Nor is the gay luxuriousness of the Assyrian capital less gorgeously pencilled :— Through all the city sounds the voice of joy, BOOK I. the fall of some forest-tree which has looked upon the rising sun for centuries; nor the silence of ocean after it has spent its force, and ripples gently on the shore; nor the silence of the out-stretched creation after the deep loud crash of thunders; nor the silence after the hurricane has swept thousands into the grave, and desolated the beautiful homes of the happy; nor the silence of the north, which, says Alfieri, "makes one feel himself removed far beyond the boundaries of existence." It is a silence, sublimer and more momentous. The Deeper are the tints of his pencil in the fine coming conflict, the unfurling of banners, the sketch of the Assyrian queen:— Thus speaking, a cerulean mantle first, Then with her damsels-graceful as love's queen, Forth from the palace walked; and the steep mount Book II. The monarch raises a mount over the ashes of his great progenitor. The million troops crowd around the walls. The king ascends and gazes on the vast multitudes. The Assyrian banner is uplifted; it flaps over the huge city; ". "in a moment more up came the monstrous universal shout like a volcano's burst" : At his height, A speck scarce visible, the eagle heard, BOOK II. Perhaps the following is one of Atherstone's most beautiful passages: 'Twas midnight now: the melancholy moon, With wasted face unwillingly arose To walk her weary course: upon the plains The dim vast mound. Within their tents, the hosts, BOOK IV. There is something sublime in this silence over the gigantic city and the sleeping hosts. It is not the balmy silence after the last warble of the shepherd's lute has sunk away; nor the silence after the last silvery chime of the chapel bell, heard in some lone wood, has floated on the air; nor the silence after the majestic symphonies of the organ have died along the cathedral aisles; nor the silence after war shouts, the martial clangs, the rushing of the hostile armies, the dying shrieks, the clashing of chariots, the snorting of steeds, and the tremendous slaughter give the silence an expression which seems, as it were, to stop the breathing of the heart. These, descriptive of battle, display great power: But now in horrid shock the chariots joined: As when, at sultry noon, the thunderous clouds, A thousand swords leaped forth,-ten thousand tongues, Tremendous now the thickening conflict grew; Rank against rank, like wave 'gainst mountain wave, Rolling and heaving. Not a cloud in heaven Stirred from its place,-the winds were locked, -no leaf Breathless awaiting, nature seemed to pause. Book X. Amid a bright heaven the one brightest star, In contrast with them, the following lose Sky-hued, like to a waving sapphire glowed: none of their beauty :— Upon a couch, Purple, and gold, and gems, the king reposed: Long had the sun gone down: upon his couch A dulcimer was in her snow-white hand: And, as she played, a song of love she sang, BOOK XI. That stirred and melted him. Her gem starred zone, With smiles now brightening, darkening now with sighs. 'Twas as the glance of moonlight through swift clouds. As the warm south, when flowers are in their bloom, Book XV. One other of Atherstone's gorgeous paintings, and we must quit this magnificent production. Thrice have the rebels been routed, and the Assyrian conqueror returns in pride and glory to his capital:— A myriad gonfalons of bright hue streamed, Her brazen gates wide flung the city then; Dense thronging, poured; and on her walls the throngs Made sunshine seem more bright,-and, to the breath And round one graceful shoulder wreathed, one arm A golden zone, with priceless gems thick starred, With the pure sapphire's gentle beam mixed there: Like sunshine dappling the spring meadows, played: Gold was the clasp, and ruby. Bracelets light, Of emerald, and diamond, and gold, On each fine tapered, pearly wrist she wore: Like dawn faint blushing, radiant as the morn; BOOK XIII. For Farewell, thou magnificent city!