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readers by transcribing, in conclusion, Mr. Wolff's translation of a Hymn which forms part of the Liturgy now in use among the Caraites in Jerusalem.

'Cantor. On account of the palace which is laid waste :

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of the temple which is destroyed :

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of the walls which are pulled down :

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of our majesty which is gone:

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of our great men who have been cast down:

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of the precious stones which are burned:

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of the priests who have stumbled:

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. On account of our kings who have despised him :

People. We sit down alone and weep.

Cantor. We beseech thee, have mercy upon Sion.
People. Gather the children of Jerusalem.

Cantor. Make haste, Redeemer of Sion.
People. Speak to the heart of Jerusalem.

Cantor. May beauty and majesty surround Sion.
People. And turn with thy mercy to Jerusalem.
Cantor. Remember the shame of Sion.

People. Make new again the ruins of Jerusalem.

Cantor. May the royal government shine again over Sion.
People. Comfort those who mourn at Jerusalem.
Cantor. May joy and gladness be found upon Sion.
People. A branch shall spring forth at Jerusalem.'

Wolff's First Journal, pp. 266, 267.

ART. VI.-1. Epistles in Verse.

London. 1828. 8vo. pp. 135. 2. Italy, a Poem. By Samuel Rogers. Part the Second, London. 1828. 12mo. pp. 188.

THE

HE' Epistles in Verse,' which we name at the head of this paper, are the productions of a man of polished taste and amiable feelings, who, with modesty little in accordance with the spirit of the times, disclaims the title of poet. That he might have earned that title, even in the high sense which he attaches to it, none who read his little volume will doubt; and we hope its readers will not be few: We have had enough of noisy and impatient

VOL. XXXVIII. NO. LXXV.

L

impatient pretenders to genius of late years. Surely, real elegance has some right to attention.

Several of the epistles are addressed to an eminent poet,' and from one of these we quote a few lines, which will give a sufficient notion of the author's spirit and manner.

Sweet though his numbers as the murmuring stream,
And bright each image as the morning beam,
Though the wit sparkle, tho' the passion flame,
And Fashion dictate to obedient Fame;
Yet if the theme be grovelling or impure,
The verse is mortal:-it shall not endure:
Virtue's the vital spark, the deathless soul,
That must pervade, and animate the whole:
He from the altar borrows all his fires,
And consecrates to heav'n what heav'n inspires.
Oh haste! the laurel twine, the statue raise,
Vast the desert, and equal be the praise!
Lo! Plenty at his feet her tribute flings!
His rank with Princes, and his seat with Kings!
Ah no!-in penury, perhaps in shame,

He lives, whom lost, contending nations claim,
Lives-not dismayed, nor murmuring at his lot,
Content though poor, not humbled though forgot.
He can at once foresee, and brave his doom,
Sure that the Palm shall flourish o'er the tomb,
The world's neglect with generous scorn repays,
And proud to serve mankind forgoes its praise.

How different is thy fate, accomplished friend!
Whom still the most commended most commend:
Thine all the honours of a well-earn'd name,
Secure of present as of future fame;
Thine fortune's favors too, and thine the art
(So rarely learnt) to use them, and impart.

Thus gifted, thus encouraged, be it thine
To lift thy light on high, and bid it shine,
A star! to guide the wanderer as he strays
O'er life's dark ocean, and its trackless ways:
Thy course so well begun pursuing still,
Obey thy call; thy destiny fulfil;

And pour out all the treasures of thy mind,
Bestow'd on thee, but meant for all mankind.'

Epistles, p. 10-12.

This call has not been made in vain; and the Second Part of Mr. Rogers's Italy' will be considered, we think, as every way worthy of the author's high reputation. It consists, like the former, of a series of detached pictures, all of them touched with the delicate skill of a masterly artist, not a few of them conceived

in a spirit of chaste and noble pathos, such as the devourers of our modern poetry have had few opportunities of contemplating. Let the following specimen suffice:

'THE NUN.

'Tis over; and her lovely cheek is now
On her hard pillow-there, alas, to be
Nightly, thro' many and many a dreary hour,
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length
Her place is empty, and another comes)
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death;

Her's never more to leave those mournful walls,
Even on her bier.

"Tis over; and the rite,
With all its pomp and harmony, is now
Floating before her. She arose at home,
To be the show, the idol of the day;
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head-
No rocket, bursting in the midnight sky,
So dazzling. When to-morrow she awakes,
She will awake as tho' she still was there,
Still in her father's house; and lo, a cell

Narrow and dark, nought thro' the gloom discerned,
Nought save the crucifix, the rosary,

And the grey habit lying by to shroud

Her beauty and grace.

