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That house, the highest in the ancient world,
And placed there for the noblest purposes.
"Twas a rude pile of simplest masonry,

With narrow windows and vast buttresses,
Built to endure the shocks of time and chance;
Yet shewing many a rent, as well it might,
Warred on for ever by the elements,

And in an evil day, nor long ago,

-

By violent men when on the mountain-top
The French and Austrian banners met in conflict.

'On the same rock beside it stood the church,
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity;

The vesper-bell, for 'twas the vesper-hour,
Duly proclaiming thro' the wilderness,
" All ye who hear, whatever be your work,
Stop for an instant move your lips in prayer!"
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,
If dale it might be called, so near to Heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leaped up,
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow;
A star, the only one in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. 'Twas a scene
Resembling nothing I had left behind,

As tho' all worldly ties were now dissolved;
And, to incline the mind still more to thought,
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow
A lonely chapel destined for the dead,
For such as having wandered from their
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company,
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them;
Their features full of life yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,

way,

Tho' the barred windows, barred against the wolf,
Are always open

In the following sketch, the writer seems to emulate the familiarity of Wordsworth: but we shall close our article by quoting it, because it is by no means deficient in feeling and in taste.

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Jorasse was in his three-and-twentieth year;
Graceful and active as a stag just roused;
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up
Among the hunters of the Higher Alps;

Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies,
Said to arise by those who dwell below,
From frequent dealings with the mountain-spirits.
But other ways had taught him better things;
And now he numbered, marching by my side,

The

The Savans, Princes, who with him had crossed
The icy tract, with him familiarly

Through the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalêt round the peak of terror,
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau;
Save when an avalanche, at distance rolling
Its long, long thunders held them mute with fear.
But with what transport he recalled the hour
When to deserve to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod
The upper realms of frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright,
And gathered from above, below, around,
The pointed crystals!

Once, nor long before, (Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, And with an eloquence that nature gives breaking off by starts

To all her children

Into the harsh and rude, oft as the mule
Drew his displeasure,) once, nor long before,
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
He slipped, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed - then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a cavern,

Winding beneath that solid crust of ice;

With here and there a rent that shewed the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty river
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
Dashed down the dismal channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travelled incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake - at the third step he took
Unfathomable and the roof, that long
Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine

Shot

Shot thro' his soul. Breathing a prayer to her
Whose ears are never shut, the blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Thro'
A smiling valley, full of cottages,

Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The Young were dancing ('twas a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
'With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
The tale was long, but coming to a close,

When his dark eyes flashed fire, and, stopping short,
He listened and looked up. I looked up too;
And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled ↑
"Twas heard no more. A chamois on the cliff
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear,
And all were gone.

But now the thread was broken;
Love and its joys had vanished from his mind;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes,
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)

He tracked their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Upon a crag among the precipices,

Where the next step had hurled them fifty fathoms,
Oft had they stood, locked in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky,

Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.
Oh, 'twas a sport he loved dearer than life,
And only would with life itself relinquish!

"My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds,
My brother too! As for myself," he cried,
And he held out his wallet in his hand,
"This do I call my winding-sheet, so sure
Am I to have no other!"

And his words

Were soon fulfilled. Within a little month
Jorasse slept soundly half-way up the Jung-frau.
Long did his wife, suckling her babe, look out
The way he went at parting, but he came not!
Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep
(Such their belief) he should appear before her,
Frozen and ghastly pale, or crushed and bleeding,
To tell her where he lay, and supplicate
For the last rite! At length the dismal news
Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.'

Art.

Art. 18. Chinzica; or the Battle of the Bridge, a Poem, in Ten

Cantos. By Henry Stobert. 8vo. pp. 271.

Warren.

1822.

12s.

Boards.

If the author of this volume has wasted a great deal of good paper and printing, it is no reason that we should be equally prefuse of our readers' patience. Such verses as the following would satisfy the most fastidious:

Thy lips that were once ruby bright
Are now the sad colour of lead,
And thy neck and thy brow ivory white
Are now like the bones of the dead.
The flowers of the field are wither'd,
The leaves of the forest are dropp'd,
The blessings of Heaven are gather'd,
The souls of the wicked are crapp'd.'