-thy glory and renown have thrilled our life-blood. We have beheld thy palaces gem-lit, and thy halls blazing beneath the glare of diamond lamps, and thy beautiful women have danced by, and the sound of music has stolen onwards, and we have scented thy flowery groves, and heard the melodies of thy many fountains-farewell, thou splendid capital! it may be long before we look upon thy like again-perhaps, never. awhile, thou hast driven off the din and stir and cold-heartedness of the world; and in thy jasmine bowers we have rested, and drunk in the coolness of thy breeze. Farewell-we have loved thee. Amid all thy gorgeousness and revellings, thou hadst a noble heart. Once through thy streets were wafted on the wind the sigh of penitence and the prayer of faith; thou didst then prevail with Israel's God; but thy sons grew vile, and thy monarch viler, and ye wept not when vengeance threatened; therefore hath ruin seized thee, and utter desolation! thy chariots and thy horsemen have fallen; thy walls, so massive, are in the dust; the gale sweeps by as heretofore, but it carries not on its bosom the thousand sweets of thy gardens and violet- walks; there is no perfume now; the stars kindle in thy hemisphere, but no eye upturned from thee watches their spiritual meaning; the moon is there, as of old, but no fond maiden gazes thereon, and thinks of the bridal night; dulcimer and harp have passed away the loved and loving. Farewell, bright city! the music of that spirit-guide, describing in glowing numbers the dashing and the crashing of polar-storms and the glories of the northern winter. Four years previous to the appearance of the first volume of Nineveh, came out our author's The delicious accents of his lips have died Midsummer-Day's Dream; a work charac-away; they ascend into the air; and pass over terized by the same magnificent spirit: it de- a huge continent; and again, the sea rolls, its scribes in glowing language the splendours of waters flashing gloriously beneath the light universal nature; it reminds one of Beethoven's of dawn: they then sink down and reach its immortal Hallelujah chorus in his Mount of rocky bottom; they look up, and all is one Olives; it is a tremendous burst of richest emerald: not a sound is heard. A moment music; it is "like deep-toned thunder, blended before, the sun shone in its fresh refulgence in with soft whispering rain-drops.' There is the eastern heaven, and the waves thundered much of the rising grandeur of Haydn's New their deep, majestic music; but now there is Created World: it is the song of the spheres, nought save silence. They look around, and the hymn of Creation; it is as thrilling to the behold the ruins of a gigantic city: some mysenses as when a "star gilds the bright summit riad of ages back, it was the abode of life and of some gloomy cloud." It has something of beauty; within its palaces the sound of harp, the stateliness of Mozart's minstrelsy; there is and dulcimer, and lute was heard, among its the subtle harmony of "dulcet instruments trees and flowers the evening zephyr sighed, and "silver stir of strings;" and then out-swell bright intelligence graced its halls and bowers, the gorgeous sounds rolling onwards with the and the song arose heavenward. Now the ocean's dash of everlasting waters. We mingle melody and dance were gone: solitude sat with other beings lovelier than those of earth; lonely there. we listen to melodies more exquisite than the soft warble of lute or the liquid note of nightingale; we behold star after star glittering and gleaming resplendently beneath its own rich golden sunlight; it is the harmony of the heavens-clear, soothing, divine! Our poet is keenly sensible to all the beautiful influences of the outward creation; his imagination ascends on angelic wings; it paints with all the enchanting colours of the rainbow; the granduer and the sweetness of his fancy bind us as with the magician's spell. On the bright and merry day of Midsummer, the poet leaves his dwelling, and after sauntering along wild, grassy lanes, and through hay-fields, and climbing the summit of a steep hill, he lays himself down on the flowery turf, and with half-shut eyes gazes on the blue expanse of immensity: soon sleep, a soft sweet sleep, falls on him, and thus he dreams : A form most beautiful and majestic stands before him, and offers to show him the wonders of the universe. "The air takes fragrance" as he speaks; the offer is joyfully accepted; his ear is opened, and his eye unsealed; and there are sounds, delicious sounds, of divinest music, issuing upward from every tree, and flower, and bank, and hill, and mountain, and river; the harmonies breathed out "like exhalations,' or "floated above like perfume on the air;" the winds and clouds, and the "thin moon-mist" mingled their exquisite melodies in creation's hymn. They immediately are wafted over the rolling waters and beautiful islands of our planet to the North Pole; they gaze on the far outstretched hills of ice, which glitter in every brilliant hue-the diamond, the ruby, and the emerald-beneath the blaze of the setting sun. The serene eventide came gently on, and the shades deepened; all was