which rise precipitously beyond it. As the sun was declining when I traversed this path, the portion of craggy shore thus disclosed, and the shrubs which flourish among its steeps, were overcast with the richest tints from the west, and the vessels gently gliding through the opening made by the shaggy declivities of the nearer hills, completed the feeling of genial composure diffused over the scene. From the northern side, the prospect appears arrayed in far gayer charms. The valley here, from the narrow point at which it is seen, spreads out into a fanlike form, till the eminences on each side seem gradually to melt away, and the open country lies in full expanse to the view. It is a scene of fresh, reposing, and perfect beauty. Not an angular intersection breaks the roundness, or interrupts the grace, which characterize the whole. The hills in the foreground sink from each side of the Aqueduct, gradually to the depth of the vale, covered with the freshest verdure, fluctuating in a wave-like motion; and the more distant landscape appears composed of a thousand gentle undulations, thrown up by Nature in her sweetest mood, as though the earth were swelling with an exuberant bounty, even to the rim of the circling sky, with the form of which all is harmonious. The green in which the prospect is clothed, is of a softer and more vivid hue than in England; the pastures seem absolutely to sparkle on the eye; and, amidst this "splendour in the grass, this glory in the flower," the lively groves of orange and the villas of purest white scattered thickly around, give to the picture a fairy brightness. And yet, setting individual associations aside, I prefer the scenery of my own country to this enchanted vale. This is a landscape to visit as a spectacle, not to live in. There is no solemnity about it, no austere beauty,-no retiring loveliness; there are no grand masses of shade, no venerable oaks, which seem coeval with the hills over which they cast their shadows,-no vast colonnades, in which the fine spirit of the elder time seems yet to keep its state. Nature wears not the pale livery which inspires meditation or solemn joy; her face seems wreathed in a perpetual smile. The landscape breathes, indeed, of intoxicating delight; it invites to present joy; but it leads to no tender reminiscences of the past, nor gives solemn indications of the future. It is otherwise in the very deficiencies, as they are usually regarded, of our happier land. There" the pale primrose that dies unmarried" among the scanty hedge-rows, as an emblem of innocence peeping forth amidst a cheerless world, suggests more pensive yet delicious musing, than the gaudiest productions of this brighter clime. The wild roses, thinly interspersed among our thickets, with their delicate colouring and faint perfume, afford images of rustic modesty, far sweeter and more genial than the rich garlands which cluster here. Those "echoes from beyond the grave," which come to us amid the stillness of forests which have outlived generations of men, are here unheard. In these valleys we are dazzled, surprised, enchanted;-in ours we are moved with solemn yet pleasing thoughts, which "do often lie too deep for tears." Having traversed both sides of the aqueduct, I resolved to ascend one of the hills beyond it, for the purpose of obtaining a still more extensive view. After a most weary ascent, of which my eye had taken a very inadequate estimate, I reached the summit and was amply rewarded for my toils. To the north lay the prospect which I have endeavoured to describe, softened in the distance; beneath was the huge pile, with its massive arches and lone turrets bridging the vale. To the south was the Tagus, and, a little onward, its entrance, where it gently blended with the sea. Completely round the north-eastern side of the horizon, the same mighty and beautiful river appeared flowing on far beyond Lisbon in a noble curve, which seemed to dissolve in the lighter blue of the heavens. And full to the west beyond the coast of Portugal, now irradiated with the most brilliant colouring, was the free and circling ocean, on which amidst visionary shapes of orange and saffron glory, the sun was, for his last moment, resting. Soon the sky became literally" fretted with golden fire," and the hills seemed covered with a tender haze of light, which rendered them yet lovelier. The moon began to blend her mild radiance with the sweet twilight, as I took the last glance at the vale, and hastened to Lisbon. On Thursday, the 21st of May, a grand festival was holden in honour of Saint George, who is held in peculiar reverence in Lisbon. On this most sacred occasion, all the buildings around the vast area of the Rocio were hung with crimson tapestry; a road was formed of fine gravel, guarded by lines of soldiers; and the troops, to a great number, in