VENICE. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art, At length we leave the river for the sea, A scene of light and glory, a dominion, That has endured the longest among men. And whence the talisman by which she rose, Towering? "T was found there in the barren sea. Want led to enterprise; and, far or near, Who met not the Venetian?-now in Cairo, Ere yet the Cafila came, listening to hear Its bells, approaching from the Red-Sea coast; Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ, The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving If we turn To the Black Forest of the Rhine, the Danube, Thus did Venice rise, And who in long array (look where they come- In light and gay attire, with brow serene, Those who assume a sway beyond them all; Unlock Heaven's gate. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES was born at the manor-house of Wootton, between Canterbury and Dover, on the 30th of November, 1762. By his mother, an EGERTON, he was descended from the most illustrious blood in Europe. Through his father, he claimed to be the representative of the old barony of Chandos. This pretension, which was prosecuted unsuccessfully before the House of Lords, was "the cherished madness" of Sir EGERTON; it has a ludicrous prominence in nearly all his writings; and its failure deeply imbittered his spirit. The perusal of Mr. BELTZ'S hostile and uncandid volume leaves the impression that this claim was well founded: but the case is a mysterious one, and was involved in great doubt, even before Lord ELDON spoke upon it. In 1780, he entered Queen's College, Cambridge: he there devoted himself to poetry, neglected the regular studies, and left the university without a degree. He undertook the study of the law, and in 1787 was called to the bar; but never made any progress in the profession. His career as an author began by the publication of a volume of poems in 1785. In the succeeding years, he wrote the novels "Mary de Clifford," "Arthur Fitz Albini," and "Le Forester;" but was chiefly occupied with bibliographical and genealogical investigations. The "Censura Literaria," and the "Restituta," are familiar to the students of literary history. His edition of "Collins' Peerage," which employed him from 1806 to 1812, is probably the most laborious of all his works. In 1812, he published a series of Essays, under the title of "The Ruminator:" Lord BYRON, in one of his journals, speaks of having read them, and characterizes the author as "a strange, but able old man." "Occasional Poems" appeared in 1814; and "Bertram," a poem, in 1815. In 1814, he obtained a baronetcy. He became a member of the House of Commons in 1812, where he distinguished himself by procuring some important improvements in the law of copy-right. Upon the dissolution of that parliament in 1818, he withdrew to the continent, where, with little exception, he passed the remainder of his days. Pecuniary embarrassment, induced by the indulgence of various expensive tastes, was understood to be the cause of this voluntary exile. He resided in Paris, Italy, but mostly at or near Geneva. In literature, he sought relief from the annoyances of contracted circumstances and disappointed hopes; and he was constantly engaged in writing and printing books. It is impracticable to give a complete list of his works. The best of those written while on the continent are, “Res Literariæ," 1820, 1821; "Letters from the Continent," 1821; "Gnomica," and "Letters on the Genius of Lord Byron," perhaps the most valuable of his productions, 1824; “Recollections of foreign Travel," 1825; "Imaginary Biography," and his own Autobiography, in 1834. His edition of "Milton," with a life of that poet, has made his name better known to the public than any other of his performances. He died at Campagne Gros Jean, near Geneva, on the 8th of September, 1837. To no prose writer of our time is English literature beholden for finer passages of just thought, high sentiment, and finished eloquence, than to Sir EGERTON BRYDGES. But the effect of these is sadly impaired by repetitions, egotism, and all the infirmities of morbid passion. A judicious selection of his best paragraphs would form a volume of singular interest and beauty. To the success of his ardent wish to take a permanent place among the great authors of his country, there wanted nothing but patience, control of temper, and the prolonged concentration of his powers upon some one great work on some important subject. Unluckily for his ambition, the intensity of the desire paralyzed the vigour of the effort. His verse is the expression of sensitive feeling elevated and coloured by romantic fancy it is marked by a delicate sense of the beauties of nature, and displays great command of the resources of language. Under the criticisms of his friend, Lord TENTERDEN, he practised the art "de faire des vers difficilement." His sonnet upon "Echo and Silence" was pronounced by WORDSWORTH the best sonnet in the language; and Mr. SOUTHEY said, that he knew not any poem in any language more beautifully imaginative. The two last lines finely imitate to the ear the thronging echoes which