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“O'er meadows green or solitary lawn When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants, The long, clear shadows of the morning differ From those of eve, which are more soft and vague, Suggestive of past days and mellow'd grief. The lights of morning, even as her shades, Are architectural, and pre-eminent In quiet freshness, midst the pause that holds Prelusive energies. All life awakes, Morn comes at first with white, uncertain light; Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud Seen through gray mist; the mist clears off; the sky Unfolds; grows ruddy; takes a crimson flush; Puts forth bright sprigs of gold, which soon expanding In saffron, thence pure golden shines the morn; Uplifts its clear, bright fabric of white clouds, All tinted, like a shell of polished pearl, With varied glancings, violet gleam and blush Embraces nature; and then passes on, Leaving the sun to perfect his great work.”

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Passed near the entrance: once the cuckoo called
O'er distant meads, and once a horn began
Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound
Of murmurous music yet was in the breeze,
For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings,
And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustained
Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads.”

It is said, that one day when the author was sitting in Mr. Miller's, the publisher's shop, a boy came in, and shouted out in a nonchalant voice, “A penn'orth of epics,” throwing a penny down on the counter. A satirical poet has also alluded to this work in those lines:

“When epics four a penny at the shops,
Brought down the price of taws and lollypops.”

Orion, so strangely published, is, with the exception of “The Death of Marlowe,” the most finished of Mr. Horne's lucubrations. Our readers will observe that he has adopted the Greek names of the gods, instead of the Latin ones; these were supplied him by Dr. Schmitz, who revised the sheets as they passed through the press. Mr. Horne's last production is a dramatic poem entited “Judas Iscariot,” a miracle play. In this he endeavors to revive the old idea that the apostate apostle betrayed our Saviour in order to test his Divine nature, and that he destroyed himself out of disappointment, at his having pinned his faith to an impostor. Mr. Horne is not answerable for the plot which he had found ready made to his hand, but he is responsible for the bad taste of the selection, and for the still greater shortcomings in the execution. He manages the hanging of Judas in the somewhat singular manner of his being strangled by rows of thorns, &c. Mr. Horne in person is short and inelegant, inclined to corpulence; his head is, however, very fine, being almost perfectly bald, with the exception of a few ringlets which hang down in graceful tendrils on his shoulders. His complexion is fair, eyes light grey, the features somewhat small and finely chiselled; and altogether, the contour of his face bears a resemblance to Shakspere's head on a small scale; he is somewhat proud of this real or fancied likeness to the Sweet Swan of Avon. A somewhat ludicrous tale is told of Horne's ringlets. When, through the friendship of Talfourd, he was appointed one of the Assistant Inspectors of Factories, he was warned by the prudent and worldly-minded lawyer that his ringlets might militate against his interests when he was called before the. Lords of the Council, as those sapient fellows might consider a wig indispensable to wisdom. After much beating about the bush, Talfourd hinted at the Dalilah-like process of shearing the locks—not Belinda herself could have been more astonished at “the fact accomplished” than was shown now at the enormity proposed; a decided refusal was the poet inspector's reply. When, however, the morning dawned big with the fate of ringlets and of Horne, he, having weighed the grandeur of his tresses against the salary of his place, thought better of it; and as he was about to enter the Board Room, tucked the waving locks down the collar of his coat. He then went in, had his interview, and on coming down the steps, with great dignity released his imprisoned darlings from their durance vile. Horne was “himself again.”

EDWARD MO X ON .

Lord Bacon has observed that some men are born great— others achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. This passage, however true, is chiefly remarkable for being quoted by Shakspere, by his inimitable Maria, when she is about to quiz Malvolio into the belief of the Lady Olivia's love for her cross-gartered steward. It has sometimes occurred to us that a fourth class of human nature might be made out of that portion who thrust themselves upon greatness: of this section the amiable author of “Sonnets and sundry other Poems,” would be a distinguished ornament: indeed he might not unreasonably be called the “Magnus Apollo” of that peculiar race.

One of the happiest strokes of Mr. Croker's pen is in a review of Moxon's Sonnets. The amiable sonnetter has placed, as a motto to this volume, the following quotation from Wordsworth:

“In truth, the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is:—and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground.”

The aforesaid Croker whereon remarks thus blandly, and we are bound to add, in justice to the said Croker, most truly, “That might be very well for the author of ‘The Excursion,' to say, but it becomes perfectly ludicrous when uttered by Mr. Moxon. What might be a scanty plot of ground for an elephant like Wordsworth, would be a boundless wilderness for a flea, like Edward Moxon.” It is very seldom that we agree with anything we see in the “Quarterly Review,” but here we feel a kind of sympathy that reconciles us even to Croker, “the last infirmity of a noble mind.” Indeed, the whole volume of the respectable “publisher of the poets” convinces us that it must be the volume referred to by Slender, when he says to his man Simple,

“I would give a thousand pounds had
I my Book of Sonnets here.”

Were we a Suydam, or a John Jacob Astor, we would give a thousand pounds not to have Moxon's Sonnets in America, if we were compelled to read them ; this is, however, a mere matter of taste, as we know one who reads them with peculiar relish to his unhappy wife and children, and that is, the simple-minded author himself.

Lest we should be thought unjust towards this curiosity of type and paper, we proceed to favor our readers with some specimens of the best we can find. Mark the peculiarity of his diction— how sweet his English lisps upon his tongue.

TO A BIRD.

“Sweet captive, thou a lesson me hast taught
Excelling any which the schools convey;
Example before precept men obey.
Methinks already I have haply caught
A portion of thy joy. Contentment rare,
For one in dull abode like thince, I trace,
Blended with warblings of such cheerful grace;
And yet without a listening ear to share,
Save mine, thy melody. Thus all day long,
Even as the youthful bard that meditates
In scenes the visionary mind creates,
Thou to some woodland image turn'st thy song;
A prisoner too to hope, like him, sweet bird,
In lonely cell thou sing'st, and sing'st unheard.”

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