gination with observations and resemblances which may second reason, and not oppress and betray it; for these abuses of art come in but ex obliquo, for prevention and not for practice."

The imagination is a power of the mind that is very frequently at work even with those who are scarcely conscious of possessing such a faculty; and it is often totally disregarded, and its use in enlightening and enlarging the understanding utterly neglected. To the imagination the poet addresses himself, and awakening the mind by images of beauty, heroism, and virtue-exciting by turns the various passions-he fixes his lessons on the memory with a vivid distinctness which is unattainable by any other medium. Addressing himself directly to an auditor who is held to attention by the charm of melody, the poet possesses a power of conviction which, rightly directed, is almost supreme. The power, like all others, may be and has been abused; but the abuse of a good gift can never be opposed against its legitimate use. Such an argument would hold equally strong against misdirected eloquence, which indeed has too frequently been used for vain and selfish purposes. The spirit of true poetry, moreover, is of such a nature-allied to the highest qualities of mental intelligence-that, although it may be sullied by the vices of the age, yet it cannot be checked in its upward flight by the thick atmosphere they may cast around; and, as has been justly remarked by a very excellent writer on the subject*, "it will be in fact found that, with very few exceptions, poetry has adapted itself to the highest tone of morality prevalent in the country or age wherein it has flourished." The writer might have safely gone further, and affirmed that it has most usually gone far beyond it. In the earlier stages of society, the poets have been the guides and instructors of the people, and their moral and heroic maxims being borne in the memory from generation to generation, have produced effects indelible; and although they do not possess so unlimited an authority overminds more cultivated and less easily gratified, yet we believe that their melodious numbers will never cease to please; and that, so long as this mortal state continues, they will constitute a great part not only of the "delight," but of the "profit" of those who are wise enough to listen to them.

To write an essay upon poetry is not our intention: our object, like the poet's, is to "please," while we at the same time endeavour to "profit" our readers. There are some who endeavour to disparage the inherent seeking after pleasure which is so strong in all mankind. These would-be modern stoics must certainly entertain a curious opinion of humanity when, as too frequently, they condemn those innocent amusements which are necessary to keep the mind in a state of healthy vigour; and, contending that this life is but a state of punishment, not of trial, sink us to despair. This is not the spirit in which the life we are endowed with is to be used. The first feeling arising in our minds when sense is early opening, is gratitude for the blessing of being : we know not whence it comes; but we feel the great enjoyment of existence, and we seek the cause to whom we ought to give our acknowledgment.

When the revolving year brings on sweet spring-time, we envy not him whose heart does not bound under its influence. The fresh budding trees, the opening sweetness of the flowers, the joyous song of birds, awakening our hearts to the ecstasy of that purest felicity of humanity, conjugal love, all incite us to pour out our gratitude to Him-the generous donor of so many goods.

God gives us many pleasures to alleviate the hardship of our toils. He has endowed us with faculties enabling us to enjoy the beauties of nature-to drink in the harmony of the sweet voices

of the birds, to feel pleasure from the rich minglement of the flowers that adorn the earth, to luxuriate in their perfume, and to welcome the zephyr that tempers the strong heat of the glorious And not unwisely have men used the intellectual gifts they have felt themselves possessed of in the gift of poetry; a form of language which, being very agreeable to the ear, is accepted gladly by the tired spirit, and is able even, like the honied cup of the overkind nurse alluded to by Horace, to give agreeably a dose which, in another and less pleasing guise, might be rejected by the patient. Alexander's Feast is not only the master-piece of Dryden, but the most splendid specimen of the class of poetry to which it belongs that our language possesses; and although so familiar to us, we cannot refuse ourselves the pleasure of gracing our pages with this matchless composition, which in itself combines the splendour of the poet's inspiration and the melody of the musician's lyre. We seem to hear the voice of Timotheus, and are spellbound by the magic of his song.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise,

His glowing cheoks, his ardent eyes;

And, while he heaven and earth defied,

Changed his hand and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;

Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of Chance below:
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour, but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again:

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head!
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge I revenge! Timotheus cries,

See the Furies arise;

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.

The princes applaud with a furious joy,

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy:

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

While organs yet were mute, Timotheus to his breathing flute,

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

The merits of this extraordinary poem are so obvious as to render it superfluous to attempt to direct the admiration of the reader, who cannot fail to discover some new beauty, in felicity of expression, the charm of rhythm, or in magnificence of imagination, upon every reperusal.

