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The stairs no festive footsteps presses,
List! as the sable water-hearse glides by,
The quiet plash of the deliberate oar

Falls like a stifled sigh!"

This is, perhaps, not so much amiss, though rather elaborated; and though the resemblance of " the quiet plash of the deliberate oar,” to a stifled sigh might be questioned by those who have minutely studied resemblances of sounds.

The poet becomes historical, and he looks backward through the mist of time upon the city:

"As when in hoary pomp her doges sought Shrines roof'd with gold to pour a victor's psalmAs when Pisani, from a prison brought,

In chains sublimely calm,

Came forth beneath the blue of heaven,
Revenge disdain'd and wrongs forgiven!"

"Hoary pomp"-" pouring a victor's psalm""the calm sublimity of chains"-all these phrases show how the poet cannot find, in such language as Milton and Dryden used, words sufficiently expressive for his glowing ideas. And then Pisani cannot exhibit a moral virtue with effect, unless he is brought forth "beneath the blue of heaven" in an unquestionably melodramatic attitude and costume. Surely, to disdain revenge, and to forgive wrongs, were just as fine, though there were hardly as large a patch of blue in the sky as would make a nether garment for a Highlandman; but then the "tableau" would be wanting!

Now for a touch of the poet's philosophy :

"Some blessing, Venice, in thy fall we see,

And simple maxims take oracular might from thee."

Very good; but let us see what these simple maxims are, which have taken an ❝ oracular might" from the fall of Venice :

"Time saps a race, by stealthy arts and slow:
Close social life-thought, luxury, weaken; air
And soil outworn less stalwart nerves bestow,
And then great hearts grow rare!"

I know not whether the "simplicity" or the " oracular might" of these thoughts will strike most. The notion of the air becoming "outworn," and therefore bestowing less stalwart nerves, is, I really believe, quite original, and I recommend it to the attention of Professor Faraday. I have heard much erudition from him on the subject of " that air" (to use the vernacular of Saint Mary Axe), but I never heard so much as a hint that the stock belonging to any particular city became worn out by much use. But it seems also that, through wearing out of the soil, "great hearts grow rare. This, I presume, must be an allusion to "bullocks' hearts," and the thought is altogether more butcherly than poetical.

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Our author's philosophy now becomes "deeper and deeper still":

"From individuals to the whole,

First sinks the body, then the soul;

No hope for men until they find

How much the body makes the mind!

What outward links keep flesh, heart, spirit, akin, What lurk in fine spun threads of curious life within!"

Now, if the body makes the mind, as this rhymester doth affirm, when the body dies the mind will die, and until this theory be admitted he contends that there is no hope for men! No hope for men until they become satisfied that in respect of mental existence, beyond the often painful and always uncertain existence of the body, they are no better than "the beasts that perish!" Why, this would be to annihilaté hope, and to make us, of all God's creatures, the most miserable.

Here are some more 66

simple maxims," which have taken" oracular might" from the fall of Venice, and the glowing imagination of our poet :

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"To blend in one the savage and refinedThe charm of each condition to preserve

Is man's high task: the facile, free wing'd, mind;
The terse and iron nerve,

The point-blank purpose-range of skill,
The cataract of a mighty will,

All must be kept-no gift refused;

E'en passion's lightnings rightly used-
Restrain'd indulgence-labour, luxury—

Be mix'd, and meted out with cunning ministry."

All this is no doubt equally wise and intelligible, and is to be esteemed accordingly.

I think I have now gone far enough with

these specimens of the frantic, aping the grand and philosophical. I only notice them in order to point out such stuff to the derision which is the proper meed of absolute folly united with enormous presumption. It is not merely one author, or two or three, to whose offences I allude, but a whole tribe of irreverent madinen, who pump out their craziness upon the world, and get praised by persons who some years hence, when experience shall have sobered them, will be very sorry for having recommended to the world such pernicious trash. The specimens given from the poem of "Venice” are taken from a much larger selection which is made by a weekly journal of large circulation and literary credit, and which selection is accompanied with extremely warm commendations!

CASTING REPROACH.

IN the ordinary course of life there are few things which tend more to embitter it than a habit of thoughtless upbraiding. Perhaps it would be justifiable to use a stronger epithet, and to call it a heartless habit, for so it is; but still so mingled are the ingredients of human character, that many are found in the constant practice of this hateful trick of reproach, without being conscious of the unkindness of which they are guilty, or the pain which they inflict.

People of sharp observation, and a critical turn, are very apt to forget what good nature and delicacy of feeling should teach them in this respect. The vanity of a close discernment, and the promptings of a disposition too eager to teach, will often lead to upbraidings when there is no serious hostility felt to the person upbraided. Nay, this nauseous habit-the root of so much bitterness-leads some people to be continually snarling even at those they love. But let them beware of the result, for few things are so apt to convert love into its opposite. We cannot philosophise when we find those in whom we looked for kindness, and support, and consolation, noting our errors, our foibles, and our short-comings, and drawing them before our observation, not in the manner of kind remonstrance, but with the bitterness of reproach.

Shakespeare brings few characters before us more unloveable than that of the lean and scowling conspirator Cassius, but even for him a flood of sympathy rushes upon us when he expresses himself as though the reproaches of Brutus had broken his heart :

"Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world!

Hated by one he loves! braved by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed;
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth! O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes."

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