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EDYSTONE LIGHT-HOUSE.

LIGHT-HOUSES were known to the ancients. The light-house, or Pharos of Alexandria, built in the isl and of Pharos, at the mouth of the Nile, was much celebrated, and gave its name to all buildings erected for similar objects. This Pharos was a magnificent tower, consisting of several stories and galleries, with a lantern at the top, in which a light was kept continually burning, and might, it is said, be seen at the distance of a hundred miles. It was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world, and was erected by Sostrates, a famous architect of Cnidos, though some say it was built by his father, Deiphanes. The several stories were adorned with columns, balustrades, and galleries of the finest marble and workmanship. Some of the historians add, that the architect fixed looking-glasses against the highest galleries, which reflected the distant vessels as they sailed along. The Pharos cost Ptolemy Philadelphus 800 talents.

The Edystone Light-house, of which we give a view as it appears in a storm, is situated southwest from the middle of Plymouth Sound, and about fourteen miles from Plymouth. The uncommon tumult of the sea in this place is occasioned by a peculiarity in the rocks. As they all slope and point to the north-east, they spread their inclined sides, of course, to the swelling tides and storms of the Atlantic; and as they continue in this shelving direction many fathoms below the surface of the sea, they occasion that violent working of the water, which the seaman call a ground swell. So that

after a storm, when the surface of the sea around is perfectly smooth, the swells and agitation about these rocks are dangerous. From these continual eddies the Edystone derives its name.

The first light-house of any consequence, erected on this rock, was undertaken by a person of the name of Winstanley, in the reign of King William. He had fixed it to the rock by twelve massy bars of iron, which were let down deep into the body of the stone. It was generally indeed thought well founded; and the architect himself was so convinced of its stability, that he would often say, he wished for nothing more than to be shut up in it during a violent storm. He at length had his wish; for he happened to be in it at the time of that memorable storm on the 26th of November, 1703. As the violence, however, of the tempest came on, the terrified architect began to doubt the firmness of his work: it trembled in the blast, and shook in every joint. In vain he made what signals of distress he could invent, to bring a boat from the shore. The terrors of the storm were such, that the boldest vessel durst not face it. How long he continued in this melancholy distress is unknown; but in the morning no appearance of the light-house was left. It and all its contents, during that terrible night, were swept into the sea. This catastrophe furnished Mr. Gay with the following simile in his Trivia, which was written a few years after the event:

"So when fam'd Edyston's far shooting ray,
That led the sailor through the stormy way
Was from its rocky roots by billows torn,
And the high turret in the whirlwind born,
Fleets bulg'd their sides against the craggy land,
And pitchy ruins blacken'd all the strand."

A light-house was again constructed on this rock before the conclusion of Queen Anne's reign. It was undertaken by one Rudyard, who built it also of wood, but having seen his predecessor's errors, avoided them. In short, every precaution was taken to secure it against the fury of the two elements of wind and water, which had destroyed the last. But it fell by a third.

Late one night, in the year 1755, it was observed from the shore to be on fire. Its upper works having been constructed of light timber, probably could not bear the heat. It happened fortunately that Admiral West rode with a fleet at that time in the Sound; and being so near the spot, he immediately manned two or three swift boats. Other boats put off from the shore; but though it was not stormy, it was impossible to land. In the mean time the fire having descended to the lower parts of the building, had driven the poor inhabitants upon the skirts of the rock; where they were sitting disconsolate, when assistance arrived.

The next light-house, which is the present one, was built by Mr. Smeaton, and is entirely of stone, in a circular form. Its foundations are let into a socket in the rock on which it stands, and of which it almost makes a part; for the stones are all united with the rock, and with each other, by massy dovetails. The door of this ingenious piece of architecture is only the size of a ship's gun port; and the windows are mere Loopholes, denying light to exclude wind. When the ide swells above the foundation of the building, the Lighthouse makes the odd appearance of a structure emerging from the waves. But sometimes a wave rises above the very top of it, and circling round, the whole looks like a column of water, till it breaks into foam and subsides.

THE POWER OF POETRY.

We may animate the canvass with the features of one we love-we may cast upon the changless brow, the calm sunshine of her gentle nature; we may elicit from the expressive eye, the speechless tenderness of a confiding affection; we may curl around the lip the smiling pledges of reciprocal fondness; we may spread behind her glowing cheek, the richness of her flowing resses; we may cast around the symmetry of her form, the waving softness of her graceful drapery; and we ay give her the air in which romantic devotion ever

beholds the angels of its vows. We may represent, near at hand, the favorite glen in which we strayedthe moonlit arbor, in which we sung-the silvery lake on which we sailed. We may look on this representation of life and nature, and deem it reality. We may gaze till bewildered sense reels in rapture.-But look again, the floating vision becomes more calm, the associations less vivid, the tumult in our breast subsides.But look again, here and there a new shade may be developed; here and there an unfamiliar expression be caught. But look again, it is what you have seen before; it is changeless-it is cold tapestry!

The

But give this glowing subject to the poet, surrender it to the magic of his genius. The changeless object lives; the motionless object moves; the silent object speaks. The heart where quenched existence had its grave, is kindled and renovated; life gleams through its shroud as the warm sun through its light vesture of clouds. The fount of feeling is stirred, and its current comes forth, fresh as the overflowing of spring, when it melts away the icy fetters of winter. features lose their fixed expression, and are radiant with a bright train of passing thoughts, and glad imaginings. Hope is there, mingling its colors with the shade of doubt; confidence is there, banishing distrust; affection is there, lighting up adversity. Every feature lives, every look tells. We not only see the glen, but hear the soft whispers of the breeze, the mirthful voice of the brook; we not only see the arbor, but hear the echoes, waking from their slumbers, repeat the favorite strain; we not only see the lake, but hear the light drip of the suspended oar, and the soft murmur of the breaking wave. Every object is animated, and lives before us in palpable reality. We may gaze and turn away, and gaze again, but new images, new sounds, new feelings, and new associations, crowd upon us like stars on the steadfast vision of the astronomer.

Or we may animate the marble, with the features of the man we venerate. We may render these features radiant with the noble qualities of his mind and heart. We may make the ruling passion bright apparent

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