Nor is the following less effective of its kind: Dartmoor! thou wert to me, in childhood's hour, Of hills mysterious, shadowy, clasping all I gazed on thee. How often on the speech To hear of rock-crowned heights on which the cloud Struck from the mountain's hissing brow, and hurled By Superstition's hands when Time was young; Of Nature, in a thousand views diverse- In sunlight and in shade,— I seek thy solitudes profound, in this But stern:-for, though the Spirit of the Spring This is also a most vivid description of morning: How beautiful is Morning, though it rise Of one who loves the morn,-the bee, who comes The sunny hour, and see! across the waste Bird, bee, and butterfly,-the favourite three And exquisite the flowers; and though the Sun There is a touching sketch of the history of a French prisoner confined at Dartmoor; but perhaps the most successful passage in the volume is the description of the close of day, with which the poem concludes; it is indeed wet with the dews of Castaly: The Evening beam has gilded all, the fair, Of the calm vale,-its beauty and its power, Touched by the setting ray. Enlivening gleams Of sunshine now are breaking through the ranks Of yon old foresters below; and there The cliffs, though stern, have bathed their awful brows, In the full flood of radiance; e'en the moss That fringes them seems gay,-the ivy smiles, The pensive lichen glows, and each wild rill Leaps sportive in the beam. The zenith spreads And, as the breeze plays on them, they assume And some that seem far off, are voyaging Their sun-bright path in folds of silver;-some All lovely, set within an emerald sea; Never, from the birth But now the sun Is veiled a moment, and the expansive waste Of the wild Moor is glad! The eye discerns Rolling and glittering in the sun,—until Far borne by Auster's welcome gale is heard; Let me gaze At the great vision ere it pass; for now The day-god hovers o'er the western hill, And sheds his last fond ray. Farewell! farewell! Who givest beauty to the cloud, and light— Joy, music, to the earth! And must yon tints And shapes divine which thou hast formed, decay, The mountain, and the temple, and the tower, That float in yonder fields of air ;—the isles Of all surpassing loveliness; and seas Of glorious emerald, that seem to flow Around the gold-fringed reefs and rocks ;—must all Vanish, with thee, at the remorseless touch Of the swift-coming Twilight! They will fade,- A flush of orange hovers, softening up That comes a sweeping down; for Twilight hastes And the Night her ancient reign Of mountain-stream, and sigh of mountain breeze, Of the wild bird. The raptured day is o'er ;- Of rich fruition, and the tender eve- Its far-resounding peal. Be mine of groves Ah when The happy hour shall Fate relenting bring If this be not poetry, and poetry too of the very highest order, we know not what is. That the poet's dreary toils' may be lessened by the inspiring patronage of the public is our sincere and fervent prayer; for if genius and worth united have any claims to its countenance and sympathy, this writer cannot long be suffered to remain in the poverty and obscurity in which he would long appear to have been involved. Mr. Carrington's poem is preceded by a very able, and indeed learned and interesting disquisition, topographical and historical, on the subject of Dartmoor, which materially increases the value of the book. The notes, too, by the same friendly hand, are copious and edifying. In one of these we find an exquisite little poem entitled The Holiday,' which we shall in all probability find a corner for in some future number of the Magnet. The volume is embellished with twelve spirited etchings of the scenery described in the poem, from the pencil and graver of P. H. Rogers, Esq. of Plymouth. We shall merely add in conclusion, that we have seldom expended a guinea more entirely to our satisfaction than we have in the purchase of this splendid and interesting book. All that we ask of our readers is, that those who have twenty-one shillings to spare, 'will go and do likewise.' *The Evening Gun fired in Hamoaze. THE misery of Foscari when he was summoned to embark for Candia, surpassed all powers of description. He was supported lifeless on board the vessel, destined to bear him from all his hopes to his place of banishment— and was only at length aroused from the stupor into which he had fallen, by the hoarse brawling of the sailors. Their voyage was swift, and our unhappy victim was speedily immured within the walls of his miserable dungeon. As soon after his arrival in Candia as his strength would permit, he wrote to his friends in Venice; his letters breathed nothing but despair and impatience. He again besought his father to intercede for his liberty; and the Count Buonarotti received the same fervent solicitations from his wretched friend. To Francesca his epistle was one continued strain of affection, and his extreme anguish at being thus separated from her betrayed itself in every line. Foscari received answers, which instead of mitigating, only added to his despondency. In that from Julia, though tenderness itself, she vainly attempted to conceal her own anguish, while she informed him, that since his departure, the marquis had given himself up to despair, and was then incapable of fulfilling the duties of his station; and that the marchioness was attacked with a disorder which baffled every effort of her physicians. The Count's letter, was equally void of consolation, for though he forbore entering into particulars, it was enough for Foscari that Francesca did not herself reply to his inquiries to know that she was incapable—and his suspicions were but too well founded; for, on the evening of his being a second time so cruelly forced away, she relapsed into her former delirium, which soon after subsided into a settled melancholy, that seemed to have taken too deep a root ever to be obliterated. She knew no one who spoke to her, and the unremitting attention of her brother, who was continually either with her or Julia, had not the least effect upon her. She was wholly regardless of all around her, and the name of her unfortunate lover, which was frequently repeated to her in the hope of exciting her tears, had not power to arouse her from that lethargy which had taken possession of her senses. Foscari languished in a state of miserable exile for three years, during which time he heard of the death of his mother with unspeakable regret, and the still desponding state of the Doge. His amiable associate, Natale Donato, had been twice to Candia to visit his unfortunate friend. From him he learned with sorrow, that no clue had yet been discovered as to the real assassins of his father, notwithstanding considerable rewards had been repeatedly offered for their apprehension. Foscari was formed for society, and had not strength of mind to bear patiently the invincible decrees of providence in the present instance;-he sighed for those prospects he once enjoyed, when domestic happiness and mutual love so sweetly smiled upon him, and sank under the cruel destiny that had so entirely deprived him of all these blessings. He was permitted to take the air on the fortress which belonged to the prison, and often was he tempted to plunge himself from it into the waves * Concluded from our last. |