive poetry our extracts must be disorderly and unconnected.

If we

are not mistaken, the following song has been published before, but it is a very sweet thing:-

"The odour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The colour from the flower is flown,
Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not!

I sigh-it breathes no more on me;
Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be."

With a dirge for the year, and a sonnet on Political Greatness, our quotations must end.

"Orphan hours, the year is dead
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep,

See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse,
In its coffin in the clay,

So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wait aloud

For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways

The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year;---be calm and mild,
Trembling hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps---but, O, ye hours,
Follow with May's fairest flowers."

"Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arins or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tanie;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.”

As to biographies of great artists, they are all foreigners, and Englishmen have an antipathy to foreigners. It would be difficult to point out a single account of any old master in our language which possesses the slightest merit. Duppa's compilations are wishywashy things, and Mr. Graham's Poussin is not much better. As one way of remedying the deficiency, we wish we could see well translated and judiciously abridged, the excellent work of the Abate Lanzi. It is the best general treatise on the history, biography, and character of painting, that any language contains.

With respect to M. de Quincy's Work, before us,it is a superficial compilation; better to be sure than Duppa's, but still not good. Raphael deserves some nobler monument. His is the greatest name in the annals of painting. The splendour of his genius eclipsed that of all others, whilst he lived, and it has streamed down to our times with unabated radiance. Three centuries and a half have not dimmed the lustre of his fame. All sorts of styles have been attempted in art, and yet his retains its supremacy. His works have been injured by time, and delaced by bad taste, and still they are the finest extant. Engravers have consecrated their lives to the transcription and multiplication of his productions, and no gallery is deemed valuable which does not possess one or more of his pictures. Such a man merits a better tribute from posterity than the imperfect notice of Vasari -the shallow compilation of Duppa-the brief but judicious account of Lanzi,-and the common place

It is impossible for us to give an abridgement of the works of M. de Quincy. It takes up Raphael at his birth, and traces him through life to his decease. The anecdotes of his early education under Perugino, his visits to Florence, his invitation to Rome, the patronage of Julius II. and the rivalry of Michael Angelo-his extraordinary productions, his wide-spread fame, his influence, wealth and station, are all too well known to require any repetition. Raphael appeared at a period particularly favourable to his genius. Painting in a comparatively rude state :-Great poverty of invention and meagreness of truth. Perugino has for some years been the best painter of his time, was remarkable for nothing but freshness of tones and want of expression. Da Vinci and Michael Angelo had burst out into a nobler style. Raphael was inspired by the productions of the one and the fame of the other. At the age of seventeen he began to distinguish himself by the novelty and grandeur of his conceptions; and the rest of his life was one of constant advancement. M. de Quincy names his pictures in their chronological order, and gives a critical account of them, but we cannot insert any of these notices. Nothing can be more dry and disagreeable than criticisms on unseen and unknown pictures, especially when written by a critic who has never seen what he criticises. We will however quote || some passages containing the writer's opinion as to the

places the impressions of sentiment above those of science. This was not his end, still less his sole end, but only one means of giving a better form to his ideas and of expressing the character of each subject according to its proprieties. Thus, when in form and design, his rival had but a single tone; he charges it according to his will, or rather according to the necessity of the subject he handles. Besides, he exercised his genius on all topics, from the simplest to the most sublime: his paintings embrace religious, historical, mythological, and allegorical compositions; and he revived amongst the moderns all the inventions which belonged to the poetical world of Greece. If Michael Angelo is the greatest of designers, Raphael is the first of painters. But the idea of a painter comprehends more than that of a designer. If in the one respect of originality of design, Michael Angelo is not to be compared with any one; Raphael on the contrary, may challenge comparison in every respect with

all."

These opinions are not very clearly and neatly expressed, but they appear to us to be in the main correct. M. de Quincy developes them at some length, and with considerable ingenuity. He is still more ingenious in his examination of the different Virgins of Raphael, and his conjectures about the painter's ideal of sacred beauty.

After finishing his notices of Raphael's works in the Vatican, M. de Quincy considers him as a portrat

painter, and an architect: in both of which pursuits he was eminent. The plan of St. Peter's he eulogizes as being nearly perfect. Several palaces and villas at Rome, and Florence, of his design, still remain, and testify his architectural taste. His decorations of the Farnesina palace are noticed at great length, as are his

celebrated cartoons.

