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As to betray how soon man's glories cease;

Tombs, time defying, of the most pretence
But only make us feel with more surprise,
How mean the things they would immortalize!

The following is only a portion of a series of reminiscences equally luxurious and intense, and which are attended throughout by that vein of reflection which our author never loses:

Oh, were the eye of youth a moment ours !

When every flower that gemm'd the various earth
Brought down from Heaven enjoyment's genial showers!

And every bird, of everlasting mirth
Prophecied to us in romantic bowers!

Love was the garniture, whose blameless birth
Caus'd that each filmy web where dew-drops trembled,
The gossamery haunt of elves resembled!

We can remember earliest days of spring,

When violets blue and white, and primrose pale,
Like callow nestlings 'neath their mother's wing,

Each peep'd from under the broad leaf's green veil.
When streams look'd blue; and thin clouds clustering

O'er the wide empyrean did prevail,
Rising like incense from the breathing world,
Whose gracious aspect was with dew impearld.

When a soft moisture, steaming every where,

To the earth's countenance mellower hues imparted;
When sylvan choristers self-pois'd in air,

Or perched on bows, in shrilly quiverings darted
Their little raptures forth; when the warm glare

(While glancing lights backwards and forwards started,
As if with meteors silver-sheath'd 'twere flooded)
Sultry, and silent, on the hill's turf brooded.

Oh, in these moments, we such joy have felt,

As if the earth were nothing but a shrine;
Where all, or awe inspir’d, or made one melt

Gratefully towards its architect divine!
Father! in future (as I once have dwelt

Within that very sanctuary of thine
When shapes, and sounds, seem'd as but modes of Thee!)
That with experience gain'd were heaven to me!

Oft in the fulness of the joy ye give,

Oh, days of youth! in summer's noon-tide hours, Did I a depth of quietness receive

From insects' drowsy hum, that all my powers Would baffle to portray! Let them that live

In vacant solitude, speak from their bowers What nameless pleasures letter'd ease may cheer, Thee, Nature! bless'd to mark with eye and ear!

Who can have watch'd the wild rose' blushing dye,

And seen what treasures its rich cups contain; Who, of soft shades the fine variety,

From white to deepest flush of vermeil-stain?
Who, when impearl'd with dew-drop's radiancy

Its petals breath'd perfume, while he did strain
His very being, lest the sense should fail
T'imbibe each sweet its beauties did exhale?

Who amid lanes, on eve of summer days,

Which sheep brouse, could the thicket's wealth behold? The fragrant honey-suckle's bowery maze?

The furze bush, with its vegetable gold?
In every satin sheath that helps to raise

The fox-glove's cone, the figures manifold
With such a dainty exquisiteness wrought ?-
Nor grant that thoughtful love they all have taught?

The daisy, cowslip, each have to them given

The wood anemone, the strawberry wild, Grass of Parnassus, meek as star of even :

Bright, as the brightening eye of smiling child,
And bathed in blue transparency of heaven,

Veronica; the primrose pale, and mild ;-
Of charms (of which to speak no tongue is able)
Intercommunion incommunicable!
I had a cottage in a Paradise!

'Twere hard to enumerate the charms combin'd Within the little space, greeting the eyes,

Its unpretending precincts that confin'd. Onward, in front, a mountain stream did rise

Up, whose long course the fascinated mind (So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes) Might localize the most romantic dreams.

When winter torrents, by the rain and snow,

Surlily dashing down the hills, were fed, Its mighty mass of waters seem'd to flow

With deafening course precipitous : its bed

Rocky, such steep declivities did show
That towards us with a rapid course it sped,

Broken by frequent falls; thus did it roam

In whirlpools eddying, and convulsed with foam.

Flank'd were its banks with perpendicular rocks,
Whose scars enormous, sometimes gray and bare,
And sometimes clad with ash and gnarled oaks,
The birch, the hazel, pine, and holly, were.
Their tawny leaves, the sport of winters' shocks,
Oft o'er its channel circled in the air;
While, on their tops, and midway up them, seen,
Lower'd cone-like firs and yews in gloomiest green.

So many voices from this river came
In summer, winter, autumn, or the spring;
So many sounds accordant to each frame
Of Nature's aspect, (whether the storm's wing
Brooded on it, or pantingly, and tame, -
The low breeze crisp'd its waters) that, to sing
Half of their tones, impossible! or tell
The listener's feelings from their viewless spell.