still and motionless; the winds had sunk into a soft breeze, and even this was dropping; the twilight darkens, and the western luminary once more bursting from the clouds, lights up the snowy regions with gems of every tinge and colour; the silver stars sparkle in the wide heavens: then comes Through rocks hard as adamant they sink and reach the centre of the earth: here are the everlasting fires; on one tremendous arch the hills and valleys have a firm foundation : the flames roar incessantly; the poet's senses fail; he feels as if that beautiful spirit-guide had departed; before his eyes stands the ponderous axle on which the world turns its weight: all around, "beings like statues of hot iron," glare on him; then the fires faded, the axle and the mighty thralls were lost in darkness; on his ear arose the bellowing of the flames, and the rolling of this planet with the noise of iron clanking :" each sense grew dimmer, and the imagination reeled, when again the sound of the spirit's voice came sweetly. A storm is raging on the sea; they swiftly ascend, and there is a moan as of dashing waters; it swells loud and louder; the waves toss their spray up to the dark, tempestuous sky; in the fading eventide of day they behold a vessel sink. Higher still they rise; the fury of the storm increases; the foam is dashed upwards to the stars; the rain comes down in torrents; the winds howl furiously; the black clouds cover the whole hemisphere; the lightnings flash and flash again, and the thunders rumble, groan, break out in tremendous claps. They still ascend, and pass into the pure ether: the poet casts back a lingering look upon the earth; the storm seemed but a little point of blackness; and the sleeping vales, and hills dappled with light and shade, and lonely walks, and running streams, and majestic forests, and Eden-isles, and lakes shadowing in their bosoms the high summits of their mountains, looked beautiful and bright. Higher yet and higher; the world is but a star, a moment more and it is lost in the magnificent assemblage of constellations. Our sun flashes like a diamond on the sight; near and more near they approach; the scenery becomes vast and gigantic-mountains of ruby, and emerald, and topaz tower above themforests spread out their luxuriant foliage, and rivers, greater than the oceans of our lowly world, roll with ever-deepening music. The land blushes with entrancing beauty; the inhabitants are more powerful than man; their dwellings are of diamond and amethyst, their chariots look like one living sapphire, their ships are fragrant with undecaying wood, the decks a glowing pearl, the sails of deepest crimson, and the ropes twisted gold; there is no decay; the forests, and the fields, and the flowers are eternal; the gentle dew, as it dissolves, breathes out the sweetest odour; their trees seem "pillars for a temple were the gods might worship the One Deity;" and it has bowers rose crowned, and streams, and emerald banks, and birds of gorgeous plumage, and cities of "inconceivable splendour." Over a boundless landscape soon they wing their flight, and sink down at last on a mountain's brow: opposite stood a mighty pile, its dome, skytinctured and towering up until its loftiest pinnacle appeared "like the twinkling of a distant star;" its gates, "on their diamond hinges turning, gave a sound as of a multitude of harps," and "one deep thunder-note." Three angles issued forth, and uplifted the golden trumpet; "three times they blew; three times from infinite space came the long answers back." Suddenly, a low sweet sound arose, then deepened into grandeur and burst with tremendous music; deeper and deeper still, swelling onwards from ten thousand worlds rolling and surging and breaking into choruses ocean-hymned. The millions assembled beneath the sapphire-lighted dome; then came the adoration-anthem, clear and silvery, yet sweeping as the hurricane among the forest trees. The presence of divinity sat throned, the worshippers fell prostrate; "the voices and the instruments grew faint, then sank at once into an awful hush." But onwards still; bright starry systems yet to see: so onwards in the serene ether. Our poet stands again on the mountain's brow: the worship had ceased, the hymn had faded, the music had died away, the temple gates were closed, the glorious intelligences had departed. All was still; the thistle's down floated on the gentle breeze. Onwards they fly; the sun sinks to a star, and then is lost in the distance; they approach the dim wreck of a world; its bright inhabitants lay as if in pleasant dreams, its forests remained entire, not