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Petrarch.

His voice of music lulls the stilly scene,
And not a whisper flits across the green.
In transport lost I tread some fairy shade,
And hear the accents of my peerless maid!
Her silent footsteps thro' the glade I trace,
And seem to clasp her in my fond embrace;
Around me flows the breath of every flower,
And wildest music breaks from every bower.

Thou murmuring breeze! O bear upon thy wing That strain, which flows from Petrarch's* mournful string.

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pastorals have little more to recommend them than their smoothness of versification. The writer who approaches nearest to the great master of this species of poetry, is Gessner. His Idyls observe a style peculiar to themselves. He is happy in his selection of simple and affecting incidents; of such as have great force upon the heart. Dr. Johnson, in his criticism upon Virgil's Eclogues, after noticing the beauties and defects of each one, gives the preference to the first. In this decision he has been generally followed.

*This singular character was born at Arezzo, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, when Europe began to shake off the long slumbers of Gothic night, and to hail the morning of Literature. Early in life he received the patronage of the noble family of Colonna, under whose shelter he was enabled to prosecute his studies, and to obtain stores of information unequalled in that day. His romantic at

Petrarch.

O speak those charms which Petrarch's Laura wears! O breathe that passion which he mourn'd in tears!

tachment for Laura, who was the wife of the young Hughes de Sades, is well known. He first saw this lady, at the time of matins, in the monastery of St. Claire. He was instantly struck with her face, her air, her person, her dark and tender eyes, "her ringlets interwoven with the hands of love," her gentle and modest carriage, and the melting sound of her voice. Unhappy in his passion, and unable to banish it from him, he mourned over it in his sonnets with the most inimitable tenderness, and sought for its alleviation in the solitary shades of Vaucluse; but all his efforts to forget the object of his affection were in vain. Though he concealed himself in solitude from the observation of men; yet the image of Laura followed him there. During his abode in this retreat, and while engaged in writing an epic poem, in honour of Scipio, which he called 'Africa, he received a letter from the Roman senate, urging him, with many intreaties, to come to Rome, and receive the crown of laurel. On the same day in which this letter came to his hands, a courier arrived, bearing a similar invitation from the chancellor of the university at Paris: Petrarch decided in favour of Rome; and in the year 1341, amid the joy and shouts of a vast assembly, was crowned, with pomp and solemnity, at that capital.-.Amid these intoxicating honours, "I blushed," says he, "at the applause of the people, and the unmerited commendations with which I was overwhelmed." Soon after, writing to a friend, he says, "These laurels which encircled my head were too green; had I been of riper age and understanding I would

Petrarch.

Thou stream of Time! bear in thy course, along, The early lustre of Italian song!

not have sought them. Old men love only what is useful; young men run after appearances, without regarding their end! This crown rendered me neither more wise nor more eloquent; it only served to raise envy, and to deprive me of the repose I enjoyed. From that time tongues and pens were sharpened against me; my friends became my enemies, and I suffered the just effects of my confidence and presumption."---Such is the unsatisfying nature of all human honours, and all human enjoyments! Seven years

after this coronation, Laura died of the plague, which ravaged all Italy. Petrarch has celebrated her virtues and accomplishments, in an exquisite elegy, which bears her name, and which has been admirably translated by Sir William Jones. From the account of biographers she was one of the most beautiful, accomplished, and virtuous ladies of the age in which she lived. On a blank leaf of a manuscript copy of Petrarch's Virgil, the following lines were written by his own hand: " Laura, illustrious by her own virtues, and long celebrated in my verses, appeared to my eyes, for the first time, the sixth of April, 1327, at Avignon, in the church of St. Claire, at the first hour of the day: I was then in my youth. In the same city, on the same day, and at the same hour, in the year 1348, this luminary disappeared from our world! I was then at Verona, ignorant of my wretched situation. That chaste and beautiful body was buried the same day, after vespers, in the church of Cordeliers: her soul returned to its native mansion in heaven! To retrace the melancholy remembrance of this great

Gray.

To lone Vaucluse let all the loves repair!

And tell their sorrows to her listening air;

There oft, when Cynthia threw her midnight beam
Along the banks, and o'er the silver stream,
Unhappy Petrarch wandered through the vale,
Wept with the dews, and murmur'd with the gale!
With all the learning of his favour'd isle,
With Genius, basking in the Muse's smile,
See Pensive Gray* awake the Theban lyre,
And soar to heights where Pindar would expire!

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loss, I have written it, with a pleasure mixed with bitterness, in a book to which I often refer. Since the strongest cord of my life is now broken, with the grace of God I shall easily renounce a world where my cares have been deceitful, and my hopes vain and perishing."

Petrarch died in the year 1374, at Arqua, and his body was interred in the chapel of the Virgin, which he, not long before his death, had built.

* In what manner shall I speak of this accomplished author? Or how shall I describe the delight which he has given me? To call him the greatest poet of his day, will not express his merits---to place him at the head of all lyric and elegiac poets, would be no more than his due! He has indeed written but little; but that little is in a superlative manner. He reverenced the world too much to give it the hasty production of a day. He wrote for immortality, and immortality will be his reward.

consulted his feelings when he wrote.

He was a poet who

The silence of seclu

Cowper.

When tolls the curfew the departing day,

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"And lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea,"
Mark how, in thoughtful mood, he takes his way,
Thro' the lone church-yard, to his favourite tree!
"Or see him by the green woodside along,
While homeward hies the swain, his labour done,
Oft as the woodlark pipes his farewel song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun."
Hear Cowper * raise his bold and moral song,
Arm'd with sweet tenderness, in virtue strong;

sion, and the gloom of melancholy, dictated his Elegy in a Country Church-Yard. He has himself acknowledged, in a letter to his friend, that an aged Welchman, playing on his harp, excited him to complete his ode, entitled, "The Bard."

* England has lately lost this excellent man and poet--to whom she is indebted for his elegant instructions conveyed in the TASK. Cowper was a writer, original in his thoughts, and undaunted in his delivery of truth. His representations are commonly striking: I need only instance his picture of Omai---the Woodman and his Dog---Crazy Kate--and Mysagathus.--His principal faults are his want of connection throughout his poem, and his not attending sufficiently to the harmony of his numbers. He discovers, in numerous passages, that he was capable of the utmost harmony. Cowper's satires, particularly his Table Talk, and Progress of Error, are among the most chaste and dignified compositions of that class, in the English language.

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