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II.

"Ah," replied my gentle fair;

"Dear one, what are names but air?-
Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Call me Laura, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only-only-call me thine!"

SLY Beelzebub took all occasions
To try Job's constancy, and patience.
He took his honour, took his health;
He took his children, took his wealth,
His servants, oxen, horses, cows,-
But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,
And loves to disappoint the devil,
Had predetermined to restore
Twofold all he had before;

His servants, horses, oxen, cows-
Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse !

HOARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;

And finds them both divinely smooth,
His voice as well as rhymes.

But folks say Mævius is no ass;
But Mævius makes it clear
That he's a monster of an ass-
An ass without an ear!

THERE comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench-why, sure, they have Immured his soul within his grave!

SWANS sing before they die-'twere no bad thing

Did certain persons die before they sing.

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO.

Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the past for thought of glee or grief.
In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee,

I sate and cower'd o'er my own vacancy!
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumbering, seem'd alone to wake;
O friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design,
Boccaccio's garden and its faëry,

The love, the joyance, and the gallantry!
An idyl, with Boccaccio's spirit warm
Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep
Emerging from a mist: or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's
dream,

Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,
As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my
thought.

In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;
Or charm'd my youth, that kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
Wild strain of scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves ;

Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.
And last, a matron now, of sober mien,
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
Whom as a faëry child my childhood woo'd'
E'en in my dawn of thought-Philosophy.
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,
She bore no other name than poesy;

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
That had but newly left a mother's knee,

Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,
And forests, where beside his leafy hold
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;
Palladian palace with its storied halls;
Fountains, where love lies listening to their falls;
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
And nature makes her happy home with man;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn,
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine:
And more than all, th' embrace and intertwine
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!
'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,

Prattled and play'd with bird, and flower, and stone, See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees

As with elfin playfellows well known,

And life reveal'd to innocence alone.

Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer,
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop,
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.
I see no longer! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid, who gazing sings:
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she
dwells.

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
And always fair, rare land of courtesy !
O, Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills!
And famous Arno fed with all their rills;
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.

The new-found roll of old Mæonides ;*

But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart!t
O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,

Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,
Where, half-conceal'd, the eye of fancy views
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to
thy muse!

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,
With that sly satyr peering through the leaves!

*Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first introduced the works of Homer to his country.

+ I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio: where the sage instructer, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl, Biancafiore had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Incominciò Racheo a mettere il suo officio in essecuzione con intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece legere il santo libro d' Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne freddi cuori occendere."

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

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JAMES MONTGOMERY was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, in 1771. His parents belonged to the church of the United Brethren, commonly called Moravians, a sect by no means numerous in England, and still more limited in Scotland. Having previously sojourned for a short time at a village in the Irish county of Antrim, they placed the future poet at the school of their society at Fulnick, near Leeds, and embarked for the West Indies as missionaries among the negro slaves. They were the victims of their zeal and humanity; the husband died in Barbadoes, and the wife in Tobago.

by the upright and unimpeachable tenor of his life— even more than by his writings-the persuasive and convincing advocate of religion. In his personal appearance, Montgomery is rather below than above the middle stature: his countenance is peculiarly bland and tranquil; and but for the occasional sparklings of a clear gray eye, it could scarcely be described as expressive.

Very early in life, Montgomery published 1 volume of poems. They were not, it would appear, favourably received by the public; and he writes, the disappointment of his premature poetical hopes brought with it a blight which his mind has never recovered. "For many years," he adds, "I was as mute as a moulting bird; and when the power of song returned, it was without the energy, selfconfidence, and freedom which happier minstrels among my contemporaries have manifested.” Wanderer of Switzerland was published in 1806; the West Indies, in 1810; the World before the Flood, in 1813; Greenland in 1819; the Pelican Island, in 1827: he has since contented himself with the production of occasional verses.

The

Those who can distinguish the fine gold from the "sounding brass" of poetry, must place the name of James Montgomery high in the list of British

After remaining two years at Fulnick, and, like other men of genius, disappointing the expectations of his friends as a student, "from very indolence," he was placed by them in a retail shop at Mirfield near Wakefield. This ungenial employment he considered himself-not being under indentures at liberty to relinquish at the end of two years, with a view to try his fortune in the great world. After spending other two years at a village near Rotherham, and a few months with a bookseller in London, he engaged as an assistant with Mr. Joseph Gales of Sheffield, who, published a newspaper; to the management of which, in 1794, he succeeded. This, though conducted with comparative moderation, exposed him to much enmity-poets; and those who consider that the chiefest rather inherited from his predecessor than actually incurred by himself. The liberty of the press in those days was, like faith," the substance of things hoped for;" a sentence of condemnation, or even a word of reproach, against men in " high places," was punished as libellous. Montgomery did not indeed share the fate of some of his stern sectarian forefathers; but in lieu of maiming and pillory, he had to endure fine and imprisonment. Within eighteen months, and when he had scarcely arrived at manhood, his exertions in the cause of rational freedom had twice consigned him to a jail. During the thirty years that followed, however, he was permitted to publish his opinions, without being the object of open persecutions. Wearied out, at length, he relinquished his newspaper, in 1825. Recently one of the government grants to British worthies has been conferred upon him; and-it must be recorded to his honour-by Sir Robert Peel. The poet continues to reside in Sheffield, esteemed, admired, and beloved: a man of purer mind, or more unsuspected integrity, never existed. He is an honour to the profession of letters; and