It has been stated upon authority which Sir Walter Scott, who introduces the story in his Life of Dryden, calls respectable, but without naming it, that this ode was composed at one sitting. The story is given by Sir Walter in the following words:-" Mr. St. John, afterwards Lord Bolingbroke, happening to pay a morning visit to Dryden, whom he always respected, found him in an unusual agitation of spirits, even to a trembling. On inquiring the cause, 'I have been up all night,' replied the old bard; 'my musical friends made me promise to write them an ode for their Feast of St. Cecilia: I have been so struck with the subject which occurred to me, that I could not leave it till I had completed it; and here it is, finished at one sitting." But, although there is no reason to doubt this tale, it appears that he spent an entire fortnight in correcting and giving the last polish to his work.

Alexander's Feast was set to music by three different composers; but none, except Handel, appear to have been equal to a task which indeed required no ordinary powers to cope with; and it is not the least of Handel's merits that he so worthily performed the arduous undertaking.

MEMOIRS OF A PRISONER OF STATE *.

NO. II.

ANDRYANE had not an opportunity of seeing Confalonieri, until he and the other prisoners were assembled to hear their sentences. Confalonieri was at this time very ill; and Andryane, on his first introduction, had the melancholy satisfaction of supporting the noble patient during the scene. And this was their doom:

"By the sentence of the Imperial Commission, confirmed by the Supreme Tribunal of Verona, and sanctioned by his Majesty, the Count Frederick Confalonieri, accused and convicted of hightreason, is condemned to death.' There he stopped.

"To enjoy the terrible effect which this sanguinary doom must produce on the victim, Salvotti cast on him piercing and triumphant looks. But he was deceived no alteration was visible in the countenance of Confalonieri.

"After a long pause the secretary continued :-' But the capital punishment, by the inexhaustible clemency of his Majesty, has been commuted to imprisonment for life in the fortress of Spielberg.'

"A slight shudder arose among the assistants. Confalonieri remained immoveable. Pallavicini repeated the words, mingled with sighs and murmurs.

"Some minutes elapsed before the reading recommenced, when we heard again: 'By a similar sentence of the Imperial Commission, confirmed by the Supreme Tribunal of Verona, and sanctioned by his Majesty, Alexander Andryane, aged twenty-five years, accused and found guilty of high-treason, is condemned to death; but, by the inexhaustible clemency of his Majesty, the capital punishment is commuted to imprisonment for life in the fortress of Spielberg.'

"The eyes of Salvotti, lighted up with a cruel satisfaction, said to me, I promised you this!' while in those of Confalonieri, which were turned towards me, was seen the most tender compassion. I replied to the one by a pressure of the hand-to the other by a smile of pity. I heard the certainty of my salvation without emotion and without joy. I had already suffered so much, that the sorrow of my heart exceeded my desire of life.

"They now passed sentence on the others. Pallavicini, Borsieri, and Castillia, were condemned to twenty years' solitary confinement; Tonnelli, to ten years. When the secretary concluded, the president addressed some words exhorting us to merit by our conduct the clemency that his Majesty had shown us. We listened in silence, and, without answering a word. bowed, and retraced our steps to the chapel."

This scene took place during the night; and in the morning the prisoners had to undergo the pillory. In chains-chains even on the fainting Confalonieri-were they led out, to be exhibited to the mob of Milan. The crowd, however, gave such unequivocal symptoms of sympathy with the prisoners, that the police, uneasy at such a manifestation of feeling, took upon themselves to with draw them from the scaffold some minutes before the appointed

time.

The removal of the prisoners from Milan to Spielberg was an important affair; but Confalonieri was obliged to be left behind on the journey, being too ill to continue it.

"At Krems, a little town on the Danube, at which we arrived eight days after leaving Confalonieri, we learned that a chief commissary of police had been sent to fetch him to Vienna. I received the news with joy, as a proof that my poor friend was yet living; but when Bolza, to complete his confidential communication, added that the Emperor had sent for the Count in the hope of conquering his obstinate silence, I said with grief that the last seal had thus been affixed to his doom. Some of our party, who knew not sufficiently either Confalonieri's constancy or the unforgiving character of the Emperor, would entertain a different opinion, and hope; but the course of events has, alas! but too clearly shown that they laboured under an illusion.

