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Safely lodg'd at home,

And all secur'd against the wind stern rising,
I press'd refreshment on my travell'd guest,
Who well enjoy'd the delicate repast

Of viands flavour'd, new and cooling drinks.
Full easily she believed herself brought
By design to this so happy spot: and sure
She deem'd aright-It was her God's design:
Only she thought from God and not from man.
Think still, sweet maid, the same! No reasoner
Shall e'er disturb thy God's domain in thee!
Still from the same pure fountain thou shalt drink!
Still, in the Light Divine shalt thou see light.

With rising morn the wind subsides: the clouds Fly lighter and to higher air sublime, Discharg'd of all their weight. The eastern breeze Resum'd is balmy; and creation lives.

The wreck we next examine: there, nor man,.
Nor boat is found: a mile to leeward shews
The wreck of both: a female wash'd on shore
Proclaims Elmira's mother. But from her
The tragic fact is hid.

She broods no tempest
Who conceals no guilt. No mean lust of gain
Propell'd Elmira; nor guilt-infected hopes
Taught her the fear of ill, or yet, to fly
To man for safety, which deity would not
Grant, nor her own breast could claim.
The sailors hop'd

To fetch the quiet creek in boats; and haste
Could not await Elmira; nor would fear
Surcharge their yawl; nor their trust in human
Aids permit to take a poor helpless hand :-
Yet, alone, would innocence have sav'd them!

The female age matur'd and wise, her child's Guardian, hung for life on men! While she pray'd That they would save her daughter's life and her's, A sweeping billow bore her to the deep.

Shortly awake, Elmira join'd me soon,
Treading with cheerful step and unrestrain'd
The stately portico. "Twas all enchantment
To her soul. The sun burst brilliant forth, and
Welcom'd her all the isle, the conquer'd ocean
Lay before her: smaller isles attract her:

Unknown diversities of landscape strike:
The distant hills cite curiosity :

Her God is in her heart, in love and bliss;
And through the isle and air she lives."

We are sure our readers will forgive the eccentricity of the above extracts, for their sweetness and beauty. Subjoined to The Hurricane is a poem, entitled, A Solitary Effusion, the excellence of which induces us to transcribe it entire.

"What is the cloudless sky to me? Nature's
Develop'd radiance, and her thousand charms?
No heart joins mine: no kindred step with me
Winds the lone dingle, or pursues the track
Slow opening through the mazy thicket's shade:
None rests with me upon the verdant slope,
And runs his eye enraptur'd o'er the glade,
On to the distant sleeping stream, that walks,
With slow and measur'd lapse, his round of ages
In the circling mead; saw the woad-painted
Briton; beheld, or bore, his sharp-scyth'd chariot ;
Was oft dash'd by the fierce arm that rul'd it ;
Yielded indignant to the new Roman;
Echo'd, with languid joy and presage sad,
The desperate shouts of fainting freedom,
As they rang from loud Caer-Caradoc amain,
And with their last rude crash shook every dale,
Rous'd each cot in vain; and has liv'd to hear
That song again, from centuries of death,
On Mason's lyre reviv'd.

Hark! Here are groves

That hold, or held some Druid. Dark mantling
Round they throw impenetrable shade; and hide,
And have for ever hid, aye, unprofan'd,

By Roman, or by savage conqueror's step,
Some temple sacred by the mystic sage.

Here, too, are haunts of love, as well as grand

And rudest wisdom's darkest, drear domains.

Groves were sacred once to love: once were heard,
Low murmuring through the many-turtl'd shades
Of peace, respondent sighs, or liveliest notes
Of placid and accordant love, that mix'd

Airs with the zephyr, whispers with the sacred grove.
Long hush'd to sullen silence, groves no more
Echo to human loves: the loves refin'd,

Or antient minstrels sung, of Dryad or
Of Naiad, or perchance of human maid
From cottage or from palace; or of gods,
From halls of light descending to the plain,
Unconscious of a change; nor so immix'd,
Can learned retrospection trace distinct,
The nymph, the goddess, or terrestrial maid.
Lonely their solitary haunts I view:
And welcome solitude where they are not:
Where such are not companions of the walk!
Tell me, ye gentle and ye graceful, tell-
Tell me, ye chaste, yet not averse from love-
Tell me, ye great, who guarded all these fair,
And make the lofty groves of love, that tower
In zenith air, terrific to the vain ;

As all within was mild, serene, and pure-
Tell me, who most have ravag'd your retreats:
Who worst your secret delicacies wound,
And boldest all your hidden depths profane?