splendid uniforms, occupied the most conspicuous passages. When all was prepared, the train issued from a church in one of the angles of the square, and slowly paraded round the path prepared for it. It consisted of all the ecclesiastical orders, attired in their richest vestments, and bearing, alternately, crosses of gold and silver; canopies of white, purple, orange, and crimson silk, bordered with deep fringes; and gorgeous banners, decorated with curious devices. The canopy which floated over the consecrated wafer, formerly borne by the king and the princes, was, on this occasion, carried by the chief persons of the regency. But the most remarkable object was the Saint himself, who," not to speak it profanely," is no other than a wooden figure, and, I am afraid, must yield in proportion and in grace to that unconsecrated work, the Apollo Belvidere. He was seated on a noble horse, and arrayed in a profusion of gems, which, according to the accounts of the Portuguese, human power could hardly calculate. His boots were of solid silver; his whole person begirt with jewels, and his hat glittered in the sun like one prodigious diamond. He descended in state from the castle to the church, whence the procession issued, and remained there during the solemnities. He was saluted on leaving his mansion, with a discharge of artillery, and re ceived the same compliment on his return to | powers and energies which dignify man. They that favoured residence. The people, who were have no enthusiasm, no devoted admiration, or of course assembled in great crowds, did not love, for objects unconnected with the neces appear to me to look on the magnificent dis- sities of their mortal being, or the low grati play before them with any feeling of religious fications of sense. They have a few mighty awe, or to regard it in any other light than, at names to lend them an inspiration, which the most, a national spectacle. might supply the place of contemporary genius; and with those, of which they ought to be fond in proportion to their rarity, they appear scarcely acquainted. Of the rich stores of poetry and romance, which they might enjoy from the neighbouring country and almost similar language of Spain, they are, for the most part, unconscious. Not only has the spirit of chivalry departed from these mountains, where it once was glowing; but its marvellous and golden tales are neglected or forgotten. Of the national character of the Portuguese in general, I can say very little, as my personal intercourse with them was extremely limited. Were I to believe all that some English residents in Lisbon have told me, I should draw a gloomy picture of human degradation unrelieved by a single redeeming grace. I should say that the common people are not only ignorant and filthy, but universally dishonest; that they blend the vices of savage and social life, and are ready to become either pilferers or assassins; that they are cruel to their children, The degradation of the public mind in Lislax in friendship, and implacable in revenge; bon is increased by the notorious venality of that the higher orders are at once the dupes the ministers of justice. There is no crime for and tyrants of their servants, familiar with which indemnity may not be purchased by a them one moment, and brutally despotic the bribe. Even offences against the government next; that they are in constant jealousy of their of the king may be winked at, if the culprit is wives, and not without reason; and that even able to make an ample pecuniary sacrifice. their vices are without dignity or decorum. It is a well-known fact that some of the chief All this can never be true, or Lisbon would not be conspirators in the plot to assassinate Marshal subsisting in order and peace.. To me, the in- Beresford, and change the whole order of habitants appear in a more amiable light. things in Portugal, were able to make their Filthy and ignorant the common people doubt- peace with the judges, and, on the ground of less are; but they are sober; and those dreadful some technical informality, were dismissed excesses and sorrows which arise from the use, without trial. When any one is accused of an in England, of ardent spirits, are consequently offence, he is generally sent at once to prison, unknown. They are idle; but the warmth of where he remains until he can purchase his the climate may, in some degree, excuse them. freedom. There does not seem, however, any No rank is destitute of some appearance of disposition to persecution for opinions, or native courteousness. The rich are not, indeed, to exercise wanton cruelty. The Inquisition Howards or Clarksons; they have no idea of is no longer an engine in the hands of the exerting themselves to any great degree, to priests, but is merely a tribunal for the exdraw down blessings on the heads of others or