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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'a,
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

“Whirla
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 Thermopylæ. 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, 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 Unmov’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 listning 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 fragrant wreath.

“An April Zephyr, with reviving sweets
From gay Eubea'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 ; I

“ Not usd to weep, * * humbled at thy loss,
Melt like a maiden, of her love bereav'd

By unrelenting death.”
VOL. II. PART I,

The funeral dirge over Ariana is sweet. The two last lines are peculiarly tender.

“On gently-moving air
Sweet measures glide; this melancholy dirge,
To melting chords, by sorrow touch'd, is heard.

Cropp'd is the rose of beauty in her bud,
Bright virtue's purest mansion is defac'd;
Like Mithra's beams her silken tresses shone
In lustre gentle as a vernal morn;
Her eye reveal'd the beauties of her mind;
The slave, the captive, in her light rejoic'd.

• Lament, ye daughters of Choaspes, wail,
Ye Cissian maids, your paragon is lost.

Once like the fresh-blown lily in the vale,
In Susa fair, in radiancy of bloom
Like summer glowing, till consuming love
Deform’d her graces; then her hue she chang’d
To lilies pining in decay, but kept
The smile of kindness on her wasted cheek.'”

Themistocles is thus described contemplating an embarkation.

“He said, and, moving tow'rds the beach, observes
The embarkation. Each progressive keel
His eye pursues. O'erswelling now in thought,
His own deservings, glory, and success,
Rush on his soul like torrents, which disturb
A limpid fount. Of purity depriv'd,
The rill no more in music steals along,
But harsh and turbid through its channel foams.”

We have had frequent occasion to mention our author's power of local description, in which there is a minuteness and distinctness of delineation, which, as before remarked, we in vain look for in the characters of his poem. The cave of the furies and the conjuration of the seven assassins are executed with a decided and powerful hand.

“ There was a cavern in the bowels deep
Of naked rock by Oreus, where the stern
Eumenides possess'd a dusky shrine,
And frown'd in direful idols from the time
That Titan's offspring o'er Eubea reign’d
The enemies of Jove. Around it slept
A stagnant water, overarch'd by yews,

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