Although our argument was quite forgot;
But, calling the attendants, went to dine
At Maddalo's :-yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him,
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim.
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vow'd deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not
But in the light of all-beholding truth;
And having stamped this canker on his youth,
She had abandoned him and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not:-he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness:
These now were lost-it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colour of his mind seemed yet unworn:
For the wild language of his grief was high-
Such as in measure were called poetry.
And I remember one remark. which then
Maddalo made: he said- Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:
They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

The following is a quaint imitation of the older English poets, and has some beautiful thoughts :

"Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thos wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade

Of z trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;

Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,

Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure,

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost

Which is nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seck, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,

And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life. O come, Make once more my heart thy home."

And these lines, which begin a piece called "the Boat on the Serchio," are extremely pleasing :

"Our boat is asleep in Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast,
And the oars and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there,
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,
The owl and the bat filed drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,
And the rocks above and the streams below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennine shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of aery gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.
Day had awakened all things that be,
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee :
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.

All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever knew or can be known."

From a volume of scattered and fugitive poetry our extracts must be disorderly and unconnected. If we are not mistaken, the following song has been published before, but it is a very sweet thing :-

"The odour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy kisses breathedon me;
The colour from the flower is flown,
Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not!

I sigh-it breathes no more on me;

Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be."

With a dirge for the year, and a sonnet on Political Greatness, our quotations must end.

"Orphan hours, the year is dead
Come and sigh, come and weep!

Merry hours, smile instead,
For the year is but asleep,

See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse,
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wait aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year;---be calm and mild,
Trembling hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps---but, O, ye hours,
Follow with May's fairest flowers."

"Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone."

A good portion of the volume is made up of translations from diferent languages. Amongst these is one of the Cyclops, an imperfect drama of Euripides; and a a part of Goethe's Faust. The first is curious, the latter excellent. It is to be lamented that he had not completed it.

On the merits of Mr. Shelley's poetry, it is scarcely necessary to dilate. Its characteristics, good or bad, are well known, and with the extracts given above, we leave it to the judgment and taste of the reader.

Histoire de la Vie et des Ouvrages de Raphael, ornee d'un Portrait. Par M. Quatremere de Quincy. Faris: Gosselin, 1824.

*WORKS relating to the elementary principles of the fine arts, or biographies of celebrated artists are very rare in this country. We excel in the practice rather than in the theory. A few good books have been published, and a great many bad ones. Sir Joshua Reynolds' Discourses are indisputably the best, and yet they are full of inconsistencies. His lectures may fairly represent the national feeling upon the subject of theories of art. Some of the other lecturers have collected together from different authors, or generalized from their own practice many useful and ingenious observations, but we are still without any code of art. Can this be said of any other country in Europe?

As to biographies of great artists, they are all foreigners, and Englishmen have an antipathy to foreigners. It would be difficult to point out a single account of any old master in our anguage which possesses the slightest merit. Duppa's compilations are wishywashy things, and Mr. Graham's Poussin is not much better. As one way of remedying the deficiency, we wish we could see well translated and judiciously abridged, the excellent work of the Abate Lanzi. It is the best general treatise on the history, biography, and character of painting, that any language contains.

With respect to M. de Quincy's Work, before us,it is a superficial compilation; better to be sure than Duppa's, but still not good. Raphael deserves some nobler monument. His is the greatest name in the annals of painting. The splendour of his genius eclipsed that of all others, whilst he lived, and it has streamed down to our times with unabated radiance. Three centuries and a half have not dimmed the lustre of his fame. All sorts of styles have been attempted in art, and yet his retains its supremacy. His works have been injured by time, and delaced by bad taste, and still they are the finest extant. Engravers have consecrated their lives to the transcription and multiplication of his productions, and no gallery is deemed valuable which does not possess one or more of his pictures. Such a man merits a better tribute from posterity than the imperfect notice of Vasari -the shallow compilation of Duppa-the brief but judicious account of Lanzi, and the common place volume before us,