In the midst of his fame, and in the full perfection of his powers, this great artist died. The honors paid to his remains, evince the immense estimation in which he was held at Rome. M. de Quincy then examines the merits of Raphael as a painter, in the different qualities of invention, composition, expression, design, colouring and manner. He is very diffuse and panegyrical in them all,-but not very novel; a slight notice of what he calls the school of Raphael concludes the volume.

A Genealogy of the Kings of England from Alfred the Great. By R. MITCHELL, 1824.

HAVING recently had occasion to make some references to different works on English History, we found the chart, the title of which heads this notice, of great utility, and recommend it to those who are engaged in similar studies. It has often struck us that a very serviceable paper might be written pointing out several useful works of this sort, and whenever we find sufficient leisure, we have determined on attempting it ourselves.

The Pleasures of Society: a Poem. London: C. and J. Rivington, 1824.

We have more than once expressed our surprise at the vast number of small poets who infest the outskirts

of literature, and make occasional inroads upon the legitimate domains of a class of persons very different from themselves. The frequency of this does not abate our wonder, though it provokes our wrath. Critics may be regarded as the police officers of literature. and it is their duty to see that the peace be well and duly kept. It is a duty which they often exercise with a cheerful severity, but rarely we think with a severity disproportioned to the enormous guilt or folly of the offenders.

Whether the work now before us, will fall under the lash is difficult to say, but to us it seems to be a very pleasing poem,-full of natural and just sentiments,expressed with great neatness and taste. It does not possess any of those lofty qualities which are essential to high poetry, but holds a middle station, which though less commanding is at the same time less perilous.

We do not know how to describe this poem more completely, than by saying it relates to "the Pleasures of Society." The theme is presented in all its different great earnestness of feeling, and fluent eloquence of appearances, and its delights descanted upon with expression. It begins with the social pleasures of very young children, and dwells on their little sports with an agreeable simplicity. It traces the feeling of sociality through boyhood and youth, into manhood. Of course the "universal passion" is not forgotten, as will appear from these pleasing verses:—

"Where the broad oak its aged branches throws,
A silver stream, in seeming sorrow, flows,
Modest and meek, as shunning vulgar eyes,
There oft the musing lover sits and sighs;
In silence hangs o'er that sequestered stream,
Rapt in the visions of the loveliest dream
Of future bliss, when freed from all alarms,
He clasps his Laura in his faithful arms.
Now seeks he far from wonted scenes to rove,
To breathe, in solitude, his secret love,
Unheard, unseen, he courts the forest's glade.
What time the evening throws her lengthen'd shade.
Soft is the music of that pensive stream,
Soft on its bosom sleeps the moon's pale beam ;
O'er every sense a calm emotion steals,
Wakes a fond wish to tell of all he feels,
Whispers of pleasure past, when first he hung
In breathless silence on his Laura's tongue.

"To this lone spot the pensive lover flies,
But, e'en in solitude, for scenes he sighs,
Where social virtues, social bliss combine,
And sportive loves a rosy wreath entwine.
His Laura smiles, his fondest wishes true,
And real now the picture which he drew.

"No more he flies to solitary dells,
Nor to the pale moon now his sorrow tells;
Unheeded flows that once-beloved stream,
Where, oft reclined, he saw, in fancy's dream,
The brightest visions of a lover's mind,
And heard sweet voices in the passing wind.
Of love and Laura unseen spirits spoke,
Delightful thoughts of fairy hope awoke,
Told him of social scenes and wedded love.
The first, the purest blessing from above!"

Sacred Melodies, preceded by an Admonitory Appeal to the Right Honourable Lord Byron, with other Small Poems. By Mrs. I. H. R. MOTT. London: Westley, 1824. THIS little volume was published a few days before the news of Lord Byron's death arrived in this country. We had prepared a short notice of it, which the promulgation of those melancholy tidings induced us to cancel. Death is a great pacificator, and our quarrels with some of Lord Byron's faults, were mitigated and appeased by his decease. That which we trusted he would live to reform, has, we hope, long ere this been forgiven. Mrs. Mott has written an "Admonitory Appeal," which never reached him to whom it was addressed, but the feeling and the principle of it are so honourable to her, that we will make from it a few extracts:

