put up at the best inns. At one place in Dorsetshire, where his danger was the greatest, he found that the principal inn was kept by the mayor, which circumstance made him chuse that very house for his quarters. Here he came towards evening, ordered a handsome supper, to which he invited the company of the landlord and his wife. In the middle of the repast the mayor received a message desiring him to grant a search warrant for the apprehension of one Ferguson. The magistrate in consequence being obliged to retire for the discharge of his official duty, made an apology to his guest, and at the same time acquainted him with the reason of his absence. On his return the conversation fell upon the subject of the fugitive, and the offences with which he stood charged. Ferguson, who knew that too much ardour in condemning frequently betrays consciousness of guilt, and that an attempt to palliate crime is apt to create suspicion, both which are the errors of little cunning, commended the zeal of the magistrate with that discreet coolness which generally accompanies moderation and honesty, and then deviated imperceptibly to topics best calculated for his own security. The evening passed away pleasantly, and Ferguson lay till pretty late in the morning, when he arose confident enough of his being safe while in that house, but not so sure of getting out of the town to the sea side. In order to obviate this difficulty he called for breakfast, and again desired the company of his worship, with whose conversation he affected to be so much pleased, that he promised if the mayor would ride to the next town, and spend the evening with him, he would stop and take dinner. This flattery won the affection of the host, who very readily complied, and thus Ferguson in the company of the magistrate passed safely through that town and the neighbourhood without being at all suspected. He then got a passage to Holland, and returned from thence with the Prince of Orange.

ANECDOTES OF ALFIERI. THE following necdotes of Alfieri are from an authentic source, and appear worthy of record. The poet was one evening at the house of the Princess Carignani, and leaning, in one of his silent moods, against a sideboard decorated with a rich tea-service of china, by a sudden movement of his long loose tresses threw down one of the cups. The lady of the mansion ventured to tell him that he had spoiled her set, and had better

[Sept. 1,

have broken them all; but the words were no sooner said than Alfieri, without replying or changing countenance, swept off the whole service upon the floor. His hair was fated to bring another of his eccentricities into play; for, being alone at the theatre at Turin, and hanging carelessly with his head backwards over the corner of his box, a lady in the next seat on the other side of the partition, who had, on other occasions, made several attempts to attract his attention, broke into violent and repeated encomiums on his auburn locks, which were flowing down close to her hand. Alfieri spoke not a word, and continued in his posture until he left the theatre. The lady received the next morning a parcel, the contents of which she found to be the tresses she had so much admired, and which the count had cut off close to his head. There was no billet with the present, but words could not have more clearly expostulated, "if you like the hair here it is, but for heaven's sake leave me alone."

Alfieri employed a respectable young man at Florence to assist him in his Greek translations, and the manner in which that instruction was received was not a little eccentric. The tutor slowly read aloud, and translated the tragedian, and Alfieri, with his pencil and tablets in his hands, walked about the room and put down his version. This he did without speaking a word, and when he found his preceptor reciting too quickly, or when he did not understand the passage, he held up his pencil,-this was the signal for repetition, and the last sentence was slowly recited, or the reading was stopped, until a tap from the poet's pencil upon the table warned the translator that he might continue his lecture. The lesson began and concluded with a slight and silent obeisance, and during the twelve or thirteen months of instruction, the count scarcely spoke as many words to the assistant of his studies. The Countess of Albany, however, on receiving something like a remonstrance against this reserve, assured this young man that the count had the highest esteem for him and his services; but it is not to be supposed that the master felt much regret at giving his last lesson to so Pythagorean a pupil.

The same gentleman describes the poet as one whom he had seldom heard speak in any company, and as seldom saw him smile. His daily temper depended not a little on his favourite horse, whom he used to feed out of his own hands, and

The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ;

Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
Ye howling winds and wintry-swelling waves ;
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly,
Where to the whistling blast, and waters'
roar,

Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss my country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her
rod;

She heard the tidings of the fatal blow,
And sunk abandoned to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,

Now gay in hope explore the paths of men. See, from his cavern, grim Oppression rise, And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;

[Sept. 1,

Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times :
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way;
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and
Wrong:

Hark, injured Want recounts the unlisten'd tale,

And much-wronged Misery pours the unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,

Inspire and soothe my melancholy strains!
Ye tempests rage! ye turbid torrents roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul:
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;
mine,

To mourn the woes my Country must endure,

That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

BY GRANVILLE PENN, ESQ. Cold is the breast, extinct the vital spark, That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse; The mental vision too, how surely dark, Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues, Sees not a noble heart that fain would choose The course to heaven, could that course be found;

And since on earth it nothing fears to lose, Would joy to press that blest etherial ground, Where peace, and truth, and life, and

friends, and love abound.

I deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel; Steel is the heart that could that thought

receive;

But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel;
Eager in joy-but not unwont to grieve:
And sorely do I view his vessel leave-
Like erring bark of cord and chart bereft-
The shore to which his soul would love to
cleave.

Would, Harold! I could make thee know, full oft,

That bearing thus the helm, the land thou

seek'st is left!

Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal;
Canst fly mankind to brood with her apart;
Unutterable sense! that inward feel,
When swells the soul, and heaves the la-
bouring heart

With yearning throes, that sympathetic start
At Nature's majesty remote from man.
In kindred raptures I have borne my part;
The Pyrenean horrors loved to scan,
And from the crest of Alps, peruse the
mighty plan.

""Tis extasy to brood o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion
dwell,

To climb the trackless mountain, all unseen,
And mortal steps have ne'er, or rarely been ;
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean.
This is not solitude!-'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's God, and see his
stores unrolled."*

Forget we not the artist in the art,
Nor overlook the giver in the grace;
Say! what is Nature but that little part
Which man's imperfect vision can embrace.
Of the stupendous whole that fills all space;
The work of Him by whom all space is

bound?

* Childe Harold.

Tis just! 'tis Harold's due; yet let not this Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains.

What mortal lives, not guilty or remiss? What breast that hath not felt remorse's pains?

133

But with renewed existence, ever rife,
No more in dark uncertainty be tost,
When once that turning barrier is crost;
The birth of mortals to immortal day!
Oh let not then this precious hour be lost!
But humbly turn to Him who points the way

sin's foul stains?

And can this hapless thing-pollute-debased,

Its dying nature self-reanimate?

Say, can the sculptored marble, once defaced,
Restore its lineaments--re-form its state?
That only can the sculptor renovate;
Else must the marr'd and mutilated stone
For ever be disfigured—desolate.

So man may sin and wail, but not atone :
That restorative power belongs to God alone!
Yet is atonement made.-Creation's Lord
Deserts not thus the work his skill devised.
Thou, not the creature only, but the ward,
Too dearly in thy Maker's eye art prized,
Than thus to lie, abandon'd and despis'd!
Atonement is th' Almighty's richest dole,
And ever in the mystic plan compris'd,
To mend the foul debasement of the soul,
Restore God's likeness lost, and make the
image whole.

Oh!" if as holiest men have deem'd there be,

A land of souls beyond death's sable shore,"
How would quick-hearted Harold burn to see
The much-lov'd object of his life once more,
And Nature's new sublimities explore
In better worlds!—Ah, Harold! I conjure,
Speak not in ifs to those whom God hath
Laught!

If aught on earth, that blessed truth is sure:
All gracious God, to quiet human thought,
Hath pledged his sacred word, and demon-

stration wrought.

Did Babylon, in truth, by Cyrus fall?—
Is't true that Persia stain'd theGrecian land?
Did Philip's son the Persian host enthral,
OrCæsar's legions press the British strand?-
Fell Palestine by Titus' brand and sword?
Could Harold to these facts his fate entrust?
Then let him humbly learn and understand,
That Christ is ris'n; for the unjust-the
just;

Sole pledge of mortal frames, still mould'ring in the dust!

But Harold will not look beyond the tomb, And thinks he may not look for rest before; Fie, Harold, fie!-Unconscious of thy doom; The nature of thy soul thou know'st not

Such, such the prospect! such the glorious boon,

The last great end in Heav'n's supreme design!

Deem not thy cloud continuous, for soon
Must truth break in upon a soul like thine,
Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine!
O hear the words of love to thee addrest
By Him, thy Lord, all gracious and benign-
'Come unto me all ye by care opprest!
Come to my open'd arms, and I will give
you rest.'

Would thou hadst lov'd o'er Judah's court to stray!

Would Sion's Hill, Parnassus' love might share!

