And death,.. the wild and agonizing cry

Of that whole host in one destruction whelm'd. ' p. 298, 299. The Twenty-fourth Book is full of tragical matter, and is perhaps the most interesting of the whole piece. A Moor, on the instigation of Orpas and Abulcacem, pierces Julian with a mortal wound; who thereupon exhorts his captains, already disgusted with the jealous tyranny of the Infidel, to rejoin the standard and the faith of their country, and then requests to be borne into a neighbouring church, where Florinda has been praying for his conversion.

They raised him from the earth &
He, knitting as they lifted him his brow,
Drew in through open lips and teeth firm-closed
His painful breath, and on the lance laid hand,
Lest its long shaft should shake the mortal wound.
Gently his men with slow and steady step

Their suffering burthen bore, and in the Church
Before the altar laid him down, his head

Upon Florinda's knees.' p. 307, 308.

He then, on the solemn adjuration of Roderick, renounces the bloody faith to which he had so long adhered; and reverently receives at his hand the sacrament of reconciliation and peace There is great feeling and energy we think in what follows.

That dread office done,

Count Julian with amazement saw the Priest
Kneel down before him. By the sacrament
Which we have here partaken, Roderick cried,
In this most awful moment; by that hope,..
That holy faith which comforts thee in death,
Grant thy forgiveness, Julian, ère thou diest!
Behold the man who most hath injured thee!
Roderick, the wretched Goth, the guilty cause
Of all thy guilt,.. the unworthy instrument
Of thy redemption, .. kneels before thee here,
And prays to be forgiven!

The dying Count, . . Roderick!.. and from the floor
With violent effort half he raised himself;

The spear hung heavy in his side, and pain

And weakness overcame him, that he fell

Back on his daughter's lap. O Death, cried he,..
Passing his hand across his cold damp brow,..
Thou tamest the strong limb, and conquerest
The stubborn heart! But yesterday I said
One Heaven could not contain mine enemy
And me; and now I lift my dying voice
To say, Forgive me, Lord, as I forgive

Han who hath done the wrong!.. He closed his eyes

A moment; then with sudden impulse cried,.. Roderick, thy wife is dead... the Church hath power To free thee from thy vows,.. the broken heart Might yet be heal'd, the wrong redress'd, the throne Rebuilt by that same hand which pull'd it down, And these curst Africans... Oh for a month Of that waste life which millions misbestow!.." p. 311, 312. Returning weakness then admonishes him, however, of the near approach of death; and he begs the friendly hand of Roderick to cut short his dying pangs, by drawing forth the weapon which clogs the wound in his side. He then gives him his hand in kindness,-blesses and kisses his heroic daughter, and expires. The concluding lines are full of force and tenderness. When from her father's body she arose,

Her cheek was flush'd, and in her eyes there beam'd
A wilder brightness. On the Goth she gazed;
While underneath the emotions of that hour
Exhausted life gave way. O God! she said,
Lifting her hands, thou hast restored me all, . .
All.. in one hour!... and round his neck she threw
Her arms and cried, My Roderick! mine in Heaven!
Groaning, he claspt her close, and in that act

And agony her happy spirit fled. ' p. 313.

The Last Book describes the recognition and exploits of Roderick in the last of his battles. After the revolt of Julian's army, Orpas, by whose counsels it had been occasioned, is sent forward by the Moorish leader, to try to win them back; and advances in front of the line, demanding a parley, mounted on the beautiful Orelio, the famous war horse of Roderick, who, roused at that sight, obtains leave from Pelayo, to give the renegado his answer; and after pouring out upon him some words of abuse and scorn, seizes the reins of his trusty steed; and How now, he cried,

Orelio! old companion, . . my good horse,..

Off with this recreant burthen! ... And with that
He raised his hand, and rear'd, and back'd the steed,
To that remember'd voice and arm of power

Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell
Violently thrown, and Roderick over him
Thrice led, with just and unrelenting hand,
The trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,
Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,

And tell him Roderick sent thee!' p. 318, 319.

He then vaults upon the noble horse; and fitting Count Julian's sword to his grasp, rushes in the van of the Christian ar my into the thick array of the Infidel,-where, unarmed as he is, and clothed in his penitential robes of waving black, he

scatters death and terror around him, and cuts his way clean through the whole host of his opponents. He there descries the army of Pelayo advancing to cooperate; and as he rides up to them with his wonted royal air and gesture, and on his wellknown steed of royalty, both the King and Siverian are instantaneously struck with the apparition, and marvel that the weeds of penitence should so long have concealed their sovereign.Roderick, unconscious of this recognition, briefly informs them of what has befallen, and requests the honourable rites of Christian sepulchre for the unfortunate Julian and his daughter. In this and all things else,

Pelayo answer'd, looking wistfully

Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.
Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn'd
His head away in silence. But the old man
Laid hold upon his bridle, and look'd up
In his master's face, weeping and silently.
Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took
His hand, and bending down toward him, said,
My good Siverian, go not thou this day

To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!
Thou art past the age for combats, and with whom
Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me

If thou wert gone?' p. 330.