It is impossible for us to give an abridgement of the works of M. de Quincy. It takes up Raphael at his birth, and traces him through life to his decease. The anecdotes of his early education under Perugino, his visits to Florence, his invitation to Rome, the patronage of Julius II. and the rivalry of Michael Angelo-his extraordinary productions, his wide-spread fame, his influence, wealth and station, are all too well known to require any repetition. Raphael appeared at a period particularly favourable to his genius. Painting in a comparatively rude state: -Great poverty of invention and meagreness of truth. Perugino has for some years been the best painter of his time, was remarkable for nothing but freshness of tones and want of expression. Da Vinci and Michael Angelo had burst out into a nobler style. Raphael was inspired by the productions of the one and the fame of the other. At the age of seventeen he began to distinguish himself by the novelty and grandeur of his conceptions; and the rest of his life was one of constant advancement. M. de Quincy names his pictures in their chronological order, and gives a critical account of them, but we cannot insert any of these notices. Nothing can be more dry and disagreeable than criticisms on unseen and unknown pictures, especially when written by a critic who has never seen what he criticises. We will however quote some passages containing the writer's opinion as to the influence of Da Vinci, and Michael Angelo over the mind and works of Raphael.

More

" There is no proof that Raphael during his frequent visits to Florence, ever contracted any friendship for Leonardo da Vinci. On the other hand, no proof is required to shew that there was between them a great natural sympathy, and an equal taste for the same kind of grace and purity. than one picture of Raphael painted about this period, that for instance, of the Virgin-la Giardineira, -one might describe as belonging to the same family. How, indeed, is it possible to believe that the bee of Urbino did not gather something valuable from the flowers of da Vinci? It is, however, always necessary to avow that the rare combination of qualities which the artist requires from the study of nature and art, results from a mental operation beyond the power of theory to analyze. We might as well pretend to detect in the honey of the insect, all the elements of the different juices which it has amalgamated. It is just so with the product of intellect and taste, combining the manner of different masters. This is one of the mysteries of the faculty of imitation, the effect of which is often confounded with the art of the copyist, or with the repetitions which the pupil is wont to make of the works of the saine master. Hence has arisen that interminable dispute as to the influence of Michael Angelo over Raphael-an influence of which we shall have to speak when we come to notice these two great rivals at Rome, acting in a more extended theatre."

The imitation of some fragments of ancient sculpture, and above all, the profound and incessant study of anatomy soon raised Michael Angelo in drawing far above all his contemporaries.

M. de Quincy then speaks of a cartoon by Michael Angelo, of the war of Pisa, which combined all the excellencies of design, and raised his reputation to the highest pitch. Varasi bestows on it the most enthusiastic praise. It was destroyed soon after without being completed, but some of the figures still exist, and evince the profound knowledge of Michael Angelo in anatomy, and his prodigious ability in shewing the human form in its most difficult and most imposing

attitudes:

"We cannot dissemble the impression which this celebrated work must have produced. To appreciate it justly, we should recollect the method and style of design which then prevailed, with some slight exceptions, in all the Ita

lian schools. The usages of the time had not favoured the study of the human form; nor did the nature of devotional subjects and the habits of religious decency render it necessary; and the few antique statues then discovered had not supplied any considerable knowledge of the naked form. There was a great deal of pictorial truth, but it never rose above the line of portrait. It was an exact copy of the physiognomy and the ordinary habiliments of the times. The naked form was delineated in right lines without articulation or anatomical precision. The drawing was in exact correspondence to the composition. The painter did not dare to hazard any of those contracted attitudes which represent the human body in positions more or less difficult to size; in varied groupes, or complicated situations, which at present form so fine a field for masterly concep

tions."

This cartoon became the object of every artist's study. Raphael is mentioned amongst those, who devoted themselves to its contemplation: but a difficulty here presents itself; for if Raphael early saw, felt, and

studied this admirable cartoon, where was the necessity of his afterwards causing the Sistine Chapel to be secretly opened, in order that he might study the grand manner of his rival ?

"It is probable that Raphael learned from Michel Angelo to give a fuller developement of form to his designs, and greater freedom and amplitude to his style. All this however did not change in any respect his own peculiar character, nor his already established gusto. The works which he produced at that time do not really denote any sensible influence of Michael Angelo's manner over his rule. He did not cease to pursue the line which his own genius marked out for him. His progression was slow, but it was a progression, without any sudden change or abrupt advance."

