respecting the attachment of the hero and heroine, Lorenzo and Isabella : 'With every morn their love grew tenderer, To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, In the Eve of St Agnes, there is one peculiarly beautiful picture-Madeline kneeling by moonlight, in a convent, beneath a window of stained glass 'A casement high and triple-arched there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of kings and queens. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, And on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.' In an imperfect poem entitled Hyperion, which appeared in this volume, and related to the dethronement of Saturn by Jupiter, and the later gods taking the places of the early powers of heaven and earth, Mr Keats's genius rose to a height which we do not think has been surpassed, or even reached, by any modern poet. His singular imagination here carries the reader into the times of the dawning mythology of Greece, which he renders instinct with a life and nature quite of his own forming. All is huge, gloomy, and wonderful. The deposed Saturn is thus described : 'Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more Spreading a shade. * * Along the margin sand large footmarks went, There is also an ode to the Nightingale, full of sweet poetry, and touching in a most affecting manner on his own sad state. It is worthy of being given entire 'My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm south, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never knownThe weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown, I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To seize upon the midnight with no pain, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-Do I wake or sleep?' Soon after the publication of his last volume, the Edinburgh Review noticed his works in such a candid and generous spirit as must have compensated, if anything could now have compensated, for the malignity of other critics, and arrested, if anything could now have arrested, his progress towards the tomb. While acknowledging the existence of faults, the reviewer spoke of his works as 'flushed all over with the rich lights of fancy, and so coloured and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry, that, even while perplexed and bewildered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantments they so lavishly present.' He added, with reference to the Endymion, which had been so abused elsewhere: 'We do not know any book which we would sooner employ as a test to ascertain whether any one had in him a native relish for poetry, and a genuine sensibility to its intrinsic charm. While these praises were passing upon his writings, the young poet was on his way to Italy, in the hope of staying the progress of his malady. After his arrival in that country, he revived for a short time, but soon grew worse. A few weeks before his death, a gentleman sitting close by his bedside, spoke of an inscription to his memory. He expressed his dislike of the proposal--he wished that there should be no mention of his name or country; Or if any,' said he, 'let it beHere lies the body of one whose name was writ in water? He breathed his last on the 23d of February 1821, in the twenty-fifth year of his age. According to his earliest literary friend and patron, 'Mr Keats had a very manly as well as delicate spirit. He was personally courageous in no ordinary degree, and had the usual superiority of genius to little arts and the love of money. His patrimony, which was inconsiderable, he freely used in part, and even risked altogether, to relieve the wants of others, and forward their views. He was handsome, with remarkably beautiful hair, curling in natural ringlets.' THE MAMMOTH CAVE OF KENTUCKY. THE great majority of the natural excavations or caverns found on the surface of the earth, have been formed by subterranean currents of water, which have enlarged original fissures, or carried away masses of soft clay or loose sand, that were interposed between layers of hard rock. The streams, or springs, that exist in almost every cavern of any great extent, tend strongly to corroborate this view. It is observable, also, that nearly all large caverns occur in limestone formations, through which water filtrates with ease, and where, of course, it is most likely to accumulate in such quantities as to require and force for itself a vent. The subsidence of rocks, or the upheavings of them by earthquakes or volcanic agency, may doubtless have originated some caverns, but the majority of them are unquestionably to be ascribed to the escape of infiltrated water in the manner alluded to. The most remarkable cavern which has been discovered in any part of the world, is that called the Mammoth Cave, in Kentucky, North America. What the true proportions of this cave are, as far as regards the length to |