amination and the punishment of political oftheir own; they do not go in search of wretched- fences. Death is rarely inflicted; for it brings ness in order to remove it, but when misery is no gain to the magistrate. Criminals guilty brought before them, as it is constantly here, in of the highest offences are kept in prison until a thousand ghastly forms, they are far from with- they are forgotten, without any one knowing holding such aid as money can render. The or caring about their fate. In the absence of gardens of their country villas, which are ex- the sovereign almost all the civil authorities ceedingly elegant, are always open in the even-have become totally corrupted, for there is no ings to any of the populace who choose to walk there, so that the citizen, on the numerous holidays which the Romish church affords, is not compelled to inhale the dust in some wretched tea-garden, which is a libel at once on nature and art, but may rove with his children through groves of orange and thickets of roses. When the company thus indulged meet any of the family which reside in the mansion, they acknowledge the favour which they are enjoying by obeisances not ungracefully made, which are always returned with equal courtesy. I am assured, that this privilege is never abused; even the children walk amidst the flowers and the fruits, without the slightest idea of touching them. This circumstance alone would induce me to doubt the justice with which some have attempted to fix the brand of dishonesty on the inferior classes of Portugal. The people want not the natural tenderness and gentle movements of the heart; all their deficiencies arise from the absence of high principle, the languishing of intellect, and the decay of the loftier patriot to watch, and no public voice to awe them. The people appear sunk in apathy to all excepting gain; and the greater number of them crawl on with little hope, except to supply the cravings of hunger. The city, notwithstanding its populousness, exhibits all the marks of decay-buildings in ruins amidst its stateliest streets, and houses begun on a magnificent scale, and left unfinished for years. The foreign merchants, especially the British, who use it as a central port, give it an arti ficial life, without which its condition would be most wretched. In bidding farewell to this bright abode of degraded humanity, I felt it impossible to believe that it was destined gradually to become desolate and voiceless. Glorious indeed would be the change, if knowledge should expand the souls now so low and contracted, into a sympathy with the natural wonders around them-if the arts should once more adorn the romantic city-and the orange groves and lovely spots among the delicate cork trees, should be vocal with the innocent gayety of happy peasants, or shed their influences on the hearts of youthful bards. If, indeed, the people were awakened into energy, and their spirit was regulated by wise and beneficent governors, the capital of Portugal would assuredly become the fairest of cities. MR. CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS.* [LONDON MAGAZINE.] existence, instead of discovering the spirit of truth and beauty within them. Nor does the author before us, often combined with these by the ignorance or the artifice of criticism, differ less widely from them. Without Wordsworth's intuitive perception of the profoundest truths, or Coleridge's feeling of beauty, he has a subtile activity of mind which supplies the place of the first, and a wonderful power of minute observation, which, when directed to lovely objects, in a great degree produces the effect of the latter. All these three rise on some occasions to the highest heaven of thought and feeling, though by various processesWordsworth reaching it at once by the divine wingedness of his genius-Coleridge ascending to it by a spiral track of glory winding on through many a circuit of celestial light-and Lloyd stepping thither by a firm ladder, like that of Jacob, by even steps, which the feet of angels have trodden! THERE is no more remarkable instance of the | ciates-offering a child-like feebleness in con"cant of criticism," than the representation trast to Wordsworth's nerve-and ranging currently received as distinctive, whereby through mythologies and strange fantasies, not several authors, chiefly residing in the neigh-only with less dominion than Coleridge, but bourhood of the lakes, were characterized merely portraying the shapes to which they gave as belonging to one school of poetry. In truth, propinquity of residence, and the bonds of private friendship, are the only circumstances which have ever given the slightest colour to the hypothesis which marked them out as disciples of the same creed. It is scarcely possible to conceive individuals more dissimilar in the objects of their choice, or