When understood in a proper sense, we think that the author's prayer at the commencement of the tenth canto is very sensible. O Heaven, sustain, sustain my song;

Still sway the power that wakes my lyre;

O grant my muse to bear along,

And reach the goal on wings of fire.'

We wish that we could give Mr. Stobert's note on moval and physical comets : but we have not room.

Art. 19. Retrospection; with other Poems. By Arthur Brooke, 12mo. pp. 130. 6s. Boards. Warren. 1822.

We understand that Mr. Arthur Brooke, like Mr. Barry Cornwall, here appears not for the first time under a poetical name, as well as in the poetical character. If this fashionable rule obtains, we wish that these coy poets, affecting concealment only that they may be sought, and pretending to fly from public gaze only that it may pursue them, would assume somewhat more lofty and high sounding appellations, to distinguish them from those of mere ordinary mortals, to lessen the probability of actual deception, and to give zest and dignity to the inquiry," Ubi, ubi est, diù celari non potest."

6

In his style and manner, the author of Retrospection' assumes much of the philosopher, and of a philosophical recluse: but his doctrines are delivered with the air of a man of the world, rather vainly intended to be agreeably relieved by free thoughts on religion, jovial songs, and warm stanzas on love. Did these school, boy effusions comprehend the whole of this author's writings, it would save us some trouble, inasmuch as we should quickly consign him to "the tomb of all the Capulets," and take our revenge by oblivion. Mr. B., it seems, is infected with that species of the free thinking disease, which renders the patient desirous of communicating the contagion of false principles to others, as if he could thus relieve himself: but he shews a vanity and a littleness in all this, which we feel ourselves bound to reprove; and the more because he appears to possess a heart and understanding which,

with all his errors and affectation, may be worth cultivation. Briefly, we would advise him, then, to refrain from obtruding crude opinions in religious matters on the public in his poetry, or in notes to his poetry: for he ought to recollect that it is as unpolite and absurd to do this, as it would be to pour them forth when sitting in a mixed party, or in good company. It is, besides, so hacknied a custom, such a poor joke, if it be meant as such, that it would now be far "more honored in the breach than the observance."

With all this perilous stuff," that weighs down the genius of his poetry, the author has redeeming points about him, as we have formerly had occasion to observe, which in some measure atone, by their spirit and their power, for much tedious and insipid common-place, both poetic and prosaic. We think that he has the elements of greater and better things in him, if he knew how to frame a poetical mind out of them, and could be brought to give up his scepticism, at least his poetical scepticism, and the vain attempt of reconciling it to the art of poetry.

In the leading composition of the volume, the writer discovers evident traces of poetry, and passion breathing the soul of poetry, united to some definite object and meaning; - a quality of compar. atively rare occurrence among the mass of our modern versifiers. Taking a review of past ages, and a comparison of the various stages of society with the present, he endeavors to shew the probability of such increased and increasing wisdom and happiness, that the time will arrive when perfect freedom, peace, and prosperity shall become inseparable. Though here his sentiments are sometimes bold and paradoxical, they are liberal and free; and they are written in that spirit of inquiry which evinces a vigorous and original power of thought. On this account, perhaps, the poem is embellished with fewer poetical images than we should have liked: but considerable fancy is discovered in some of the minor pieces.

TRAVELS.

Art. 20. The Tour of Africa. Containing a concise Account of all the Countries in that Quarter of the Globe, hitherto visited by Europeans; with the Manners and Customs of the Inhabitants. Selected from the best Authors, and arranged, by Catherine Hutton. Vols. II. and III. 8vo. 12s. each, Boards. Baldwin and Co. 1821.

When the first volume of this entertaining and in many respects judicious compilation was noticed in our Number for December, 1819, we ventured to suggest an improvement to the fair compiler, namely, that of placing her authorities in the margin. She acknowleges, in her preface to Vol. 2., her deference for our opinion, but thus states the impracticability of adopting it. 'I can assure my friends and critics, that in those countries where there have been different travellers, one paragraph is often extracted from several, and sometimes one sentence from two; and that the authors are so mingled, in order to form a regular whole, that like the tub of feathers prepared by the fairy, it would be almost impossible for any bird to find his own. I must, therefore, content

myself

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