"Only a few days' march now remained to reach Spielberg: we travelled very slowly, it is true; but we advanced, and the end of the journey was close at hand. One evening we were informed that for the last time we were to have our meal together, and to sleep in a bed. We embraced each other, and parted as if we were never to meet again. The next morning, on Sunday the 26th of February, we had scarcely been three hours on the high road from Znaïm to Brunn, when a fortress frowning on the summit of a hill attracted our attention. It was Spielberg ! 'It is there, then,' exclaimed Borsieri, 'that my poor Pellico has been languishing these two years-that we are going to be buried alive! How gloomy is the aspect of that prison, even in spite of the rising sun! Oh, my poor parents and sisters! we shall never meet again-never.'

"I took his hand and said, "Borsieri, He who is the source of sorrow and of joy will take pity on them. Let us but merit his mercy by patience and resignation.'

"The road now began to be crowded with vehicles and persons riding or walking. The director-general of the police of Moravia, who came to meet us, ordered that the blinds of our carriages should be pulled down. We proceeded slowly, and with withered hearts, tearless and vacant eyes, awaited in silence the moment when the gates of Spielberg should open to receive us. After the

most laborious efforts to drag our heavy coaches over the steep ascent of the mountain, the horses stopped ;-a sound of chains and bolts was heard; the heavy gates creaked on their hingesand we entered! The clock of the chapel struck twelve. Overwhelmed with affliction, I thought of the beloved objects of my love, and prayed God to give them consolation and peace for the long sufferings I was doomed to endure in that sojourn of grief."

In Spielberg, they were clothed in a parti-coloured dress of the coarsest cloth, had fetters rivetted on their legs, and were distributed into different cells, in pairs. At first, the chief authorities acted with as much humanity as they durst venture to show.

"In a short time," says Andryane, "I became thoroughly acquainted with all that was passing around me. I observed every

thing, animate or inanimate, from the commandant of Spielberg, who every day paid us a visit, to the two convicts who attended to the needs of our dungeon. One of these, young, limber, active, with a roguish leer, and a countenance the epitome of rascality, seemed to laugh at his destiny; the other, advanced in years, though still robust, bore upon his open features the impress of long and patient suffering. The former was a Pole, the latter a Bohemian. What crimes they had committed I was never told; but I should have been much disappointed had I learned that the old man, so patient and humble, had been guilty of any villanous action. As to the younger, his physiognomy told its tale; and when he smiled at me with an air of familiarity, I felt such disgust, that I either closed my eyes or turned away my head.

"His amicable advances did not however cease, and I soon began to think there must be some meaning in his signs, as he repeated them more expressively when the jailors happened not to be watching him. I at first feigned not to understand him, but still he persisted. What could he want of me? I tried in vain to divine. At last, one day, he drew from his pocket a little packet, very dirty and much worn. This he adroitly placed under our jug as he filled it, indicating by a side glance of his eye, as he departed, the treasure which he had confided to my honour.

"The door closed-I hurried to gain the packet: it contained a vial of reddish liquid, the stump of a pen, and a letter worded nearly as follows:

"We are ignorant of your names; but your misfortunes and ours are the same, and on this ground we address you. Let us know who you are; tell us about Milan, about Italy, about everything. During the two years that we have been here, no news has reached us. Write without fear; we vouch for the messenger. Reply quickly, for we burn to hear by what fatal destiny you, like us, have been buried in the tombs of Spielberg.

SILVIO PELLICO, PIERO MARONCELLI.'

""'Tis from Pellico!' I exclaimed to the colonel; 'hear what he says.' He heard it through, but was far from expressing the emotion and joy which I felt at this generous appeal from a man of whom Confalonieri had spoken with great esteem and warmth. This unforeseen, unhoped-for correspondence, thus established between us, was a happy event, from which I promised myself the most effectual consolation. When I took up my pen to answer him, I felt as if I were writing to an old friend whom Heaven had restored to me after I had long mourned his loss.

"I carefully folded up my letter, and held it in readiness at the time the convict came to bring us fresh water, when I intended, despite my disgust at the rascal, to slip it into his hand; but the jailors were too vigilant, and I hesitated-I was on thorns. After having in vain attempted to give the secret despatch into my messenger's hand, I adopted the plan of concealing it under the jug which he regularly filled every morning. What a weight was taken from my mind when I saw him expertly snatch up my letter, and convey it into his pocket with all the dexterity of an experienced juggler! He then turned round upon me with a sig. nificant look of triumph, opening his mouth from one ear to the other, and half closing his eyes, the whole forming a smile some