they describe. "The Winds," and the lines "Written on the Approach of cold Weather," are scarcely inferior; and the sonnets, "To Evening," and "To Autumn," are constructed with consummate skill. The sonnets on HARRY HASTINGS are a series of cabinet pictures, which deserve careful study. They are in a style of art, to which, with the saving of a very few of Mr. WORDSWORTH'S Sonnets, the literature of this age is a stranger. In respect to finish, tone, and the magical effect by which a single image is made to flash the whole scene upon the mind, they remind us of the rural elegies of TIBULLUS. The life of the old sportsman is revived before us, with astonishing completeness. The name of the author of those sonnets will not die. ECHO AND SILENCE. In eddying course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy! And, lo, she's gone!-In robe of dark-green hue 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward still, With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER. With buskin❜d legs, and quiver 'cross her flung, With hounds and horn she seeks the wood and vale, And Echo listens to her forest song. At eve, she flies to hear her poet's tale, [among. And "AUTUMN's" name resounds his shades THE WINDS. SUBLIME the pleasure, meditating song, Lull'd by the piping of the winds to lie, And shake with full Æolian notes the sky. Methinks I hear the shrieking spirits oft Groan in the blast, and flying tempests lead: While some aerial beings sighing soft [plead; Round once-loved maids their guardian wishes Spirits of torment shrilly speak aloft, And warn the wretch, who rolls in guilt, to heed. TO EVENING. SWEET Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam, Thy fragrant breath, and dying murmurs dear; The mists, that o'er thee from thy valleys steam, And elfin shapes that round thy car appear; The music that attends thy state; the bell Of distant fold; the gently warbling wind And watch-dog's hollow voice from cottaged dell? For these to purest pleasure wake the mind; Lull each tumultuous passion to its cell; And leave soft, soothing images behind. TO A LADY IN ILLNESS. NEW to the world, when all was fairy ground, The sighing voice, wan looks, and plaintive air, TO AUTUMN, NEAR HER DEPARTURE. Thy looks resign'd, that smiles of patience wear, While Winter's blasts thy scatter'd tresses tear; Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest! Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight That dazzling Summer shall of her be born; Let Summer blaze; and Winter's stormy train Breathe awful music in the ear of Night; Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn, And from thy glance will catch th' inspired strain. Collins. D TO MARY. FROM THE NOVEL OF MARY DE CLIFFORD. WHERE art thou, Mary, pure as fair, HASTINGS' SONNETS.* I. OLD Harry Hastings! of thy forest life And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear; [rise; And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would And echoes dancing round repeat their ec stacies. "Scarce any English reader of biographical anecdotes is unacquainted with the character of HENRY HASTINGS, of Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, given by Lord SHAFTESBURY; which may be seen in the Connoisseur,' in Gilpin's New Forest,' and in the last edition of 'Collins' Peerage,' &c. He was son of an Earl of HUNTINGDON; he lived through the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, JAMES I., and CHARLES I, and died on the verge of a hundred years of age. Like CLAUDIAN'S 'Old Man of Verona,' he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life amid the woods and fields. His father was GEORGE, fourth earl, who died in 1605; HENRY died 5th October, 1650, aged ninety-nine. There is something exceedingly picturesque in the account of this HARRY HASTINGS' life; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets not unaptly describe it." A century did not thy vigour pale, Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud; And thy halloos were gay, and clear, and loud, To thy last days, through covert, hill, and vale: The keepers heard it on the autumnal gale, And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud, Their labours to the cherish'd service vow'd, Delighted their old merry lord to hail. The forest girls peep'd out, and buxom wives, And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives, Which to their smiles the gladsome veteran deigns. Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest! III. Then comes the rude and hospitable hall: Mark how abound the trophies of the chase! How thick they mingle on the armour'd wall! What antler'd ornaments the portals grace! There blazon'd shields the proud remembrance call Of many a noble, many a princely race; And many a glorious rise, and many a fall, As upward they the stream of ages trace. How glad the old man, far from civil brawl, Of a more tranquil being boasts th' embrace! