In linen vesture, fine and white, as down
Of Paphian doves. A sash of tincture bright,
Which rivall'd Flora's brilliancy of dye,
Engirds his loins; majestical his brows
A wreath sustain; Lebadian sandals ease
His steps. Exchanging thus his martial guise,
Like some immortal, of a gentler mould

Than Mars, he moves. So Phœbus, when he sets,
Lav'd by the nymphs of Tethys in their grot

Of coral after his diurnal toil,

Repairs his splendours, and his rosy track
Of morn resumes."

*

"Next through a winding cavity and vast He guides the prince along a mossy vault, Rough with protuberant and tortuous roots Of ancient woods, which, clothing all above, In depth shoot downward equal to their height; Suspended lamps, with livid glimpse and faint, Direct their darkling passage. Now they reach The further mouth unclosing in a dale Abrupt; there shadow, never-fleeting, rests. Rude-featur'd crags, o'erhanging, thence expel The blaze of noon. Beneath a frowning cliff A native arch, of altitude which tempts The soaring eagle to construct his nest, Expands before an excavation deep, Unbowelling the hill. On either side. This gate of nature, hoary sons of time, Enlarg'd by ages to portentous growth, Impenetrable yews augment the gloom.

In height two cubits, on the rocky floor A parapet was rais'd of marble white, In circular dimension; this upholds The weight of polish'd obelisks, by zones Of brass connected, ornamental fence. A wicket opens to th' advancing prince; Steps moveable th' attentive priest supplies; By whom instructed, to the awful chasm Below, profound but narrow, where the god His inspiration breathes, th' intrepid son Of Gobryas firm descends. His nether limbs Up to the loins he plunges. Downward drawn, As by a whirlpool of some rapid flood,

At once the body is from sight conceal'd.
Entranc'd he lies in subterranean gloom,
Less dark than superstition. She, who caus'd
His bold adventure, with her wonted fumes
Of perturbation from his torpid state
Awakes him; rather in a dream suggests
That he is waking. On a naked bank

He seems to stand; before him sleeps a pool,
Edg'd round by desert mountains, in their height
Obscuring Heav'n. Without impulsive oars,
Without a sail, spontaneous flies a bark
Above the stagnant surface, which, untouch'd,
Maintains its silence. On the margin rests
The skiff, presenting to the hero's view
An aged sire, of penetrating ken,

His weight inclining on an ebon staff."

This" aged sire" is Trophonius, with whom Mardonius sinks into the cave of the fatal sisters, learns his fate, and instantly

Whirl'd

Back from Trophonian gloom, is found supine
Within the marble parapet, which fenc'd

The cavern's mouth."

When the dejection which naturally depresses the mind of the Persian hero after his mysterious interview, has been somewhat relieved, his visit to his haram is described in this passage of oriental luxuriance and beauty, which, for its warmth of colouring, is not unworthy of the pen of the author of Lalla Rookh.

"The midnight hour was past, a season dear
To softly-tripping Venus. Through a range
Of watchful eunuchs in apartments gay
He seeks the female quarter of his tent,
Which, like a palace of extent superb,
Spreads on the field magnificence. Soft lutes,
By snowy fingers touch'd, sweet-warbled song
From ruby lips which harmonize the air,
Impregnated with rich Panchæan scents,
Salute him ent'ring. Gentle hands unclasp
His martial harness, in a tepid bath
Lave and perfume his much-enduring limbs.
A couch is strewn with roses; he reclines
In thinly-woven taffeta. So long

:

In pond'rous armour cas'd, he scarcely feels
The light and loose attire. Around him smile
Circassian Graces, and the blooming flow'rs
Of beauty cull'd from ev'ry clime to charm..
Lo! in transcending ornament of dress
A fair one, all-surpassing, greets the chief;
But pale her lip, and wild her brilliant eye."

The concluding battle is related. in the author's best manner the death of Medon, particularly, is an admirable sequel to those of the chosen heroes at Thermopyla. Indeed, it is remarkable that the poet rises in strength and beauty towards the close. The versification becomes more sustained, and the imagery more fully developed: the sentiments are now no longer thrown at the reader with that sturdy carelessness which was conspicuous in the first and larger portion of the poem; but, on the contrary, the whole bears an air of finish and completeness. This singular amendment, where others usually flag, may, perhaps, in some measure, confirm the idea hinted at above, that these thirty books were intended as the garner or store-house of a poem to be afterwards fashioned out of the materials—and that Glover, finding that he was not likely to live to execute his whole design, bestowed his care and pains in forming the books that were still passing under his hand, more like what the whole would have been, had he hoped to have finished it. It will be recollected, that the work was printed, as we have it, after the death of the author.