in the essential properties of their genius. Who, for example, can have less in common than Wordsworth and Coleridge, if we except | those faculties which are necessarily the portion of the highest order of imaginative minds? The former of these has sought for his subjects among the most ordinary occurrences of life, which he has dignified and exalted, from which he has extracted the holiest essences of good, or over which he has cast a consecrating and harmonizing light "which never was by sea or land." The latter, on the other hand, has spread abroad his mighty mind, searching for his materials through all history and all science, penetrating into the hidden soul of the wildest superstitions, and selecting the richest spoils of time from the remotest ages. Wordsworth is all intensity-he sees nothing, but through the hallowing medium of his own soul, and represents all things calm, silent, and harmonious as his own perceptions. Coleridge throws himself into all the various objects which he contemplates, and attracts to his own imagery their colours and forms. The first, seizes only the mighty and the true with a giant grasp;—the last has a passionate and almost effeminate love of beauty and tenderness which he never loses. One looks only on the affections in their inmost home, while the other perceives them in the lightest and remotest tints, which they cast on objects the strangest and most barbarous. All the distinction, in short, between the intense and the expansive-the severe and the lovely-the philosophic and the magical-really separates these great poets, whom it has been the fashion to censure as united in one heresy. If we cast the slightest glance at Southey's productions, we shall find him unlike either of these, his asso Desultory Thoughts in London, Titus and Gisippus, with other Poems. By CHARLES LLOYD, author of Nuga Canora, and translator of Alfieri's Tragedies, 12mo, 1821. The peculiar qualities of Mr. Lloyd's genius have never been so clearly developed as in the chief poem of the work before us. In his "Nuga Canoræ," all his thoughts and feelings were overcast by a gentle melancholy, which rendered their prominences less distinct, as it shed over them one sad and sober hue. Even, however, in his most pensive moods, the vigorous and restless activity of his intellect might be discerned, curiously inquiring for the secret springs of its own distress, and regarding its sorrows as high problems worthy of the most painful scrutiny. While he exhibited to us the full and pensive stream of emotion, with all the images of soft clouds and delicate foliage reflected on its bosom, he failed not to conduct us to its deep-seated fountains, or to lay open to our view the jagged caverns within its banks. Yet here the vast intellectual power was less conspicuous than in his last poems, because the personal emotion was more intense, single, and pervading. He is now, we rejoice to observe, more "i' the sun," and consequently, the nice workings of his reason are set more distinctly before us. The "Desultory Thoughts in London" embrace a great variety of topics, associated in the mind of the author with the metropolis, but many of them belonging to those classes of abstraction which might as fitly be contemplated in a 66 desert. Among these are "Fate, free-will, | The blind as well might doubt of sense and sight; Peruse their lives, who thus have vow'd pursuit Of heavenly communion: in despite Their singleness of heart: except ye fight Of all your arguments ye can't dispute 'Gainst facts, ye, self-convicted, must be mute. Who its existence, as a faith, embraced? To thee, with spiritual glories, to be graced. 'Tis easy thing to say, that men are fools; Easy, to him who always ridicules That half-pretence oft ekes out half-insane. We know all this; but we know also well, Admissible, all other men excel Are they, stern Fate, spite of thy direst spell : pediency and self-interest-with many speculations relating to the imaginative parts of literature, and the influences of religion upon them all of which are grasped by the hand of a master. The whole range of controversial writing scarcely affords an example of propositions stated so lucidly, qualified so craftily, and urged with such exemplary fairness and candour as in this work. It must, indeed, be admitted, that the admirable qualities of the argument render it somewhat unfit for marriage "with immortal verse." Philosophical poetry, when most attractive, seizes on some grand elemental truths, which it links to the noblest material images, and seeks rather to send one vast sentiment to the heart through the medium of the imagination, than to lead the mind by a regular process of logic, to the result which it contemplates. Mere didactic poetry, as Pope's Essay on Man, succeeds not by the nice balance of reasons, but by decking out