The great reputation of Raphael induced Julius II. to invite him to Rome for the purpose of completing the chambers of the Vatican. He was then twenty-five years of age, and although his first works after his arrival, did not equal those of more mature years, yet they are marvellous proofs of talent and genius in so young a man. Rome, in its wreck and ruin, has scarcely any thing more curious and wonderful to boast of, than the halls of the Vatican. The subsequent improvement of Raphael in grandeur and boldness gives occasion for another essay by M. de Quincy as to the probable influence of Michael Angelo's productions. He decades in the affirmative, and with every appearance of reason. From the comparison between Kaphael and Michael Angelo, one extract shall be made:

"The genius of these two great men had nothing in common. It sprung from a different germ, and could not produce similar fruit. To be convinced of this, it is only necessary to refer back to the epoch of their birth, and to recollect the low state in which the art of design was kept by the prevalent ignorance of anatomical studies. The profound researches and inveterate study of Michael Angelo in anatomy, opened out and indicated to his successors the fundamental science of the human form. Raphael, on the other hand, studied design in the best works of his time; ameliorated by the study of antiquity, which he never intermitted. It may be asked whether these different modes of study were the result, or the cause of the disposition of their minds, and the tendency of their tastes? Whatever be the answer, it is certain that both modes would have a necessary influence on the works and the impression produced by those works. Michael Angelo from an early age was accustomed to see in the study of man-the physical man composed of bones, muscles, and tendons. The extreme skill with which he made this sort of knowledge stared out in his works, and led him to choose such subjects as would display it to the greatest advantage. But the disadvantage of anatomical knowledge, when it prevails over all others, is, to substitute an energetic expression of corporeal form, for the moral expression of soul and feel ng. Thus, Michael Angelo seems to be more occupied with giving motion (in which he has no equal) to his figures than in giving them thought and passion. Generally speaking, his heads want he is unskilful in the expression of beauty and the varieties sensibility, his groupings and composition want grace, and of sex, condition and manners. He has but one quality in perfection, power: but one mode of expression-sombreness of disposition. The talent of Raphael was formed out of a greater diversity of elements and the taste for the antique purified and harmonized them. Prepared and prompted at an early age to seize the whole of those qualities which constitute a painter, he constantly advanced from his first to his last work, towards that point of moral view which

means of giving a better form to his ideas and of expreeting

the character of each subject according to its proprieties. Thus, when in form and design, his rival had but a single tone; he charges it according to his will, or rather according to the necessity of the subject he handles. Besides, he exercised his genius on all topics, from the simplest to the most sublime: his paintings embrace religious, historical, mythological, and allegorical compositions; and he revived amongst the moderns all the inventions which belonged to the poetical world of Greece. If Michael Angelo is the greatest of designers, Raphael is the first of painters. But the idea of a painter comprehends more than that of a designer. If in the one respect of originality of design, Michael Angelo is not to be compared with anyone; Raphael on the contrary, may challenge comparison in every respect with all."

These opinions are not very clearly and neatly expressed, but they appear to us to be in the main correct. M. de Quincy developes them at some length, and with considerable ingenuity. He is still more ingenious in his examination of the different Virgins of Raphael, and his conjectures about the painter's ideal of sacred beauty.

After finishing his notices of Raphael's works in the Vatican, M. de Quincy considers him as a portrat painter, and an architect: in both of which pursuits he was eminent. The plan of St. Peter's he eulogizes as being nearly perfect. Several palaces and villas at Rome, and Florence, of his design, still remain, and testify his architectural taste. His decorations of the Farnesina palace are noticed at great length, as are his celebrated cartoons.

In the midst of his fame, and in the full perfection of his powers, this great artist died. The honors paid to his remains, evince the immense estimation in which he was held at Rome. M. de Quincy then examines the merits of Raphael as a painter, in the different qualities of invention, composition, expression, design, colouring and manner. He is very diffuse and panegyrical in them all, but not very novel; a slight notice of what he calls the school of Raphael concludes the volume.

A Genealogy of the Kings of England from Alfred the Great. By R. MITCHELL, 1824.

HAVING recently had occasion to make some references to different works on English History, we found the chart, the title of which heads this notice, of great utility, and recommend it to those who are engaged in similar studies. It has often struck, us that a very serviceable paper might be written pointing out several useful works of this sort, and whenever we find sufficient leisure, we have determined on attempting it ourselves.

The Pleasures of Society: a Poem. London: C. and J. Rivington, 1824.

