Nor is the following less effective of its kind:

Dartmoor! thou wert to me, in childhood's hour,
A wild and wond'rous region. Day by day,
Arose upon my youthful eye thy belt

Of hills mysterious, shadowy, clasping all
The green and cheerful landscape sweetly spread
Around my home, and with a stern delight

I gazed on thee. How often on the speech
Of the half-savage peasant have I hung,

To hear of rock-crowned heights on which the cloud
For ever rests; and wilds stupendous, swept
By mightiest storms ;-of glen, and gorge, and cliff
Terrific, beetling o'er the stone-strewed vale;
And giant masses, by the midnight flash

Struck from the mountain's hissing brow, and hurled
Into the foaming torrent! And of forms
That rose amid the desert, rudely shaped

By Superstition's hands when Time was young;
And of the dead-the warrior-dead-who sleep
Beneath the hallowed cairn! My native fields,
Though peerless, ceased to please. The flowery vale
The breezy hill, the river, and the wood—
Island, reef, headland, and the circling sea,
Associated by the sportful hand

Of Nature, in a thousand views diverse-
Or grand, or lovely-to my roving eye
Displayed in vain their infinite of charms :
I thought on thy wild world,-to me a world,-
Mysterious Dartmoor, dimly seen, and prized
For being distant-and untrod; and still,
Where'er I wandered-still, my wayward eye
Rested on thee!

In sunlight and in shade,—
Repose and storm,-wide waste! I since have trod
Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again

I seek thy solitudes profound, in this
Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests
The sun-beam on thee, and thy desert seems
To sleep in the unwonted brightness-calm

But stern:-for, though the Spirit of the Spring
Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper kind
Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on
A robe of beauty, as the fields that bud
And blossom near thee. Yet I love to tread
Thy central wastes when not a sound intrudes
Upon the ear, but rush of wing, or leap
Of the hoarse waterfall. And O 'tis sweet
To list the music of thy torrent-streams;
For thou too hast thy minstrelsies for him
Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights
To trace thy waters, as from source to sea
They rush tumultuous. Yet for other fields
Thy bounty flows eternal. From thy sides
Devonia's rivers flow; a thousand brooks
Roll o'er thy rugged slopes ;-'tis but to cheer
Yon Austral meads unrivalled fair as aught
That bards have sung, or Fancy has conceived
Mid all her rich imaginings. Whilst thou,
The source of half their beauty, wearest still,
Through centuries, upon thy blasted brow,
The curse of barrenness.

This is also a most vivid description of morning:

How beautiful is Morning, though it rise
Upon a desert! What though Spring refuse
Her odours to the early gale that sweeps
The highland solitude, yet who can breathe
That fresh, keen gale, nor feel the sanguine tide,
Of life flow buoyantly! O who can look
Upon the Sun whose beam indulgent shines
Impartial, or on moor or cultured mead,
And not feel gladness? Hard is that man's lot,
Bleak is his journey through this vale of tears,
Whose heart is not made lighter, and whose eye
Is brightened not by Morning's glorious ray,
Wide-glancing round. The meanest thing on earth
Rejoices in the welcome warmth, and owns
Its influence reviving. Hark the hum

Of one who loves the morn,-the bee, who comes
With overflow of happiness, to spend

The sunny hour, and see! across the waste
The butterfly, his gay companion, floats ;-
A wanderer, haply, from yon Austral fields,
Or from the bank of moorland stream that flows
In music through the deep and shelter'd vales.

Bird, bee, and butterfly,-the favourite three
That meet us ever on our Summer path!
And what, with all her forms and hues divine,
Would Summer be without them? Though the skies
Were blue, and blue the streams, aud fresh the fields,
And beautiful, as now, the waving woods,

And exquisite the flowers; and though the Sun
Beamed from his cloudless throne from day to day,
And, with the breeze and shower, more loveliness
Shed o'er this lovely world; yet all would want
A charm, if those sweet denizens of earth
And air, made not the great creation teem
With beauty, grace, and motion !