The following passage will enable our readers to estimate the pathetic power of Glover, of which it may be considered a favourable specimen. His pathos is not, indeed, deep and overflowing-not like the flower, which, filled with recent dew, until its bosom is no longer able to sustain the rich incumbrance, pours forth its watery treasures, relieving itself and fertilizing the earth around it; yet, it is gentle, harmonious, and might almost be called beautiful, but it is the placid beauty of the "moonlight sleeping upon a bank," with something of its coldness. The scene is immediately after Acanthè, who conceives a passion for Themistocles, has been rescued by him from the flames and from death.

"Not so Acanthè's troubles are compos'd.

When lenient balm of Morpheus steep'd the cares
Of other bosoms; in the midnight damps
She quits a thorny pillow. Half array'd,
With naked feet she roams a spacious floor,
Whence she contemplates that retreat of rest,
Enclosing all her wishes, hapless fair!

Without one hope; there, stifling sighs, she melts
In silent tears. The sullen groan of winds,
Which shake the roof, the beating rain she bears
Unmoy'd, nor heeds stern Winter, who benumbs
Her tender beauties in his harsh embrace.

O Love! to vernal sweets, to summer's air,
To bow'rs, which temper sultry suns at noon,
Art thou confin'd? To rills, in lulling flow,
To flow'rs, which scent thy arbours of recess,
To birds, who sing of youth and soft desire?
All is thy empire, ev'ry season thine,
Thou universal origin of things,
Sole ruler, oft a tyrant. Stealing steps
Full frequent draw Acanthè to the door
Of her preserver. While he sleeps, and pain
Excites no groan to wound her list'ning ear,
Anxiety abates; but passion grows.
Then recollecting his intrepid strides
Through fiery surge, devouring, as he pass'd,
His hair majestic, wreathing round his limbs
In torment, which none else to save her life
Would face, or could endure, unguarded thought
In murm'ring transport issues from her lips.

She could no more. A parting cloud reveal'd The Moon. Before the silver light she dropp'd On her bare knee, enfeebled by the cold;

There fix'd and freezing, from that awful pow'r
Of chastity she seem'd invoking help;
When, newly-waken'd by her piercing moan,
With smarting limbs Themistocles had left
His pillow; keener his internal pang,
To see an image of despair, the work
Of his fallacious art. On his approach,
At once the worn remains of spirit fled
From her cold bosom, heaving now no more.
The twilight glimmers on the rear of night;
His painful arms uplift her from the floor,
And to her couch with decency of care
Commit her lifeless charms. To sense restor'd,
Just as the Morn's exploring eye unclos'd,
Acanthè, faint and speechless, by a sign
Forbids his presence; cautious he retires.

Whole days, whole nights, she saw
A tender sire beside her pillow mourn,
Her beauties wasting hourly in his view.
To gentler forms delirium then would change;
The Moon, so lately to her aid invok'd,
She saw, descending from her lucid sphere,
Assume her shape of goddess, who inspir'd

A soothing thought to seek for health and peace
At her propitious oracle, not rob

So kind a father of his only joy."

We have not been able to persuade ourselves to omit the few extracts which succeed, short as they are. They are a collection of choice flowers, which altogether make up a fragant wreath.

"An April Zephyr, with reviving sweets

From gay Eubœa's myrtle-border'd meads,
Perfumes his breath, scarce ruffling in his course
The pearly robe of morn."

Artemisia's quitting Mardonius is thus mentioned:

"She departs.

Behind her, like the sinking globe of day,

She leaves a trail of radiance on his soul."

Of Melissa, the poet says,

"She o'er the dead through half the solemn night
A copious web of eloquence unwinds."

The death of Masistius is thus beautifully described:

"In death, resembling sweetest sleep, his eyes
Serenely drop their curtains, and the soul
Flies to th' eternal mansions of the just."

Of whom his friend Mardonius thus speaks:

"Not us'd to weep, (I) humbled at thy loss,
Melt like a maiden, of her love bereav'd
By unrelenting death."