When fires gleam'd bright, and when the curtain’d room,
Well stock'd with books and music's implements,
When children's faces, dress'd in all the bloom
Of innocent enjoyments, deep content's
Deepest delight inspir’d; when nature's gloom
To the domesticated heart presents
(By consummate tranquillity possesst)
Contrast, that might have stirr'd the dullest breast;

Yes, in such hour as that—thy voice I’ve known.
Oh, hallow'd stream!—fitly so nam’d—(since tones
Of deepest melancholy swell'd upon
The breeze that bore it)—fearful as the groans
Of fieree night spirits! Yes, when tapers shone
Athwart the room (when, from their skiey thrones
Of ice-piled height abrupt, rush'd rudely forth,
Riding the blast, the tempests of the North;)

Thy voice I've known to wake a dream of wonder
For though 'twas loud, and wild with turbulence,
And absolute as is the deep-voiced thunder,
Such fine gradations mark'd its difference
Of audibility, one scarce could sunder
Its gradual swellings from the influence
Of harp Eolian, when, upon the breeze,
Floats in a stream its plaintive harmonies.

One might have thought, that spirits of the air

Warbled amid it in an undersong;
And oft one might have thought, that shrieks were there

Of spirits, driven for chastisement along
The invisible regions that above earth are.

All species seem'd of intonation (strong
To bind the soul, Imagination rouse,)
Conjur'd from preternatural prison-house.

But when the heavens are blue, and summer skies

Are pictur'd in thy wave's cerulean glances;
Then thy crisp stream its course so gaily plies,

Trips on so merrily in endless dances,
Such low sweet tone, fit for the time, does rise

From thy swift course, methinks, that it enhances
The hue of flowers which decorate thy banks,
While each one's freshness seems to pay thee thanks.

Solemn the mountains that the horizon close,

From whose drear verge thou seem'st to issue forth:
Sorcery might fitly dwell, one could suppose,

(Or any wondrous spell of heaven or earth,
Which e'en to name man's utterance not knows,)

Amid the forms that mark thy place of birth.
Thither direct your eye, and you will find
All that excites the imaginative mind! .

The tale of Titus and Gisippus which follows, while it is very interesting as a story, exhibits the same great intellectual power and ceaseless activity of thought, which characterize the Thoughts in London. Mr. Lloyd has taken the common incident of one lover resigning his mistress to another, and the names of his chief characters from Boccaccio, but in all other respects, the poem is original. Its chief peculiarity is the manner in which it reasons upon all the emotions which it portrays, especially on the progress of love in the soul, with infinite nicety of discrimination, not unlike that which Shakspeare has manifested in his amatory poems. He accounts for the finest shade of feeling, and analyzes its essence, with the same care, as though he were demonstrating a proposition of Euclid. He is as minute in his delineation of all the variations of the heart, as Richardson was in his narratives of matters of fact;-and, like him, thus throws such an air of truth over his statements, that we can scarcely avoid receiving them as authentic history. At the same time, he conducts this process with so delicate a hand, and touches his subjects with so deep a reverence for humanity, that he teaches us to love our nature the more from his masterly dissection. By way of example of these remarks, we will give part of the scene between a lover who long has secretly been agitated by a passion for the betrothed mistress of his friend, and the object of his silent affection whom he has just rescued from a watery grave-though it is not perhaps the most beautiful passage of the poem:

He is on land; on safe land is he come:

Sophronia's head he pillows on a stone:
A death-like paleness hath usurp'd her bloom;

Her head falls lapsing on his shoulder. None
Were there to give him aid! he fears her doom

Is seal'd for evermore! At last a groan
Burst from her livid lips, and then the word
“Titus" he heard, or fancied that he heard !-

Where was he then? From death to life restor'd!

From hell to heaven! To rapture from despair!
His hand he now lays on that breast ador'd;

And now her pulse he feels; and now-(beware,
Beware, rash youth!), his lips draw in a hoard

Of perfume from her lips, which though they were
Still closd, yet oft the inarticulate sigh,
Issuing frorn thence, he drank with eestasy.

Still were they cold; her hands were also cold;

Those hands he chaf'd, and, perhaps to restore
To her chill paly lips their warmth, so bold

He grew, he kiss'd those pale lips o'er and o'er.
Nay, to revive in their inost perfect mould

Their wonted rubeous hue, he dared do more;
He glued his mouth to them, and breath'd his breath
To die with her, or rescue her from death.-

Thou art undone, mad youth! The fire of love

Burn'd so intensely in his throbbing veins,
That, had she been a statue, he might prove

A new Pygmalion, and the icy chains
Of death defy. Well then might he remove

The torpor which her o'er-wrought frame sustains.-
If sweet, revival from such menaced death;
More sweet, revival by a lover's breath!

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