There is a touching sketch of the history of a French prisoner confined at Dartmoor; but perhaps the most successful passage in the volume is the description of the close of day, with which the poem concludes; it is indeed wet with the dews of Castaly:

The Evening beam has gilded all, the fair,
The great ;-how exquisite the view

Of the calm vale,-its beauty and its power,

Touched by the setting ray. Enlivening gleams

Of sunshine now are breaking through the ranks

Of yon old foresters below; and there

The cliffs, though stern, have bathed their awful brows,

In the full flood of radiance; e'en the moss

That fringes them seems gay,-the ivy smiles,

The pensive lichen glows, and each wild rill

Leaps sportive in the beam.

The zenith spreads
Its canopy of sapphire, but the West
Has a magnificent array of clouds;

And, as the breeze plays on them, they assume
The forms of mountains, castled cliffs, and hills,
Deep rifted glens, and groves, and beetling rocks;

And some that seem far off, are voyaging

Their sun-bright path in folds of silver;-some
In golden masses float, and others have
Edgings of burning crimson.-Isles are seen,

All lovely, set within an emerald sea;
And there are dyes in the rich heavens,—such
As sparkle in the grand and gorgeous plume
Of Juno's favourite bird, or deck the scaled
And writhing serpent.

Never, from the birth
Of time, were scattered o'er the glowing sky
More splendid colourings. Every varying hue
Of every beautiful thing on earth, the tints
Of heaven's own Iris,-all are in the West
On this delicious eve.

But now the sun

Is veiled a moment, and the expansive waste
At once is wrapped in shade. The song has ceased
Of the rejoicing earth and sky;-the breeze
Sighs pensively along; the moorland streams
Appear less lovely, and on Fancy's ear
Complaining flow. Again the shadows fly
Before the glancing beam ;-again the Sun-
The conquering Sun resumes his state; and he
That with Elysian forms and hues bedecks
So gloriously the skies, cheers thee,-e'en thee,-
Thou solitary one ;-the very heart

Of the wild Moor is glad! The eye discerns
The mountain-ridges sweep away in vast
And regular succession ;-wave on wave

Rolling and glittering in the sun,—until
They reach the utmost West. The lark is up
Exulting in the bright blue heaven ;-the streams
Leap wantonly adown the laughing slopes;
And on the ear the poetry of bells,

Far borne by Auster's welcome gale is heard;
All else is mute,-silently happy,-Earth
Reposes in the sun-set.

Let me gaze

At the great vision ere it pass; for now

The day-god hovers o'er the western hill,

And sheds his last fond ray. Farewell! farewell!

Who givest beauty to the cloud, and light—

Joy, music, to the earth! And must yon tints

And shapes divine which thou hast formed, decay,

The mountain, and the temple, and the tower,

That float in yonder fields of air ;—the isles

Of all surpassing loveliness; and seas

Of glorious emerald, that seem to flow

Around the gold-fringed reefs and rocks ;—must all Vanish, with thee, at the remorseless touch

Of the swift-coming Twilight!

They will fade,-
Those hues and forms enchanting. See behind
The billowy horizon once more sinks
The traveller of six thousand years. With him
Depart the glories of the West. The tints
Elysian change the fiercely brilliant streaks
Of crimson disappear; but o'er the hills

A flush of orange hovers, softening up
Into harmonious union with the blue

That comes a sweeping down; for Twilight hastes
To dash all other colours from the sky
But this her favorite azure. Even now
The East displays its palely-beaming stars,
With the mild radiating moon; and thus
There is no end to all thy prodigies,
O Nature!

And the Night her ancient reign
Holds o'er the silent earth. Ye forms sublime,
Adieu, that people the great Moor;—the tor,
The hallowed cairn, the everlasting rocks,
Moulded by time into a million shapes
Of beauty and of grandeur :-and adieu
Ye voices that upon the wanderer's ear
Ever refreshing come ;-the flow of rill,
And music of the cataract, and leap

Of mountain-stream, and sigh of mountain breeze,
And, scared by the intruder man, the rush

Of the wild bird. The raptured day is o'er ;-
The morn of high anticipation, noon

Of rich fruition, and the tender eve-
All vanished! Sweetly falls the lunar ray
Upon my homeward path,-enchanting home,-
Though seated in that noisy world whose voice
Again I hear; for harshly on the breeze
The thunder of the cannon comes.* No more,
O that no more upon my ear my roll

Its far-resounding peal. Be mine of groves
The soothing minstrelsies,-of hill and dale,
That silence which the brook-the bird-alone
Melodious break. That calm, that sacred joy-
Those harmonies divine, at morn-noon-eve-
Have blessed my moorland pilgrimage. But soon
Shall dawn the dreary morrow ;-soon the toils,
The cares, the ills of life, with scarcely Hope
To brighten the involving gloom, shall scare
My spirit, and awake the frequent sigh
For scenes so fair, so grand, and moments bright
As cheered to-day my varied course.