When on her knees she fell,
Entering the solemn place of consecration,
And from the latticed gallery came a chant
Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical,
Verse after verse sung out how holily,
The strain returning, and still, still returning,
Methought it acted like a spell upon her,
And she was casting off her earthly dross;
Yet was it sad as sweet, and, ere it closed,
Came like a dirge. When her fair head was shorn,
And the long tresses in her hands were laid,

That she might fling them from her, saying, "Thus,
Thus I renounce the world and worldly things!"
When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments
Were, one by one, removed, even to the last,

That she might say, flinging them from her, "Thus,
Thus I renounce the world!" when all was changed,
And, as a nun, in homeliest guise she knelt,
Veiled in her veil, crowned with her silver crown,
Her crown of lilies as the spouse of Christ,
Well might her strength forsake her, and her knees
Fail in that hour! Well might the holy man,
He, at whose feet she knelt, give as by stealth
L2

('Twas

('Twas in her utmost need; nor, while she lives,
Will it go from her, fleeting as it was)

That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love
And pity!

Like a dream the whole is fled;

And they, that came in idleness to gaze
Upon the victim dressed for sacrifice,
Are mingling in the world; thou in thy cell
Forgot, TERESA. Yet, among them all,
None were so formed to love and to be loved,
None to delight, adorn; and on thee now
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped
For ever! In thy gentle bosom sleep
Feelings, affections, destined now to die,
To wither like the blossom in the bud,
Those of a wife, a mother; leaving there
A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave,
A languor and a lethargy of soul,

Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death
Comes to release thee. Ah, what now to thee,
What now to thee the treasures of thy Youth?
As nothing!

But thou canst not yet reflect
Calmly; so many things, strange and perverse,
That meet, recoil, and go but to return,

The monstrous birth of one eventful day,
Troubling thy spirit-from the first, at dawn,
The rich arraying for the nuptial feast,
To the black pall, the requiem.

All in turn

Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed

Hover, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heart,
How is it beating! Has it no regrets?
Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there?
But thine exhausted frame has sunk to rest.
Peace to thy slumbers !'-Italy, p. 53-58.

Two or three fragments of prose are, not appended to, but interspersed in, the texture of this portion of Mr. Rogers's worka circumstance which might, we think, have been avoided, and which, we hope, the author will reconsider. The fragments, however, are in themselves beautiful, and it is from one of them that we shall take our text for some observations on a subject which we consider as, at this time, of high and serious import

ance.

'If life be short,' days and its hours.

(says Mr. Rogers,) not so to many of us are its When the blood slumbers in the veins, how often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the sun

would

would rise and set before it does; and to escape from the weight of time, how many follies, how many crimes, are committed! Men rush on danger, and even on death. Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their resources; and when these things fail, they destroy themselves. Now in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures; and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon, and night. The day we come to a place which we have long heard and read of,-and in Italy we do so continually,—it is an era in our lives; and from that moment the very name calls up a picture. How delightfully, too, does the knowledge flow in upon us, and how fast! Would he who sat in a corner of his library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so much in the time, as he who, with his eyes and his heart open, is receiving impressions all day long from the things themselves? How accurately do they arrange themselves in our memory, -towns, rivers, mountains ;-and in what living colours do we recall the dresses, manners, and customs of the people! Our sight is the noblest of all our senses. "It fills the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues longest in action without being tired." Our sight is on the alert when we travel; and its exercise is then so delightful, that we forget the profit in the pleasure. Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it runs, like a spring that takes its course through some rich vein of mineral, we improve and imperceptiblynor in the head only, but in the heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by one. Seas and mountains are no longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them. Our benevolence extends itself with our knowledge. And must we not return better citizens than we went? For the more we become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more highly must we value our

own.

'I threw down my pen in triumph. to rest for ever. And yet―"

"The question," said I, " is set

"And yet—” I must still say. The wisest of men seldom went out of the walls of Athens; and for that worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to which we are most liable when most at our ease, is there not, after all, a surer and yet pleasanter remedy-a remedy, for which we have only to cross the threshold?'

The English have long held the character of a travelling people; a peculiarity derived partly from our commercial eminence and naval power; principally, we believe, from the habits of intellectual and political energy engendered by our free institutions at home. Our frequent exclusion from the continent, during protracted wars, has further had the effect of giving a sudden fashion to foreign travel, when the obstruction was removed. Still this migration was comparatively limited in extent. A certain number of noble or wealthy families, with a befitting proportion of eldest sons, pursued the beaten road of France and Italy; bringing home

the

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