Which age is vile, the Gothic, or refin'd?

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That, which the heart lays waste!' I hear exclaim'd

In choral harmony of fair and great.

'Ah! what avails to us, pure Nature's spirits!
The manag'd body and the manag'd tongue,
Which chaunts no concord to soft nature's notes ?
The manag'd foot, that dreads our shady brakes,
And shuns our holiest, wildest, deepest walks?
We give no music to the high-train'd ear:
Our concert lov'd is nature's voice divine,
And God's and love's; one unison, that sounds
Through every branch, and trembles in each leaf.
Here oft, when man awakes not, hear we sweet
The voice of God conversing in the calm,

And preaching of his inmost works Himself;

Till all the seraph glow in all his fires,
And melts the high society in one

Enraptur'd diapason's holy sound.'

"Twas not the warrior's gleam, that thinn'd our shades

And harshly grated human discords there:

He pass'd unheeded when the storm was o'er,
And left no measured ravage. Not the man
Of boisterous nature was our foe; that man
Was nature still, and her behests obey'd.
The man of art, is nature's foe and man's
And God's. His desolating axe wastes all,

That speaks a God, Creator of the land;
And marks it for his own. The ground not then
Yields an impartial feast to man, to fowl,
And all the family of God; but train'd
To furnish famine, mocks at God and all.
No shades are holy, nor are rural scenes.
The man of art proscribes all nature; marks
For dread the embow'ring thicket form'd for love
And love's delights of peace; and wise in this
Career of ruin, he; for love itself

Is the first dread-love the first great terror
Of the man of art-commutual foe!

And yet is love the universal friend :

And, (hear the choir of nature, man and God!)
The man of art, the universal foe,

He dreads himself-hates love he can't subdue-
His God arraigns-all nature desolates !
But hence, let Nature rise and reign in man!
And him destroy who has destroy'd the earth;
While God inspires, and love unites the world!'
I hail the blest alternative! Content
To live dissociate of the man of art

And his dissociate earth, usurp'd and curst!
Shortly his ruin whelms; the dam is broke!
The founts of fire are broken up, as erst
Of the great deep, and fire now streams along,
Innocuous round my rest! See! It comes !
And claims the springs of nature for it's own!"

We cannot conclude better, than with the following noble passage from the notes.

"A man is supposed to improve by going out into the world, by visiting London. Artificial man does; he extends with his sphere, but alas! that sphere is microscopic. It is formed of minutiæ, and he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency; while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the man of mind. He who is placed in the sphere of nature and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brookes's, and a sneer at St. James's. He would certainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro, that crossed him :-But, when he walks along the river of Amazons; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and watered Savannah; or contemplates from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific-and feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream-His exaltation is not less than impe

rial. He is as gentle too as he is great: his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; for he says, 'These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once, a child and a king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues and from hence he acts; and he argues unerringly and acts magisterially: his mind in himself is also in his God; and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars. He knows where he is; his speculations do not outfly his practice; for he thinks he knows nothing but what he proves. The vast pride of discovering experimental philosophy cannot, indeed, be his; for discovery is precluded by incessant knowledge."

ART. XI.-Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters. Λόγος ἐςι ψευδὴς ἐικονίζων ἀλήθειαν.

Aphthonius Progymnas. Pr. London: Printed for J. Robson, New Bond-street. Cr. 8vo.


Some works derive a considerable portion of the interest attached to them from the character of the writer; an observation that will, in a certain degree, apply to the publication before us, which was one of the earliest literary efforts of the author of Caliph Vathek. It possesses, however, other claims on our attention, and, though obviously a juvenile production, is by no means deficient in interest, as will appear from the extracts which we shall proceed to lay before our readers.

In a short prefatory advertisement, the editor states himself to be in possession of some particulars relative to the author of these Memoirs," which might interest the curiosity of a respectable class of readers, and even prepossess them in favour of the publication. As, however, an impartial judgment on its merits is wished for, and the editor's availing himself of such an advantage, might suggest the idea of attempting to bias the public opinion, no communication of the sort is allowed. Permission could not be obtained to mention even the particular age at which the author wrote these pieces. It was in vain the editor's partiality for them, induced him to express something more than a hope that their merits with the public might rest little on that circumstance. For he has ever been persuaded that the success of the most admired productions of the ingenium præcox, at least in our own language, has been much more owing to their intrinsic worth than to the period of life at which they were written. His principal motive, could he

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