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There was no moral obstacle to prevent them being together as much as they pleased. Marcian had no wife, and Julia supposed her husband at the bottom of the sea. Had there been any objection of this serious nature, we cannot but say that it would have been Marcian's duty to have carried his self-denial still farther, and to have driven her from his thoughts as well as from his eyes. It was a mere accident at last which broke the ice, and we advise all young ladies who have such beings as a Marcian to deal with, (though, if they do not wish to run ultimately the risk of being poisoned, they had much better chuse among a different class of lovers,) just to throw loose the reins, and let fortune order for them as she will. We must give our readers the scene of this eclaircissement, though somewhat long, as it is written in our poet's best manner. It is at the beginning of the second canto, and opens with a fine invocation to love.

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And aid me as I try gently to tell
The story of that young Italian pair,
Who loved so lucklessly, yet ah! so well.
How long Colonna in his gloomier mood
Remained, it matters not: I will not brood
On evil themes; but, leaving grief and
crime,

At once I pass unto a blyther time.
-One night-one summer night he wan-
dered far

Into the Roman suburbs; Many a star Shone out above upon the silent hours, Save when, awakening the sweet infant flowers,

The breezes travell'd from the west, and

then

A small cloud came abroad and fled again.

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Whither, ah! whither is my lost love stray. ing

Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?
Oh! ye winds now playing
Like airy spirits 'round my temples free,
Fly and tell him this from me :

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Julia-and gently, for I have grown old
In sorrow ere my time: I kneel to thee."
-Thus with a passionate voice the lover
broke

Upon her solitude, and while he spoke
In such a tone as might a maiden move,
Her fear gave place to pride, and pride to
love.

Quick are fond women's sights, and clear

their powers,

They live in moments years, an age in hours;

Through every movement of the heart they

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And saw the hectic flush upon his cheek,
(That silent language which the passions
speak

So eloquently well,) and so she smiled
Upon him. With a pulse rapid and wild,
And eyes lit up with love, and all his woes
Abandoned or forgot, he lightly rose,
And placed himself beside her. "Julia!
My own, my own, for you are mine," he
said;

Then on her shoulder drooped his feverish head,

And for a moment he seemed dying away:

But he recovered quick. "Oh! Marcian, I fear"-she softly sighed : Again, again,

Speak, my divinest love,-again, and shower

The music of your words which have such power,

Such absolute power upon my fainting soul

Oh! I've been wandering toward that fearful goal,

Where Life and Death, Trouble and Silence meet,

(The Grave,) with weak, perhaps with erring feet,

A long, long time without thee-but no

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tears;

But, my poor friend, I fear a misery Beyond the reach of tears has weighed on thee.

What 'tis I know not, but (now calmly mark

My words) 'twas said that-that thy mind was dark,

And the red fountains of thy blood, (as Heaven

Is stained with the dying lights of Even,) Were tainted-that thy mind did wander far,

At times, a dangerous and erratic star, Which like a pestilence sweeps the lower sky,

Dreaded by every orb and planet nigh. This hath my father heard. Oh! Marcian,

He is a worldly and a cruel man,
And made me once a victim; but again
It shall not be. I have had too much of
pain,

Too much for such short hours as life affords,

And I would fain from out the golden hoards

Of joy, pluck some fair ornament, at last, To gild my life with-but my life hath past."

Her head sank on her bosom: gently he Kissed off the big bright tears of misery. Alas! that ever such glittering drops should flow

(Bright as though born of Happiness) from woe!

-He soothed her for a time, and she grew calm,

For lovers' language is the surest balm To hearts that sorrow much; that night they parted

With kisses and with tears, but both lighthearted,

And many a vow was made, and promise spoke,

And well believed by both, and never broke:

They parted, but from that time often

met

In that same garden when the sun had set,
And for a while Colonna's mind forgot,
In the fair present hour, his future lot.
pp. 33-42.

