ron as follows: Year after year, and month after month, he continued to repeat that to be wretched is the destiny of all, that to be eminently wretched is the destiny of the eminent that all the desires by which we are cursed lead alike te misery-if they are not gratified, to the misery of disappoint ment; if they are gratified, to the misery of satiety. His principal heroes are men who have arrived by different roads at the same goal of despair, who are sick of life, who are at war with society, who are supported in their anguish only by an unconquerable pride, resembling that of Prometheus on the rock or of Satan in the burning marl; who can master their agonies by the force of their will; and who, to the last, defy the whole power of earth and Heaven.

BYRON and MOORE are compared by Hazlitt in the follow ing terms:

Mr. Moore's Muse is another Ariel, as light, as tricksy, as indefatigable, and as humane a spirit. His fancy is forever on the wing, flutters in the gale, glitters in the sun. His thoughts are as restless, as many, and as bright, as the insects that people the sunbeam. An airy voyager on life's stream, his mind inhales the fragrance of a thousand shores, and drinks of endless pleasures under halcyon skies. His variety cloys; his rapidity dazzles and distracts the sight. He wants intensity, strer.gth, and grandeur. The sweetness of his poetry evaporates like the effluvia exhaled from beds of flowers! His Irish Melodies are not free from affectation and a certain sickliness of pretension. His serious descriptions are apt to run into flowery tenderness; his pathos sometimes melts into a mawkish sensibility, or crystallizes into all the prettinesses of allegorical language. But he has wit at will, and of the first quality. His satirical and bur lesque poetry is his best. He resembles the bee: he has its honey and its sting.

Lord Byron, unlike Moore, shuts himself up in the impenetrable gloom of his own thoughts, and buries the natural light of things in "nook monastic." The Giaour, the Corsair, Childe Harold, are all the same person, and they are apparently all himself. The everlasting repetition of one subject the same dark ground of fiction, with the darker colors of the poet's mind spread over it-the unceasing accumulation of horrors on horror's head, steels the mind against the 'sense of pain, as inevitably as the unwearied siren sounds and luxurious monotony of Mr. Moore's poetry make it inaccessible to pleasure

Lord Byron's poetry is as morbid as Mr. Moore's is careless and dissipated. He has more depth of passion, more force and impetuosity, but the passion is always of the same unaccountable character, at once violent and sullen, fierce and gloomy. In vigor of style and force of conception, he, in one sense, surpasses every writer of the present day. He has beauty sometimes lurking beneath his strength, tenderness sometimes joined with the phrensy of despair. The flowers that adorn his poetry bloom over charnel-houses and the grave!

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won
He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holyday.

All this rush'd with his blood-shall he expire,
And unrevenged? Arise, ye Goths! and glut your ire!
WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily, and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it? No: 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Am' arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar !

Ah! then and there were hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon nights so sweet, such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

On whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come, they

come!"

A fine specimen of Byron's writing may be seen in section xii., allotted to Henry Kirke White.

SECTION XX.

ROBERT POLLO K.

His chief work is "The Course of Time," an admirable poem, displaying more than ordinary poetic ability, and great profundity of thought. Unlike too much of the poetry of the age, it conveys definite and valuable ideas. It is free from that wordy indefiniteness which is the fault of much of modern writing. It presents just views of human character, history, and condition, while the Divine government over our world is correctly and strikingly portrayed. It abounds in beautiful and impressive pictures. It is written in blank verse, and can be read without weariness.

One of his biographers informs us that his habits were those of a close student: his reading was extensive; he could converse on almost every subject: he had a great facility in composition: in confirmation of which, he is said to have written nearly a thousand lines weekly of the last four books of the "Course of Time." For so young a man, this poem was a vast achievement. The book he loved best was the Bible, and his style is often scriptural. Young

Y

Milton, and Byron, were the poets which he chiefly studied. He had much to learn in composition; and, had he lived, he would have looked almost with humiliation on much that is at present eulogized by his devoted admirers. But the soul of poetry is there, though often dimly enveloped, and many passages there are, and long ones, too, that heave, and hurry, and glow along in a divine enthusiasm.

The following description, by him, of a poet, is thought to apply to S. T. Coleridge, whom we have already noticed:

"Most fit was such a place for musing men, Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss

The lonely bard enjoy'd, when forth he walk'd
Unpurposed; stood, and knew not why; sat down,
And knew not where; arose and knew not when ;
Had eyes, and saw not; ears, and nothing heard;

And sought-sought neither heaven nor earth-sought naught,
Nor meant to think; but ran, meantime, through vast

Of visionary things, fairer than aught

That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts
Which men of common stature never saw,

Greater than aught that largest worlds could hold,
Or give idea of to those who read.

He enter'd into Nature's holy place,
Her inner chamber, and beheld her face
Unveil'd; and heard unutterable things
And incommunicable visions saw."

The following extract exhibits a prophetic view of the literature of the Course of Time, particularly descriptive of our own day of multitudinous publications; too many of which are faithfully portrayed in the lan guage of the author, as being

66 Like swarms

Of locusts, which God sent to vex a land
Rebellious long."

THE BOOKS OF TIME.

'One glance of wonder, as we pass, deserve
The books of Time. Productive was the world
In many things; but most in books: like swarms
Of locusts, which God sent to vex a land
Rebellious long, admonish'd long in vain,
Their numbers they pour'd annually on man.
From heads conceiving still: perpetual birth!
Thou wonderest how the world contain'd them all!

Thy wonder stay: like men, this was their doom
That dust they were, and should to dust return.
And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved,

Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves were green, And on them fell, as fell on every age,

As on their authors fell, oblivious Night,

Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still,
Impenetrable, motionless, and sad,

Having his dismal leaden plumage, stirr'd
By no remembrancer, to show the men
Who after came what was conceal'd beneath."

NOVELS.

The story-telling tribe alone outran
All calculation far, and left behind,

Lagging, the swiftest number: dreadful, even
To fancy, was their never-ceasing birth;

And room had lack'd, had not their life been short.
Excepting some-their definition take

Thou thus, express'd in gentle phrase, which leaves
Some truth behind. A novel was a book
Three-volumed, and once read: and oft cramin'd full
Of poisonous error, blackening every page;
And oftener still of trifling, second-hand
Remark, and old, diseased, putrid thoughts,
And miserable incident, at war

With nature, with itself and truth at war:
Yet charming still the greedy reader on,
Till nothing found, but dreaming emptiness,
These, like ephemera, sprung in a day,
From lean and shallow-soil'd brains of sand,
And in a day expired; yet while they lived,
Tremendous, oft-times, was the popular roar ;
And cries of-Live forever-struck the skies."

SECTION XXI.

MRS FELICIA D. HEMANS,

born in 1793, of Irish and German origin, passed her youth among the mountains and valleys of North Wales, the sublime and beautiful scenes of which produced their natural effects upon her mind. "The earnest and continual study of Shakspeare imparted to her the power of giving language to thought; and before she had entered her thirteenth year, a printed collection of her Juvenile Poems was given to the world. From this period till her death, in 1835, she