a leaf had fallen-the rivers and the ocean were frozen-the magnificent cities uplifted their massive architecture to the heavens-every temple was perfect. All in one dark hour had perished: some were slumbering beside the crystal fountain, and some on the banks of a once murmuring lake. In the odoriferous gardens reposed a harper with his harp, and on his bosom the form of his own fair one-all fresh, all beautiful as if they were to wake at morn. No perfumes rose from the empurpled flowers; there was no sound of falling waters; the winds slept; not a breeze stirred; the air was" still as an icy sea." Again they wing their way, cleaving "the fathomless obscure." The spirit-guide describes the creation of a starry system; then ceased, and confusion seized our poet. Gigantic shapes seemed to mock, then passed away; and beautiful forms came and soothed him; these faded, and the silver crescent put on a darkness, The sea was whispering quietly beneath; ROBERT BLAIR. All THE life of Blair is deficient in all those striking events which cast around the works of an author a deeper feeling of interest: his days, which were passed happily away in the discharge of pastoral duties, remind one of some flowery spot on which the slant rays of the western-sun fall, making it golden with beauty. He was born in 1699; studied in the University of Edinburgh; visited the Continent; in 1731, was ordained, and appointed to the parish of Athelstaneford. He was a man of much learning and taste, and to these he added sincere piety. He laboured quietly among his flock till 1746, when death gave him to the eternal world. The production on which his immortality rests was published some three years before his death, after having received considerable alterations from Doddridge. It immediately passed through several editions, and has since become a standard work. "The eighteenth century has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of The Grave. It is a popular poem, not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. The latest editor of the poets has, with singularly bad taste, noted some of this author's most nervous and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, among which he reckons that of Friendship, the solder of society.' Blair may be a homely and even a gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticism; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dulness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty." The grave is ever to man a gloomy subject: and even when illumined by the bright sunshine of heaven, it retains much of its darkness. To leave the earth, with its sweetly scented flowers, and luxuriant forests, and verdant dales, and grassy meadows, and wide-extended heaths, with their golden gorse, and snow white hare-bell, and yellow primrose; to leave our native land, with its multitude of silver brocks, and its mouldering ruins, and its beautiful kirk, and its magnificent abbeys, and its fine deep associations, and its pleasant memories; to leave the enchanting creation of poet and of painter, and their bowers of tenderness and truth; to leave our native hills, where we were born and brought up, and picked the violet and the butter-cup, and bared our brow to the open winds; to leave those around whose heart the fibres of our own are entwined, and to forget their radiant faces, and their affectionate welcomes, and their constant care; to leave our wives and our little ones, is not only a solemn but a bitter thing. It is not palatable to humanity; it needs all the revelations of the Eternal to dispel its dark, black clouds. Naturally we hate and abhor death: to look upon it with any other feeling than that of horror, we require the spiritual breathing of the Holy One: and, indeed, the rich consolation of his mercy, and the unsullied perfection and bliss of the promised inheritance, are scarcely able to deprive the sting of its poison. The majesty and grandeur of that everlasting realm, the hallowed and unruffled felicity of its inhabitants, the unclouded blue of its sky, the eternity of its delights, the absence of all decay, the exquisite softness and tremendous sublimity of its music, and the immaculate beauty of the ever-present Deity are scarcely sufficient to rob death of its heart-rending sorrows. It is natural to man to love the earth; it is natural that his sympathies should be linked with its varied scenery; on it he first drew breath and gazed on the face of creation, beautiful as the blushing countenance of a bride, and bright as the glory of the Everlasting; on it he felt the gushing of full-hearted