duty of such is to promote the cause of religion, virtue, and humanity, must acknowledge in him one of their most zealous and efficient advocates. He does not, indeed, often aim at bolder flights of imagination; but if he seldom rises above, he never sinks beneath, the object of which he desires the attainment. If he rarely startles us, he still more rarely leaves us dissatisfied; he does not attempt that to which his powers are unequal, and therefore is at all times successful. To the general reader, it will seem as if the early bias of his mind and his first associations had tinged-we may not say tainted-the source from whence he drew his inspirations, and that his poems are "sicklied o'er’with peculiar impressions and opinions which fail to excite the sympathy of the great mass of mankind. We should, however, recollect, that, although he has chiefly addressed himself to those who think with him, his popularity is by no means confined to them; but that those who read poetry for the delight it affords them, and without any reference to his leading design, acknowledge his merit, and contribute to his fame.

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"By a hundred winters piled, When the glaciers, dark with death, Hang o'er precipices wild, Hang-suspended by a breath: "If a pulse but throb alarm, Headlong down the steeps they fall; For a pulse will break the charm,

Bounding, bursting, burying all. "Struck with horror stiff and pale, When the chaos breaks on high, All that view it from the vale,

All that hear it coming, die :"In a day and hour accurst,

O'er the wretched land of Tell, Thus the Gallic ruin burst,

Thus the Gallic glacier fell!"

SHEPHERD.

"Hush that melancholy strain; Wipe those unavailing tears.

WANDERER.

"Nay-I must, I will complain; "Tis the privilege of years:

""Tis the privilege of wo

Thus her anguish to impart : And the tears that freely flow Ease the agonizing heart."

SHEPHERD.

"Yet suspend thy griefs a while; See the plenteous table crown'd; And my wife's endearing smile

Beams a rosy welcome round.

"Cheese, from mountain dairies prest,
Wholesome herbs, nutritious roots,
Honey, from the wild-bee's nest,
Cheering wine and ripen'd fruits:
"These, with soul-sustaining bread,
My paternal fields afford :-
On such fare our fathers fed;
Holy pilgrim! bless the board."

PART II.

After supper, the Wanderer, at the desire of his host, relates the sorrows and sufferings of his country during the invasion and conquest of it by the French, in connexion with his own story.

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WANDERER.

"Stranger-friend, the tears that flow
Down the channels of this cheek,
Tell a mystery of wo

Which no human tongue can speak.
"Not the pangs of hope deferr'd'
My tormented bosom tear:-
On the tomb of hope interr'd
Scowls the spectre of despair.
"Where the Alpine summits rise,
Height o'er height stupendous hurl'd;
Like the pillars of the skies,
Like the ramparts of the world:
"Born in freedom's eagle nest,
Rock'd by whirlwinds in their rage,
Nursed at freedom's stormy breast,
Lived my sires from age to age.
"High o'er Underwalden's vale,
Where the forest fronts the morn;
Whence the boundless eye might sail
O'er a sea of mountains borne ;
"There my little native cot
Peep'd upon my father's farm:-
O! it was a happy spot,

Rich in every rural charm!
"There, my life, a silent stream,

Glid along, yet seem'd at rest;
Lovely as an infant's dream

On the waking mother's breast.
"Till the storm that wreck'd the world,
In its horrible career,

Into hopeless ruin hurl'd

All this aching heart held dear. "On the princely towers of Berne

Fell the Gallic thunder-stroke;
To the lake of poor Lucerne,
All submitted to the yoke.
"REDING then his standard raised,
Drew his sword on Brunnen's plain ;*
But in vain his banner blazed,
Reding drew his sword in vain.
"Where our conquering fathers died,
Where their awful bones repose,
Thrice the battle's fate he tried,

Thrice o'erthrew his country's foes.t "Happy then were those who fell

Fighting on their father's graves! Wretched those who lived to tell

Treason made the victors slaves!

* Brunnen, at the foot of the mountains, on the borders of the Lake of Uri, where the first Swiss patriots, Walter Furst of Uri, Werner Stauffacher of Schwitz, and Arnold of Melchtal in Underwalden, conspired against the ty ranny of Austria in 1307, again in 1798, became the seat of the diet of these three forest cantons.

+ On the plains of Morgarthen, where the Swiss gained thereby secured the independence of their country; Aloys their first decisive victory over the force of Austria, and Reding, at the head of the troops of the little cantons, Uri, Schwitz, and Underwalden, repeatedly repulsed the invading army of France.

General Schawenbourg was compelled to respect their By the resistance of these small cantons, the French independence, and gave them a solemn pledge to that

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