P. 309, 1. 19.

Let truths tremendous on thy canvas dwell.

The Last Judgment of Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican at Rome, thus calls forth the admiration of a powerful but fastidious critic, Mr. Forsyth :-"How congenial the powers of the poet and the painter! Bold and precipitating, they dash on to the immediate object, in defiance of rules and ridicule." Of the great statue of Moses in the S. Pietro in Vincoli, he says, "Here sits the Moses of M. Angelo, frowning with the terrific eyebrows of Olympian Jove."

SONG.

"A breathless feeling, a suspense

Of life, a quietude intense

Prevail'd around me in this hour;

E'en Silence felt Love's mighty power."-MS.]

LIKE liquid gold glitter'd the waves of the ocean,
The moon there reflected her light:

All was silent and still not a breeze was in motion;
So deeply serene was the night.

O! sacred to love was the thought-soothing hour
That hush'd all reflection away-

All life's busy cares! so diffusive the

Of love at the mild close of day!

power

What abandonment sweet did I feel as I roved
Alone o'er the far-winding shore!

Then came o'er my mem'ry the scenes that I loved,
Scenes, alas! that I ne'er shall see more.

O Nature! thy calm gives a pleasure indeed
To the heart that no words can express;
As sweet a delight as the lover's whose meed
Is his bride's long-expected caress.

TO MY LITTLE GIRL.

THY eager look, my dearest child!
Thy little arms extended—

Thine eye so vivid, yet so mild,

Where life with love is blended

That look, that smile, those eyes of blue,
Thy thousand winning ways,
Promise me pleasures pure and true,
Should God prolong my days.

But of the future none can speak;
That lies in depth of night;

And vain are all our hopes, and weak
Our fore-schemes of delight.

And wilt thou, when upon the bed
Of sickness I shall lie,

Wilt thou support my aching head,
And teach me how to die?

My first-born child! my Julia dear! Close to my heart I press thee; May HE whom all must love and fear, May HE for ever bless thee!

TO THE LADY

THAT look again! 'tis like the milder ray
Of eve in climes far lovelier than our own,
That wooes the lonely wanderer to stray

Through scenes which ne'er night's deeper shades imbrown.

So mild, all other thoughts are hush'd away,
Save those that rise from rapture's gaze alone;
Thine is that quiet radiance, that beguiles

All sense of pain, that dazzles not, but smiles.