affection, and its trees and skies have seen his joyance and gambols in youthful happiness; and beneath his parent's roof he sang hymns to Jesus, and folded his little hands together in prayer to the Most High; and as he grew older, the dim loveliness of its evenings has witnessed his vows and assignations, and firm, unchanging faith and his home is here, that temple of hallowed charms. It is no wonder, then, that man looks on death as a terrible foe: it, indeed may give more than it takes; it may bestow an abode of tranquil peace and unfading sweetness, but for awhile it robs him of those precious beings whose voices are as the voice of God. tuned to its divine melody, whose spirit is alive to its every change, and whose thoughts kindle at the magnificence of the starry heavens, and who melts into a tranquil softness whilst gazing on the grey streak of early dawn, or the crimson glories of the setting-sun, and whose mind is enchanted with the exquisite mechanism displayed in the smallest flower and the tiniest insect, to such a man what cold consolation he must receive when the preacher tells him that all these beautiful works of the Eternal will be swept away at death, and that in the new world there is neither tree, nor herb, nor shrub; he would, doubtless, if this were true, prefer the earth, sinful and sadly fallen as it is, to the bright heaven where hill and dale have no place. But if you tell him, as the Scriptures tell, that there will be the rippling stream, but far more clear; and green meadows, but far more refreshing to the eye; and lofty mountains, but far more gigantic; and shady dells, but far more lonely and still; and rolling oceans, but far more sublime; and sunset and sunrise, but far more gorgeous and magnificent; and the boundless expanse stretching itself into infinitude overhead, but far more profound; and delicious and solemn minstrelsies, but far more thrilling than those of this lower orb, and you will stir up within him his very heart, and he will pant for heaven; he will have something to grasp at, something tangible. In his hours of unrest and anxiety will the thought cheer his drooping soul; and the fair loveliness of that nature which he sees and regards will teach him something of those coming glories and those coming joys. To a man who has given up his whole heart to the tender bliss of domestic life, of what comfort is it to say that there is a happier land above, where all is a deep, hallowed blessedness of peace, but where domestic loves will be for ever severed? It may be, and doubtless is true, that our love to God will be the grand moving principle of the soul; every thought will tower upwards, and every affection fix itself upon Him. But think we friendship and still nearer and dearer ties will be unknown? Think we that those relationships which bind our homes with the flowers of paradise, and which give to our lips the nectar of Eden, will be altogether banished, and altogether exiled there? No: there may, indeed, be no marriage-bond; but there will be instead thereof that boundless and unutterable ecstasy of bliss which is oftentimes felt on earth; there will be that outbursting and ever-kindling tenderness of word and look which renders this world even now not unconnected with the skies. And inasmuch as the heart will be holier and better, will those affections and loves gather a diviner beauty and a diviner vigour. We think, then it is somewhat perilous to say that all such delights will be reft away at death: nor do we deem it in The Scriptures alone unravel the mystery; any way a measure calculated to increase the they alone breathe comfort, they alone shed healthy spirituality of the soul. No one of the light. We indeed have oftentimes endeavoured faculties will be destroyed; they will be purgto deepen that mystery-to stay that comforted, indeed, and purified, but they will still to darken that light: we have spiritualized too much; our bold outlines and strong features are lost in some dim, ethereal air. To a man who loves the vast creation, whose soul is at Nor are we able even to banish the recollection of the curse; it haunts us everywhere; it ever abides with us; if we go, it follows; if we lie down, it too lies down with us: no time, no place, no station is proof against its assaults; it ever stares us in the face; it mingles in all we do and say: in the festive scene it comes; in the almost rocfless hut it departs not. remain; they will become more sensibly alive to pleasure, and more keenly sensitive of joy. Because we are to have no tears and no sorrows, are we on that account to be for ever shut out |