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The whole earth is at rest, is quiet; they burst forth into a joyful shout
Even the fir-trees rejoice over thee, the cedars of Lebanon:
Since thou art fallen, no feller hath come up against us.

This is followed by a bold and animated personification of Hades,
or the infernal regions. Hades excites his inhabitants, the ghosts
of princes, and the departed spirits of kings: they rise imme
diately from their seats, and proceed to meet the monarch of
Babylon; they insult and deride him, and comfort themselves
with the view of his calamity :--

Art thou, even thou too, become weak as we? Art thou made like unto us? Is then thy pride brought down to the grave? the sound of thy sprightly instruments?

Is the vermin become thy couch, and the earth-worm thy covering?

Again, the Jewish people are the speakers, in an exclamation after the manner of a funeral lamentation, which indeed the whole form of this composition exactly imitates. The remarkable fall of this powerful monarch is thus beautifully illustrated :—

How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! Art cut down from earth, thou that didst subdue the nations! He himself is at length brought upon the stage, boasting in the most pompous terms of his own power, which furnishes the poet with an excellent opportunity of displaying the unparalleled misery of his downfall. Some persons are introduced, who find the dead carcass of the king of Babylon cast out and exposed: they attentively contemplate it, and at last scarcely know it to be

his

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Is this the man that made the earth to tremble; that shook the kingdoms? That made the world like a desert; that destroyed the cities?

They reproach him with being denied the common rites of sepulture, on account of the cruelty and atrocity of his conduct; they execrate his name, his offspring, and their posterity. A solemn address, as of the Deity himself, closes the scene; and he denounces against the king of Babylon, his posterity, and oven against the city which was the seat of their cruelty, perpetual destruction; and confirms the immutability of his own counsels by the solemnity of an oath.

How forcible is this imagery, how diversified, how sublime! how elevated the diction, the figures, the sentiments! The Jewish nation, the cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of departed kings, the Babylonish monarch, the travellers who find his corpse, and

1 This is, I think, the most sublime image I have ever seen conveyed in so few words. The apt. ness of the allegory to express the ruin of a powerful monarch by the fall of a bright star from heaven, strikes the mind in the most forcible manner; and the poetical beauty of the passage is greatly heightened by the personification, "Son of the morning." Whoever does not relish such painting as this is not only destitute of poetical taste, but of the common feelings of humanity.

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last of all JEHOVAH himself, are the characters which beautiful lyric drama. One continued action is kept up, or rather a series of interesting actions are connected together in an incom parable whole. This, indeed, is the principal and distinguished excellence of the sublimer ode, and is displayed in its utmost per fection in this poem of Isaiah, which may be considered as one of the most ancient, and certainly the most finished specimen of that species of composition which has been transmitted to us. The personifications here are frequent, yet not confused; bold, yet not improbable: a free, elevated, and truly divine spirit pervades the whole; nor is there any thing wanting in this ode to defeat its claim to the character of perfect beauty and sublimity. If, indeed, I may be indulged in the free declaration of my own sentiments on this occasion, I do not know a single instance in the whole compass of Greek and Roman poetry, which, in every excellence of composition, can be said to equal, or even to approach it.

THOMAS WARTON. 1728-1790.

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THOMAS WARTON, the learned author of the "History of English Poetry," was born at Basingstoke1 in 1728, of a family remarkable for its talent. His father, Rev. Thomas Warton, was professor of poetry at Oxford, and died in 1745: and his brother Joseph was the author of the "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope." Thomas was educated at Cambridge, and early acquired distinction by the superiority of his poetical productions. In 1754 he published his "Observations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser," which at once established his reputation for true poetic taste, and for extensive and varied learning. In 1757 he was elected to the professorship of poetry Pembroke College, the duties of which office he discharged with remarkable ability and success. In 1774 he published his first volume of "The History of English Poetry:" a second volume appeared in 1778, and a third in 1781. Into this very elaborate performance Warton poured the accumulated stores of a lifetime of reading and reflection: the survey he has given us of his subject is, accordingly, both eminently comprehensive in its scope, and rich and varied in its details: and as respects early English literature, it is a repository of information altogether unapproached in extent and abundance by any other single work of the same kind in the language. The work is, how ever, brought down to but very little beyond the commencement of the reign of Elizabeth, as he died while engaged in it, in May, 1790. It is deeply to be regretted that he had not carried the history of our literature through the reign of Elizabeth, as no one has presumed to continue the work; for to continue it with like success, would require the union of like powers-a combi nation rarely given to man.2

In Southampton county, about 45 miles W. S. W. of London.

2 "His consummate taste and discriminating judgment may on all occasions be implicitly trusted" Egerton Brydges.

THE HAMLET.-AN ODE.

The hinds(how blest, who ne'er beguiled
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild!
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main
For splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam
They rove abroadlin ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew
The sheaf to bind, the beechito fell,
That nodling shades a craggy dell,

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear:
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,

The meadow's incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare,

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share:
But when the curfew's measured roar

Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primrosed coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;

Or hasten from the sultry hill,

To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,

To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honey'd flowers
The curling woodbine's shade embowers:
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound:
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime:

But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar,
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

THE CRUSADE.AN ODE.

Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
All in azure steel array'dı

O'er the wave our weapons play'd,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung:
"Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard ploughs the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy
From distant towers, with anxious eye,
The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damascus' hills advance:

From Sion's turrets, as afar

Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin,2 thou paynim3 king,

From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
On Acon's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon,

England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,

On to victory we go,-
A vaunting infidel the foe!"

Blondel led the tuneful band,

And swept the lyre with glowing hand.
Cypress, from her rocky mound,

And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main

Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth

That gave a murder'd Saviour birth!
Then with ardor fresh endued,

Thus the solemn song renew'd:
"Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favor'd hills appear at last!
Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.

1 Richard L., surnamed, from his valor, Cœur de Lion.

2 The chief of the Mohammedans that defended Palestine against the Crusaders.

8 Pagan; it means here the professor of a false religion.

4 Anciently called Ptolemais; now St. Jean d'Acre.

The faithful minstrel of King Richard.

From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's' shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm;
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravish'd honors to restore
Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
And, thou, the sepulchre of God,
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,

And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright

For thee, from Britain's distant coast,

Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!

Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn2 he wields.

Proud Saracen, pollute no more

The shrines by martyrs built of yore!

From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown:

Thy battering-engines, huge and high,

In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.

When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapors damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain:
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth and Termagaunt!4
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's5 sooty tree,
'Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
"Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!

Soon on the battlements divine

Shall wave the badge of Constantine.

Ye barons, to the sun unfold

Our cross, with crimson wove and gold!"

1 A mountain of Palestine.

The celebrated sword of the British king, Arthur, said to have come into the possession of King Richard, and to have been given by him, as a present of inestimable value, to Tancred, King of Sicily.

3 A Syrian goddess.

4 The ignorant old chroniclers believed that the Mohammedans were idolaters, and that they wor shipped some deity named Termagaunt.

6 This alludes to an oriental superstition respecting a poisonous tree.

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