He then borrows the defensive armour of this faithful servant, and taking a touching and affectionate leave of him, vaults a gain on the back of Orelio; and placing himself without explanation in the van of the army, leads them on to the instant assault. The renegade leaders fall on all sides beneath his re sistless blows.

-And in the heat of fight

Rejoicing and forgetful of all else

Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,

RODERICK THE GOTH!... his war-cry known so welk
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,

And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved,

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;

Urban repeated it, and through his ranks

Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name

Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.'

O'er the field it spread,

All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he rejoicing in his strength rode on,

Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,
And overthrew, and scattered, and destroy'd,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!' p. 334, 335.

The carnage at length is over, and the field is won!-but where is he to whose name and example the victory is owing? - Upon the banks

Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs

And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smear'd
With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane
Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,
Aspersed like dew-drops: trembling there he stood
From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth
His tremulous voice far-echoing loud and shrill,
A frequent, anxious cry, with which he seem'd
To call the master whom he loved so well,
And who had thus again forsaken him.
Siverian's helm and cuirass on the grass
Lay near; and Julian's sword, its hilt and chain
Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand
Had wielded it so well that glorious day?...
Days, months, and years, and generations past,
And centuries held their course, before, far off
Within a hermitage near Viseu's walls,

A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed

In ancient characters King Roderick's name.' p. 339, 340.

These copious extracts must have settled our readers' opinion of this poem; and though they are certainly taken from the better parts of it, we have no wish to disturb the forcible impression which they must have been the means of producing. Its chief fault undoubtedly is the monotony of its tragic and solemn tone, the perpetual gloom with which all its scenes are overcast, and the tediousness with which some of them are developed. There are many dull passages in short, and a considerable quantity of heavy reading 3-some silliness, and a great deal of affectation: But the beauties, upon the whole, preponderate;-and these, we hope, speak for themselves in the passa ges we have already extracted.

The versification is smooth and melodious, though too uni formly drawn out into a long and linked sweetness. The diction is as usual more remarkable for copiousness than force ;and though less defaced than formerly with phrases of affected simplicity and infantine pathos, is still too much speckled with strange words; which, whether they are old or new, are not

English at the present day,-and we hope never will become so. What use or ornament does Mr Southey expect to derive for his poetry from such words as avid and aureate, and auriphrygiate? or leman and weedery, frequentage and youthhead, and twenty more as pedantic and affected? What good is there, we should like to know, in talking of oaken galilees,' or 'incarnadined poitrals, or all-able Providence," and such other points of learning?-If poetry is intended for general delight, ought not its language to be generally intelligible?

་

ART. II. De la Litterature du Midi de l'Europe. Par J. C. L. SIMONDE DE SISMONDI. 4 Tom. Paris, 1813.

THIS

HIS is another great work from the pen of the celebrated historian of the Italian Republics: though we think it written, on the whole, with less force and spirit than that admirable history. The excellent author has visibly less enthusiasm as a critic than as a politician; and therefore he interests us less in that character, and at the same time inspires us rather with less than greater confidence in the accuracy of his opinions; for there can be no real love of liberty, or admiration. of genius, where there is no enthusiasm-and no one who does not love them, will ever submit to the labour of a full and fair investigation of their history and concerns. A cold, calculating indifference in matters of taste, is generally the effect of want of feeling; as affected moderation in politics is (nine times out of ten) a cloak for want of principle. Notwithstanding the very great pleasure we have received from the work before us, we should have been still more gratified, therefore, if the author had himself appeared more delighted with his task, and consequently imparted to it a more decided and original character. In his Republics, he describes events and characters in the history of modern Italy with the genuine feelings of an enlightened reasoner, indignant at the wrongs, the vices, and the degradation of the country of his ancestors: In judging of its literature, he too often borrows French rules and German systems of criticism. His practical taste and speculative principles do not, therefore, always coincide; and, regarding this work on Literature as an appendage to his History, it is impossible not to observe, that he is glad, upon all occasions, to slide into his old and favourite subject; to pass from the professor's chair into the rostrum; and to connect, in glowing terms, the rise or fall of letters with the political independence or debasement of the states in which they flourished or decayed.