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake At the gay burst of his exulting song; And all, his joyous bounty to partake, Leap to his call, and round his table throng. IV. To-morrow will the music of their cries Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, As with the dawn he to the covert hies, And seeks his prey amid the sylvan reign. Behold the merry men chanting in his train, See how the coy stag listens with surprise! In troops they hasten to their depths again; And with big tears his fate the mark'd one eyes. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, A mingled day of joy and grief proclaim: A tempest gathers, and the welkin fills, And for another morning saves the game. Then on the Book of Sports the veteran pores, And deems it wiser spell than learning's lores. V. A hundred years to live, and live in joy! Security from envy, malice, care; The form robust in woodland pastures bred ;With what a tranquil and uncumber'd pace Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead! VI. But is congenial quiet, and of frame Sound health, sufficient? Does not mind demand Food and exhilaration? Conscience, ever Busy within us, must fulfil its aim! Around us circles an aërial band, Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour; And not alone the senses to employ, As the pure channels of our earthly joy! There is, within, a deity, whose desires We must sustain and feed by mental fires; The insate mind, but from without supplied, Languishes on a weak imperfect food; If sustenance more spiritual be denied, With flame consuming on itself 't will brood! VIL. But in this rural life, mid nature's forms They add to what external sense supplies; VIII. There is exhilaration in the chase Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb'd some misty mountain's height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace: Then worshipping the sun, on silver floods And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly checker'd landscape pass, And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. ON MOOR PARK, FORMERLY THE SEAT OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, WHOSE HEART WAS BURIED IN THE GARDEN THERE. To yonder narrow vale, whose high-sloped sides Are hung with airy oaks, and umbrage deepWhere through thick shades the lulling waters creep: And no vile noise the musing mind derides, But silence with calm solitude abidesTemple with joy retired, that he might keep A course of quiet days, and nightly sleep Beneath the covering wings of heavenly guidesVirtue and peace! Here he in sweet repose Sigh'd his last breath! Here Swift, in youth reclined, Pass'd his smooth days.-Oh. had he longer chose Retreats so pure, perchance his nicer mind, That the world's wildering follies and its woes To madness shook, had ne'er with sorrows pined! WRITTEN AUGUST 20, 1807. THOUGH in my veins the blood of monarchs flowPlantagenet and Tudor-not for these With empty boast my lifted mind I please; But rather that my heart's emotions glow With the pure flame the muse's gifts bestow: Nor would it my aspiring soul appease, In rank, birth, wealth, to loll at sensual ease, And none but folly's stupid flattery know. But yet when upstart greatness turns an eye Of scorn and insult on my modest fame, And on descent's pretensions vain would try To build the honours of a nobler name, With pride defensive swelling, I exclaim, [vie!” "Base one, e'en there with me thou dost not WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 10, 1825. STERN, unexpecting good, unbent by wrong, I travel onward through this gloomy scene, With brow of sorrow, yet erect in mien; Meek to the humble, in defiance strong, To folly's, envy's, hatred's, falsehood's throng: Yet knowing that the birth and grave between There ever will, as ever there have been, Be friendships fickle, warfares deep and long! If I have taught the truths of wisdom's lore, If I have drawn the secrets of the heart, And raised the glow that mounts o'er grief and illIn my plain verse though bloom no single flower, And not a ray of wit its lustre dart, Its naked strength o'er death will triumph still! WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826. HIGH name of poet!-sought in every age By thousands-scarcely won by two or three,As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage My bleeding feet are doom'd their war to wage, With awful worship I have bow'd to thee! And yet perchance it is not fate's decree, This mighty boon should be assign'd to me, My heart's consuming fever to assuage.― Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep Within the bosom's innermost recesses, And rarely burstest forth to human ear, Break out!-and, while profoundly magic sleep With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, Let me the music of thy murmurs hear. WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, 1826. PRAISE of the wise and good!-it is a meed For which I would lone years of toil endure; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure! As onward I with weary feet proceed, My swelling heart continues still to bleed; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed !— With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask; But yet it comes not, or it comes in doubtSlave to the passion of my earliest choice, From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. |