In process of time the happy pair were united; but one morning when Colonna was out upon his wanderings, who should appear before him but Julia's first husband Orsini, who had actually been so ill-bred as to vomit out the salt water which he had swallowed, instead of politely permitting it to choak him? Without any explanation as to the reason of the expedition, Marcian instantly set sail, with his Julia, from Italy, and of course, according to the invariable practice of poets, from the Odyssey and the Æneid, down to Don Juan, they are encoun tered by a storm. Although it is a kind of writing quite out of his usual way, we must admit that Barry Corn wall's storm is but little, if any thing, inferior to those of his great predecesWe are sorry that we have not room for it at present, but we shall insert it in our next Number. It contains, among other fine passages, the sublime, though somewhat laboured, apostrophe to the Ocean, which we quoted in our last, and it thus concludes:

sors.

And now-whither are gone the lovers now?

Colonna, wearest thou anguish on thy brow, And is the valour of the moment gone? Fair Julia, thou art smiling now alone:

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Rolls boiling o'er the wreck triumphantly, And shrieks are heard and cries, and then short groans,

Which the waves stifle quick, and doubtful tones

Like the faint moanings of the wind pass by,

And horrid gurgling sounds rise up and die, And noises like the choaking of man's breath

-But why prolong the tale-it is of death.

The heroes of this poem have all, alacrity in sinking" however, drownlike Sir John Falstaff, 66 a kind of ing is a death which they abhor as much as he did. Marcian and Julia start up again as well as Orsini-but it would have been much better for them if they had remained quietly in the caverns of the ocean. They are very needlessly thrown ashore, and rescued by some fishermen, and Marcian leads a romantic kind of life for a time, supporting his beloved by means of that humble craft. He again, however, finds that Orsini is in his neighbourhood, and he carries Julia into the wild retreats of the Appenines, near the monastery of Laverna, where he had passed his insane youth, and where his star was now destined to set still more heavily in clouds. She discovers the existence of her husband, and secretly resolves to part from Marcian:-he reads her purpose in her changed deportment,-he forms his own dark purpose, and the story ends in the following powerfully painted, but too horrible catastrophe:

No talk was pleasant now; no image fair; No freshness and no fragrance filled the air; No music in the winds nor in the sound The wild birds uttered from the forests

round:

The sun had lost its light, and drearily The morning stole upon his altered eye; And night with all her starry eyes grew dim,

For she was changed,—and nought was true to him.

From pain at length, from pain, (for could he bear

The sorrow burning wild without a tear?) He rushed beside her: Towards him gloomily

She looked, and then he gasped-" We

list to me

We-we must part-must part: is it not so ?"

She hung her head and murmured," Woe, oh! woe,

That it must be so-nay, Colonna-nay
Hearken unto me: little can I say,

But sin-(is it not sin ?) doth wear my heart

Away to death. Alas! and must we part, We who have loved so long and trulyyes;

Were we not born, (we were,) for wretchedness.

Oh! Marcian, Marcian, I must go: my road

Leads to a distant home, a calm abode, There I may pine my few sad years away, And die, and make my peace ere I decay-" She spoke no more, for now she saw his soul

Rising in tumult, and his eyeballs roll
Wildly and fiery red, and thro' his cheek
Deep crimson shot: he sighed but did not
speak.

Keeping a horrid silence there he sate,
A maniac, full of love, and death, and fate.
Again the star that once his eye shone o'er
Flash'd forth again more fiercely than be-

fore:

And thro' his veins the current fever flew Like lightning, withering all it trembled through;

He clenched his hands and rushed away,

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We have quoted some of the finest passages in this poem, although there are many splendid invocations and descriptions, to which we have not been of the Dramatic Scenes, or the Miscelable to allude, nor can we now speak laneous Pieces which are subjoined to it. It is Mr Cornwall's greatest, but we do not think his most pleasing or successful effort. He has tasked himself high, but seems to be treading too closely on the steps of Lord Byron. We like his own native walks much better. Nobody but that Lord can make ruffians and madmen at all agreeable, and we have really no wish to see any one else succeed in the same attempt, though the whole poetic world are striving hard at it, we think, with very little to do for their pains. Mr Shelley has beat his Lordship all to nothing in point of atrocity,-but we look upon Mr Shelley's performances as solely and simply detestable and hateful; he is un enfant perdu," on whom it is not worth while to waste a word; but we regret to see the pure and classical muse of Mr Cornwall giving any countenance whatever to this reigning folly. Perhaps, like all other poets of the age,