We have more than once expressed our surprise at the vast number of small poets who infest the outskirts

legitimate domains of a class of persons very different from themselves. The frequency of this does not abate our wonder, though it provokes our wrath. Critics may be regarded as the police officers of literature, and it is their duty to see that the peace be well and duly kept. It is a duty which they often exercise with a cheerful severity, but rarely we think with a severity disproportioned to the enormous guilt or folly of the offenders.

Whether the work now before us, will fall under the lash is difficult to say, but to us it seems to be a very pleasing poem, full of natural and just sentiments,expressed with great neatness and taste. It does not possess any of those lofty qualities which are essential to high poetry, but holds a middle station, which though less commanding is at the same time less perilous.

We do not know how to describe this poem more completely, than by saying it relates to "the Pleasures of Society." The theme is presented in all its different appearances, and its delights descanted upon with great earnestness of feeling, and fluent eloquence of expression. It begins with the social pleasures of very young children, and dwells on their little sports with an agreeable simplicity. It traces the feeling of sociality through boyhood and youth, into manhood. Of course the "universal passion" is not forgotten, as will appear from these pleasing verses:

"Where the broad oak its aged branches throws,
A silver stream, in seeming sorrow, flows,
Modest and meek, as shunning vulgar eyes,
There oft the musing lover sits and sighs;
In silence hangs o'er that sequestered stream,
Rapt in the visions of the loveliest dream
Of future bliss, when freed from all alarms,
He clasps his Laura in his faithful arms.
Now seeks he far from wonted scenes to rove,
To breathe, in solitude, his secret love,
Unheard, unseen, he courts the forest's glade,
What time the evening throws her lengthen'd shade.
Soft is the music of that pensive stream,
Soft on its bosom sleeps the moon's pale beam;
O'er every sense a calm emotion steals,
Wakes a fond wish to tell of all he feels,
Whispers of pleasure past, when first he hung
In breathless silence on his Laura's tongue.

"To this lone spot the pensive lover flies,
But, e'en in solitude, for scenes he sighs,
Where social virtues, social bliss combine,
And sportive loves a rosy wreath entwine.
His Laura smiles, his fondest wishes true,
And real now the picture which he drew.

"No more he flies to solitary dells,
Nor to the pale moon now his sorrow tells;
Unheeded flows that once-beloved stream,
Where, oft reclined, he saw, in fancy's dream,
The brightest visions of a lover's mind,
And heard sweet voices in the passing wind.
Of love and Laura unseen spirits spoke,
Delightful thoughts of fairy hope awoke,
Told him of social scenes and wedded love.
The first, the purest blessing from above!"

The joys of domestic happiness, and their influence on general society are described at some length. The prevalence of the social feeling in all climes, and all ages, and amongst all ranks and conditions of life, furnishing materials for a large portion of the poem, which concludes with some moral and religious reflections on the uses to which that feeling ought to be put. We repeat that the perusal of this poem has given us a great deal of pleasure, and perhaps this is more praise than can be safely awarded to many of far higher pretensions.

Sacred Melodies, preceded by an Admonitory Appeal to the Right Honourable Lord Byron, with other Small Poems. By Mrs. I. H. R. Мотт. London: Westley, 1824.

THIS little volume was published a few days before the news of Lord Byron's death arrived in this country. We had prepared a short notice of it, which the promulgation of those melancholy tidings induced us to cancel. Death is a great pacificator, and our quarrels with some of Lord Byron's faults, were mitigated and appeased by his decease. That which we trusted he would live to reform, has, we hope, long ere this been forgiven. Mrs. Mott has written an "Admonitory Appeal," which never reached him to whom it was addressed, but the feeling and the principle of it are so honourable to her, that we will make from it a few extracts:

"But thou, buoyant spirit! when thine was the doom, To part from thy country, thy halls, and thy home, Tho' tears may have flow'd, and some hearts have been

wrung,

Thy lyre has been never a moment unstrung;
No cave so remote, that thy verse has not rung.
Alike, unto thee, are the court and the tow'r,
The green hills of Zion, or Endor's dark bow'r;
The storm on the mountain, the calm in the plain,
The rude torrent roaring, the dew-distill'd rain,
The nightingale's plaint, or the moon-chequer'd flow'r,
The thunders of Sinai, the law's scorching pow'r,
The cold dews of midnight, the tempest-beat shore,
The whirlwind's loud howl, or the cataract's roar.
Now fabling an ocean, hung high in the air,
Bespangled with many a luminous star,
And peopled with spirits, who joyfully sail
On cherubim's wings, along Death's mirky vale:
Or turning, with sorrow, to earth and its care,
From fancies so soothing, from visions so fair;
To where the lone step of the centinel rang,
On listening ears, its deep-measured clang;
With horror to look on the Musselman's skull,
Escap'd thro' the jaws (when their hunger grew dull)
Of ravenous dogs, who held under the wall

Of Isthmian Corinth, their wild carnival."