"But thou, buoyant spirit! when thine was the doom, To part from thy country, thy halls, and thy home, Tho' tears may have flow'd, and some hearts have been

wrung,

Thy lyre has been never a moment unstrung;
No cave so remote, that thy verse has not rung.
Alike, unto thee, are the court and the tow'r,
The green hills of Zion, or Endor's dark bow'r;
The storm on the mountain, the calm in the plain,
The rude torrent roaring, the dew-distill'd rain,
The nightingale's plaint, or the moon-chequer'd flow'r,
The thunders of Sinai, the law's scorching pow'r,
The cold dews of midnight, the tempest-beat shore,
The whirlwind's loud howl, or the cataract's roar.
Now fabling an ocean, hung high in the air,
Bespangled with many a luminous star,
And peopled with spirits, who joyfully sail
On cherubim's wings, along Death's mirky vale:
Or turning, with sorrow, to earth and its care,
From fancies so soothing, from visions so fair;
To where the lone step of the centinel rang,
On listening cars, its deep-measured clang;
With horror to look on the Musselman's skull,
Escap'd thro' the jaws (when their hunger grew dull)
Of ravenous dogs, who held under the wall
Of Isthmian Corinth, their wild carnival.”

"I look'd thro' thy midnight, and Fancy, keen eyed,
The gossamer web of thy vision has spied,
As maidenly soft and as clear to the view,
As curtains of mist with a moon riding through.
'Tis sacred! in silence to watch the clouds sail
O'er night's wand'ring orb, and her loveliness veil;
When pensively ent'ring the regions of shade,
Her beam, on the threshold, is modestly laid;
As onward she moves, through the mantle of night,
Her progress is mark'd by a halo of light;

And oft, like a frolicksome child, when at play,
She peeps from her screen, and then hastens away:
And when, at the last, we see her emerge,
More brilliant, we fancy, the feathery surge;
More dazzling the alders that bend to the breeze,
And brighter her silvery light on the trees;
More sparkling the river that drinks in her light,
More sacred the visions that rise in the soul,
More awfully calm the fair picture of night,
More holy the pray'rs that abundantly roll,
Like bright shocks electric, and thrill thro' the frame;
The tongue mute as death, but the heart in a flame.
In moments like these, how curtail'd is the span
From spirits ethereal, to matter form'd man;
How trivial the effort to burst the clay band,
And, orb by orb mounting, reach heaven's high strand !”

"It makes my heart ache, as I look to the day, When thou on thy mother's breast, pendent, didst lay; Her only son too! if I read thee aright; Thus render'd more precious to her doting sight: While Fancy to Vision thy future life flung, As oft o'er thine infantile features she hung, She saw thee, perhaps, as fond mothers will see, Brave! noble! high minded! as Byron should be. Ah! what does she say, if she yet lift her head Above the mausoleum that shelters the dead? Ah! says she the months that she number'd in pain, Thy shadowless virtues have paid her again? Or sunk she, torn-hearted! and lonely! and pale! To shroud her deep sorrows in Death's peaceful vale ?"

"One thought for thee more! after which I've quite done-

This thought through the rest has continued to run-
A parent can feel for a parent's lone fate,
And parents should pause o'er their children's estate.
The ivy will cling to the towering oak,

But take its support, and 'tis rent by the stroke:
And that which was destin'd to flourish on high,
Thus torn from its root may soon wither and die.
Oh! think of thy daughter! If she live to rise
To maidenly womanhood, should she despise
Or should she revere thee? The choice was thine own,
But distant the tracts as the wild flaming zone
From opposite poles. Be advis'd-turn thee round-
Let Peace, in the circle which hallow'd loves bound,
Weave chaplets more green than the myrtle or bays,
And Hymen's pure torch cast its light o'er thy days.
In marriage there's much to endure and forbear;
Yet, take it in all, 'tis as barren of care
As any state is. Here thy harp has the will
To make our best feelings with extasy thrill.
I cannot believe thou couldst write to thy wife,
(As if in her center'd the joys of thy life),
Like cold-hearted actor, who plays o'er his part,
But feels no emotion subduing his heart.
Ah! no, my Lord Byron, 'tis since, that thy part
Thou actest, to hide the deep, rankling dart,
Shot fast in thy mind. Once again, I adjure!
Be nobly thyself! for 'tis virtue to cure,
By patient endurance, the ills we may meet,
In transit through life; which, at most, is as fleet
As vapour; Oh! turn thee! quick! turn thee! and come
To pleasure enshrin'd in the circle of HOME:
There hoard thee up treasures for AGE yet to come.
"Yes, Byron; if living, thou too wilt grow old;
The flash of thy youth will decay and be cold;
The last draught of rapture will pass o'er thy lip;
The last drop of transport delirium can sip,
Will vanish away, as a cloud of the morn,
More fleet than the vapour of summer-heat born.