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(except Campbell, who has the opposite fault,) he is getting into the way of writing too much and too hurriedly; and the consequence must be, that he can scarce avoid falling into the prevailing fashion, of whatever kind that may be. He struck out a path for himself in his Dramatic Scenes. Why should he not try to redeem our modern poetry from the stigma which has so long been affixed to it-its dramatic incapacity? Why should he not attempt a whole play? Only let him not be in a hurry. We do not absolutely insist upon the nonum prematur in annum,"-but he is one of those poets, we imagine, who cannot finish too highly, and whose delicate and refined genius must only shine the brighter from every fresh application of the file.

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ANECDOTES OF THE LATE KING AND

QUEEN.

THE following anecdotes are from the letters of Mrs Delany, widow of Dr Patrick Delany, just published. We have not seen the book itself, but we gladly avail ourselves of the selection made from it in that very useful and well conducted Miscellany, the Literary Gazette. There can be no finer tribute to the virtues of our departed Sovereigns, and these, alas! are times in which

We cannot but remember such things were That were most precious to us!

Mrs Delany lived first with the Duchess of Portland, and on her death was invited by their Majesties to reside near them in Windsor, where she had constant opportunities of observing their interior economy and private conduct. The preface justly remarks

"At a moment like this, when the recent loss of our beloved monarch has excited interest towards every circumstance illustrative of his private life and character, it is thought that these letters, unaffectedly displaying the domestic happiness that reigned at Windsor Castle, and recording many traits which do honour to the head and the heart of the Sovereign, and of his Consort, would not prove uninteresting to the public. Who, indeed, would not rejoice that true happiness,' characterized by a great author as arising from the enjoyment of one's self, and from the friendship and conversation of a few select com

panions,' should have so eminently existed, where least likely to be found; on the centre of a Court, on the very throne of the greatest and most powerful empire of Europe ?

"Many of the anecdotes will, perhaps, be thought by some readers too trivial and unimportant for public notice; did they concern private individuals, the objection would be readily admitted; but the most trifling circumstance acquires dignity and interest, when it refers to departed worth and greatness; and the mind dwells with more satisfaction upon the recollection of George the Third, as the exemplary character in every social relation of life, than it does upon the splendour of his regal state."

Before copying the account of an evening at Windsor, we insert the Queen's letter of invitation to the author of these letters, who thus states the circumstance to her friend.

"On Saturday, the 3d of this month, one of the Queen's messengers came and brought me the following letter from her majesty, written with her own hand :"My dear Mrs Delany will be glad to hear that I am charged by the King to

summon her to her new abode at Windsor for Tuesday next, where she will find all the most essential parts of the house ready, excepting some little trifles, which it will be better for Mrs Delany to direct herself in person, or by her little deputy, Miss Port. I need not, I hope, add, that I shall be extremely glad and happy to see so amiable an inliabitant in this our sweet retreat; and wish, very sincerely, that my dear Mrs Delany may enjoy every blessing amongst us that her merits deserve. That we may long enjoy her amiable company, Amen! These are the truc sentiments of, My dear Mrs Delany's "Very affectionate Queen, "CHARLOTTE.

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"Queen's Lodge, Windsor, Sept 3, 1785.

"P. S. I must also beg that Mrs Delany will choose her own time of coming, as will best suit her own convenience.'

"I received the Queen's letter at dinner, and was obliged to answer it instantly, with my own hand, without seeing a letter I wrote. I thank God I had strength enough to obey the gracious summons on the day appointed. I arrived here about eight o'clock in the evening, and found his Majesty in the house ready to receive me. I threw myself at his feet, indeed unable to utter a word; he raised and saluted ine, and said he meant not to stay longer than to desire I would order every thing that could make the house comfortable and agrecable to me, and then retired.

"Truly I found nothing wanting, as it

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