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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 bireb, 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, a

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

Tlie breeze that bore it)—fearful as the groans Of fierce 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 1
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 happ iEolian, when, upon the breeze,

Floats in a stream Us plaintive harmonics*

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, whjle 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 1—

Where was he then? From death to life restored!

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 clos'd, yet oft the inarticulate sigh,
Issuing from thence, he drank with ecstasy.

Still were they cold; her hands were also cold;

Those hands he chafd, 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 most perfect mould

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

Thou art undone, mad youth! The fire of love

Bum'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!

She feels the delicate influence through her thrill,
And with seal'd eye lay in a giddy trance,

Scarce dare she open them, when had her will
On this been bent, she felt the power to glance

Their lights on him. No, with a lingering skill—
Oh, blame her not!—she did awhile enhance

The bliss of that revival, by a feign'd

Or half-feign'd show of conflict still snstain'd.

At last, she look'd !—They looked!—Eye met with eye!

The whole was told! The lover, and the lov'd, The ador'd, and the adorer, ecstasy

Never till then experienced—swiftly proved !—
Thanks for his aid were a mean courtesy!

They were forgotten! Transport unreproved,
This was his guerdon; this his rich reward!
An hour's oblivion with Sophronia shared!

Then all the world was lost to them, in one

Fulness of unimaginable bliss!— Infinity was with them! and the zone

Unbound whence Venus sheds upon a kiss Nectareous essences, and raptures known

Ne'er save to moments unprepar'd as this! And in that earnest impulse did they find Peace and intensity, alike combin'd!

To frame such joy, these things are requisite;

A lofty nature; the exalting stress Of stimulating trials; which requite.

And antecedent sorrows, doubly bless. Consummate sympathies, which souls unite;

And a conjuncture, whence no longer press
Impulses—long as these delights we prove—
From one thing foreign to the world of love.

This could not last! Not merely would a word;.—
A gesture would, a look, dissolve the charm !—

Could home be mention'd nor the thought restor'd,
To her remembrance of Gisippus' warm

And manly love? Bless'd be ye with your hoard
Of transient bliss, and be ye safe from harm.

Ye fond, fond pair! But think not joys so high

Can be inwoven with reality!

At lust a swift rcvultion through her frame

And o'er her countenance stole: a sudden pause!

Her eyes, which had imbib'd a piercing flame,

Fell at once raylcss; and her bosom draws
One in-pent sigh; one look imploring came

O'er her fine face! Titus knew well the cause
Of this so sudden change: he dared not speak;
He dared not move; dared not its reason seek!

Some minutes they were silent. Night advanced;

Titus towards himself, Sophronia press'd,
But dumb he stood; upward she faintly glanced

A look upbraiding, and upon his breast—
Gently reclining—lay like one entranced!

No longer was happiness her guest.
She starts! She cries "Gisippus!" all is told!
Cold fell the word, on bosoms still more cold!

They rose and crept along in silentness—

Sophronia rcach'd her home, but nothing said,

E'en to her mother, of her past distress.

Her threshold past not Titus—Thence he fled,

Soon as in safety he the maid did guess,

Like to a madman madden'd more with dread!

Nor ever of this night, or of its spell

Of mighty love, did he breathe a syllable!

We now take leave of Mr. Lloyd with peculiar gratitude for the rich materials for thought with which a perusal of his poems has endowed us. "We shall look for his next appearance before the public with anxiety;—assured that his powers are not even yet fully developed to the world, and that he is destined to occupy a high station among the finest spirits of his age.

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