What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay
The sacred horrors of that land declare;
And all that holy scene engage thy care,
Where poets harped e'er Homer's shell was
strung;

Where heavenly wisdom poured her trea

STANZAS IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. Why bid me wake " a joyful measure,

Nor longer breathe a pensive strain ;" How can I tune my lyre to pleasure, Whilst my torn heart is wrung with pain? How can I sing in notes of gladness

When lost to all my soul holds dear? How can I tell-with ought but sadness,

Of hopes that come no more to cheer? No! though these dark regrets concealing, I strove to wake a " varied round," Sorrow's deep sigh would still be stealing,

Amid the chords, and mar their sound! No, no!-such mournful thoughts possessing

There is in grief a secret pride;And mirth's gay mask, but more oppressing, Would mock the woes it sought to hide! A. A. W.

134

SONNET. To *

****

GUY LUSIGNAN.

Look on that bed;-the fetter hung
Above;-the mat across it flung;
There sleeps a slave, the last, long sleep!
That eye within its socket deep,
That fallen nostril, lip like stone,
Tell that he's clay, dust, air-is gone!
This was some outcast, sent in scorn
Among life's strugglers-to be born-
A thing, to totter on a slave,

Till chance unloosed him for the grave!
He was a King!-aye, come and gaze
On the old man!-There lived a blaze
Of glory in the eye-ball hid
Beneath the pall of that dark lid;
There sate upon that pallid brow

A crown! but earth no more shall know
The lustre of thy diadem-

City of God! Jerusalem!

His life was splendid toil-he bound
No roses in the golden round;

His hands are scarred:-not all the stain
Of fetters-Ascalon's red plain,
The Moslem mother's howl can tell
Before whose lance her first-born fell:
And thicker scars are on his breast;
But lift not now that peasant vest,
Be reverent to the old, the brave,
The champion of the SAVIOUR's grave!
Yet he had joy before he died—
One bright, swift gleam of love and pride.
Like visions sent to gild the gloom,
Ere the pale martyr met the tomb,
He saw his royal infants-felt
The warrior and the beauty melt

In his weak arms.-Earth had no more.
Blessing he died-his course was o'er!

THE CONFESSION.

Bid the cold and callous hearted Brood o'er bliss he ne'er imparted;

PULCI.

[Sept. 1,

When the cheeks kindle, and the eyes,

It is not Love, when heart and mind
On their bright idol, fix and languish.

Are troubled like the stormy ocean;
When the press'd hands, convulsive join'd,
Thrill ev'ry pulse with wild emotion.
It is not Love, when madd'ning bliss
Suspends the faculties of reason ;.
"Tis baleful passion urges this,

And acts tow'rds Love the foulest treason. Love breathes in peace, and hope and joy ; Its trust, no fancied ills destroy; Love only sighs when absence parteth:

No jealous fear its bosom smarteth. From the stol'n glance, half-veil'd and meek, Love's fondest, truest, feeling breaketh; It speaks in blushes on the cheek,

Soft, as when summer morning waketh. In heart 'tis as the Christian's faith, Changeless and sacred-chaste-desiring; Decay it knows not;-and in death, Dies, but as life's last sighs expiring. 3, Durham-place, Chelsea.

POETRY.

Let him linger, let him languish
In his sordid, selfish anguish:
Not a sun his soul shall borrow,
To dispel his night of sorrow;
And a something shall annoy,
With a dread, his dreams of joy.

He knows not the blissful union
Souls partake by soft communion;
He knows not the pleasing sadness
Less allied to grief than gladness,
Which the pensive heart is proving,
When its life consists in loving;
As congenial pulses beat
With a mild and mutual heat.

He who can despise thee, woman!
Must be more or less than human:
On his heart a frost is seizing,

In his veins the blood is freezing:-
If thou canst not, what can move it?
But his coldness none will covet;
Not a bosom shall condole
With his poor and paltry soul.

Some may say thine eyes are cheating,
Some may say thy love is fleeting,
Some may say-but I believe not;
Well I know thy smiles deceive not.
There is one whose face my being
Finds redoubled life in seeing;
Who, with scraph smile, inspires
Gentle love and genial fires.

Fairy is her form of lightness,
Azure is her eye of brightness,
Snowy is her brow:-above it
Wreathe the auburn curls that love it,
Sweetly twining and invading

Rosy cheeks that need not shading:
Blush not at my telling thee,

W. P.

Oh my love! that thou art she!

M.