Ah when

The happy hour shall Fate relenting bring
Of sunshine, peace, and liberty again!

If this be not poetry, and poetry too of the very highest order, we know not what is. That the poet's dreary toils' may be lessened by the inspiring patronage of the public is our sincere and fervent prayer; for if genius and worth united have any claims to its countenance and sympathy, this writer cannot long be suffered to remain in the poverty and obscurity in which he would long appear to have been involved.

Mr. Carrington's poem is preceded by a very able, and indeed learned and interesting disquisition, topographical and historical, on the subject of Dartmoor, which materially increases the value of the book. The notes, too, by the same friendly hand, are copious and edifying. In one of these we find an exquisite little poem entitled The Holiday,' which we shall in all probability find a corner for in some future number of the Magnet. The volume is embellished with twelve spirited etchings of the scenery described in the poem, from the pencil and graver of P. H. Rogers, Esq. of Plymouth. We shall merely add in conclusion, that we have seldom expended a guinea more entirely to our satisfaction than we have in the purchase of this splendid and interesting book. All that we ask of our readers is, that those who have twenty-one shillings to spare, 'will go and do likewise.'

*The Evening Gun fired in Hamoaze.

THE misery of Foscari when he was summoned to embark for Candia, surpassed all powers of description. He was supported lifeless on board the vessel, destined to bear him from all his hopes to his place of banishment— and was only at length aroused from the stupor into which he had fallen, by the hoarse brawling of the sailors. Their voyage was swift, and our unhappy victim was speedily immured within the walls of his miserable dungeon. As soon after his arrival in Candia as his strength would permit, he wrote to his friends in Venice; his letters breathed nothing but despair and impatience. He again besought his father to intercede for his liberty; and the Count Buonarotti received the same fervent solicitations from his wretched friend. To Francesca his epistle was one continued strain of affection, and his extreme anguish at being thus separated from her betrayed itself in every line.

Foscari received answers, which instead of mitigating, only added to his despondency. In that from Julia, though tenderness itself, she vainly attempted to conceal her own anguish, while she informed him, that since his departure, the marquis had given himself up to despair, and was then incapable of fulfilling the duties of his station; and that the marchioness was attacked with a disorder which baffled every effort of her physicians.

The Count's letter, was equally void of consolation, for though he forbore entering into particulars, it was enough for Foscari that Francesca did not herself reply to his inquiries to know that she was incapable—and his suspicions were but too well founded; for, on the evening of his being a second time so cruelly forced away, she relapsed into her former delirium, which soon after subsided into a settled melancholy, that seemed to have taken too deep a root ever to be obliterated. She knew no one who spoke to her, and the unremitting attention of her brother, who was continually either with her or Julia, had not the least effect upon her. She was wholly regardless of all around her, and the name of her unfortunate lover, which was frequently repeated to her in the hope of exciting her tears, had not power to arouse her from that lethargy which had taken possession of her senses.

Foscari languished in a state of miserable exile for three years, during which time he heard of the death of his mother with unspeakable regret, and the still desponding state of the Doge. His amiable associate, Natale Donato, had been twice to Candia to visit his unfortunate friend. From him he learned with sorrow, that no clue had yet been discovered as to the real assassins of his father, notwithstanding considerable rewards had been repeatedly offered for their apprehension.

Foscari was formed for society, and had not strength of mind to bear patiently the invincible decrees of providence in the present instance;-he sighed for those prospects he once enjoyed, when domestic happiness and mutual love so sweetly smiled upon him, and sank under the cruel destiny that had so entirely deprived him of all these blessings.

He was permitted to take the air on the fortress which belonged to the prison, and often was he tempted to plunge himself from it into the waves

* Concluded from our last.