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Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
p. 56–59. On the accidental recurrence to his mind of the character of Numa, his spirit falls into a passionate dream of the Egerian Grot, in which there breathes that full, delicate, and perfect sense of beauty which often steals upon him during moods of a very different kind, and wins him, somewhat reluctantly, away into scenes filled with images of stillness and
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap
Fantastically tangled; the green hills.
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell
And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
The dull satiety which all destroys-
p. 60-62. But he will not allow himself to be held in the innocent enchantment of such emotions, and bursts again into those bitter communings with misery, without which it would absolutely seem he can have no continued existence, till at last he denounces a curse—the curse of forgiveness it is said to be on all that has perturbed and maddened his spirit. We wish to avoid, as much as possible, all reference to such distressing passions. But here they give a dark and terrible colouring to the poem, and it is impossible to misunderstand them. Our business is only with the poetry—at least we desire not to extend our privilege: And of the poetry we must say, that the season when the wild curse is imprecated, midnight; the scene, the ruined site of the Temple of the Furies, the auditors, the ghosts of de- · parted years, and the imprecator, a being whose soul, though endowed with the noblest gifts of nature, is by himself said to be in ruins like the grandeur around him-and even dark hints thrown out, that for its aberrations there may be found the most mournful of all excuses in the threatening of the most mournful of all human calamities;-all this renders the long passage to which we allude, one of the most awful records of the agonies of man-perhaps the most painful and agitating picVOL. XXX. xo. 59.
ture of the misery of the passions, without their degradation, that is to be found in the whole compass of human language. Let us escape from it, and turn our eyes to the moonlight and indistinct shadow of the ruins of the Coliseum.
A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Then in this magic circle raise the dead :
p. 74, 75. We regret that our limits will not allow us to quote any more of his description of the Ancient City ;—not even that of St Peter's-in which the loftiest words and most majestic images tender back an image of the august conceptions by which the mind of the poet seems to have been expanded in its contemplation. There are still, however, two passages in the poem which we would wish to lay before our readers—that on the death of our Princess and that on the Ocean. On the first we have not yet heart to venture—and with the last, therefore, we shall conclude; in which the Poet bids us farewell in a more magnificent strain than we can hope to hear again till his own harp, which has assuredly lost none of its music, be once more struck-and
it then be with steadier hands and a more tranquil spirit !
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll !
his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
My task is done—my song hath ceased—ny theme :
Less palpably before me and the glow
Farewell ! a word' that must be, and hath been-
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain,
p. 92-96. The Pilgrimage of Childe Harold has now been brought te its close; and of his character there remains nothing more to be laid open to our view. It is impossible to reflect on the years which have elapsed since this mysterious stranger was first introduced to our acquaintance, without feeling that our own spirits have undergone in that time many mighty changes, sorrowful in some it may be, in others happy changes. Neia ther can we be surprised, knowing as we well do who Childe Harold is, that he also has been changed. He represented himself, from the beginning, as a ruin; and when we first gazed upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the black traces of recent violence and convulsion. The edifice has not been rebuilt; but its hues have been sobered by the passing wings of time, and the calm slow ivy has had leisure to wreathe the soft green of its melancholy among the fragments of the decay. In so far, the Pilgrim has become wiser. He seems to think more of others, and with a greater spirit of humanity. There was some