did wealth, asserted boyond all possibility and dispute by the indefatigable industry of Ludiovico Antonio David, a Milanese painter, and published at Bologna ;-another we shall consider as the work of him who restored painting when it was almost sunk; of him whom his art made honorable; but who neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not to his intrinsic merit; which not having philosophy enough. to bear, it broke his heart ;* another is performed by one, who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman, and of great magnificence, and was much honored by his own and foreign princes; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter; and so much all these, that when he acted in either character, that seemed to be his business, and the others his diversion;† -when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from the beauties and excellencies of the work, the fine ideas it gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking one finds in it, and the pleasing thoughts it may suggest to us, an additional pleasure results from these reflections.

But, oh! the pleasure! when a connoisseur and lover of art has before him a picture or drawing, of which he can say, this is the hand, these the thoughts of him who was one of the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was; who was beloved and assisted by the greatest wits, and the greatest men then at Rome, at a time when politeness and all those arts which make life taste truly agreeable, were carried to a greater height than at any period since the reign of Augustus of him who lived in great famne, honor, and magnificence, and died universally lamented; and even missed a cardinal's hat only by dying a few months too soon; but was, above all, highly esteemed and favored by two popes, the only ones † Rubens.

* Caravaggio?

who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time;-one (in short) who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Titian, a Corregio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have been a Raphael

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,

THIS poem has been noticed in our preface, and in the introduction to the Long Story. It is full of thought, tenderness, and music, and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, especially those who know what it is to visit the scenes of their schooldays. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light; but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray's lines will fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm.

E distant spires, ye antique towers,

YE

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,
Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain?

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labors ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty,

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs, buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day :

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train ; Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that skulks behind;
Or pining love shall waste their youth,
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim-visag'd comfortless despair,
And sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,