"I look'd thro' thy midnight, and Fancy, keen eyed,
The gossamer web of thy vision has spied,
As maidenly soft and as clear to the view,

As curtains of mist with a moon riding through.
'Tis sacred! in silence to watch the clouds sail
O'er night's wand'ring orb, and her loveliness veil;
When pensively ent'ring the regions of shade,
Her beam, on the threshold, is modestly laid;
As onward she moves, through the mantle of night,
Her progress is mark'd by a halo of light;

And oft, like a frolicksome child, when at play,
She peeps from her screen, and then hastens away:
And when, at the last, we see her emerge,
More brilliant, we fancy, the feathery surge;
More dazzling the alders that bend to the breeze,
And brighter her silvery light on the trees;
More sparkling the river that drinks in her light,
More awfully calm the fair picture of night,
More sacred the visions that rise in the soul,
More holy the pray'rs that abundantly roll,
Like bright shocks electric, and thrill thro' the frame;
The tongue mute as death, but the heart in a flame.
In moments like these, how curtail'd is the span
From spirits ethereal, to matter form'd man;
How trivial the effort to burst the clay band,

And, orb by orb mounting, reach heaven's high strand!"

"It makes my heart ache, as I look to the day,
When thou on thy mother's breast, pendent, didst lay;
Her only son too! if I read thee aright;
Thus render'd more precious to her doting sight:
As oft o'er thine infantile features she hung,

While Fancy to Vision thy future lite flung,

She saw thee, perhaps, as fond mothers will see,
Brave! noble! hi ! high minded! as Byron should be.
Ah! what does she say, if she yet lift her head
Above the mausoleum that shelters the dead?
Ah! says she the months that she number'd in pain,
Thy shadowless virtues have paid her again?
Or sunk she, torn-hearted! and lonely! and pale!
To shroud her deep sorrows in Death's peaceful vale ?"

"One thought for thee more! after which I've quite

done

This thought through the rest has continued to run-
A parent can feel for a parent's lone fate,
And parents should pause o'er their children's estate.
The ivy will cling to the towering oak,

But take its support, and 'tis rent by the stroke:
And that which was destin'd to flourish on high,
Thus torn from its root may soon wither and die.
Oh! think of thy daughter! If she live to rise
To maidenly womanhood, should she despise
Or should she revere thee? The choice was thine own,
But distant the tracts as the wild flaming zone
From opposite poles. Be advis'd-turn thee round-
Let Peace, in the circle which hallow'd loves bound,
Weave chaplets more green than the myrtle or bays,
And Hymen's pure torch cast its light o'er thy days.
In marriage there's much to endure and forbear;
Yet, take it in all, 'tis as barren of care

As any state is. Here thy harp has the will
To make our best feelings with extasy thrill.
I cannot believe thou couldst write to thy wife,
(As if in her center'd the joys of thy life),
Like cold-hearted actor, who plays o'er his part,
But feels no emotion subduing his heart.
Ah! no, my Lord Byron, 'tis since, that thy part
Thou actest, to hide the deep, rankling dart,
Shot fast in thy mind. Once again, I adjure!
Be nobly thyself! for 'tis virtue to cure,
By patient endurance, the ills we may meet,

In transit through life; which, at most, is as fleet
As vapour; Oh! turn thee! quick! turn thee! and come
To pleasure enshrin'd in the circle of HOME:
There hoard thee up treasures for AGE yet to come.
"Yes, Byron; if living, thou too wilt grow old;
The flash of thy youth will decay and be cold;
The last draught of rapture will pass o'er thy lip;
The last drop of transport delirium can sip,
Will vanish away, as a cloud of the morn,

More fleet than the vapour of summer-heat born.