some obvious common-place in a gorgeous rhetoric, or by expressing a familiar sentiment in such forcible language as will give it a singular charm to all who have felt its justice in a plainer garb. In general, the poet, no less than the woman, who deliberates, is lost. But Mr. Lloyd's effusions are in a great mea-God is their rock, their fortress of defence, sure exceptions to this rule;-for though they are sometimes" harsh and crabbed," and sometimes too minute, they are marked by so hearty an earnestness, and adorned by such variety of illustration, and imbued with such deep sentiment, that they often enchant while they convince us. Although his processes are careful, his results belong to the stateliest range of truths. His most laborious reasonings lead us to elevated views of humanity-Hear what the wrapped, transfigured Guion says to the sense of a might above reason itself-to those objects which have inspired the most glorious enthusiasm, and of which the profoundest bards have delighted to afford us glimpses. It is quite inspiring to follow him as he detects the inconsistencies of worldly wisdom, as he breaks the shallow reasonings of the advocates of expediency into pieces, or as he vindicates their prerogatives to faith and hope. He leads us up a steep and stony ascent, step by step; but cheers us by many a ravishing prospect by the way, and conducts at last to an eminence, not only above the mists of error, but where the rainbow comes, and whence the gate of heaven may be seen as from the Delectable Mountains which Bunyan's Pilgrim visited. We scarcely know how to select a specimen which shall do justice to an author whose speculations are too vast to be completed within a short space, and are connected with others by delicate links of thought. We will give, however, his vindication of the enthusiastic and self-denying spirit, which, however associated with absurdity, is the soul of all religion and virtue. Reasoners, that argue of ye know not what, In time of trouble, a defence most holy; His pride, a bubble; and his wisdom, folly. Rooted in heaven, to live is-to adore ! Ye, that might cavil at these humble lays, With ills of body such as few have known ;- To poverty devoted, she defies To luxuries used, they all aside are thrown; Was e'er an instance known, that man could taste Condition indispensable, whence draws Of sight, because the experience of each day And was confounded? cover'd with dismay? And pains of flesh seem ministers of grace, He had before renounced; thus he can trace He too as much enjoys the spectacle Loses he fame 1 the honour he loves well Is not of earth, but that which seraphim Might prize! Loses he liberty? his cell, And all its vaults, echo his rapturous hymn: He feels as free as freest bird in air! His heaven-shrined spirit finds heaven everywhere! 'Tis not romance which we are uttering! No; Which maketh him impassive to the test Is not, ought not to be, man's primary rule; To do those things which e'en our reasons fool. God, and he only, sees the consequential; The mind well nurtured in religion's school Feels that He only-to whom all's obedientHas right to guide itself by the expedient. Duty is man's first law, not satisfaction! That satisfaction comes from this perform'd Had Regulus reason'd, whether on the scale Their country's cause, had never been her boast. Shall Christ submit upon the cross to bleed, Of this enlighten'd age! Take off the mask! Thy name, Thermopylæ, had ne'er been heard, A theory for a declining race! No, let us keep at least our lips from lies; If we have forfeited Truth's soaring grace, Let us not falsify her prodigies. We well may wear a blush upon our face, From her past triumphs so t' apostatize In deeds; but let us not with this invent An infidelity of argument. Go to Palmyra's ruins; visit Greece, Behold! The wrecks of her magnificence The following is only a portion of a series of reminiscences equally luxurious and intense, and which are attended throughout by that vein of reflection which our author never loses: Oh, were the eye of youth a moment ours! When every flower that gemm'd the various earth Brought down from Heaven enjoyment's genial showers. And every bird, of everlasting mirth Prophesied to us in romantic bowers! Love was the garniture, whose blameless birth Caused that each filmy web where dew-drops trembled, The gossamery haunt of elves resembled! We can remember earliest days of spring, When violets blue and white, and primrose pale, Rising like incense from the breathing world, When a soft moisture, steaming everywhere, To the earth's countenance mellower hues imparted; When sylvan choristers self-poised in air, Or perched on bows, in shrilly quiverings darted Their little raptures forth; when the warm glare (While glancing lights backwards and forwards started, As if with meteors silver-sheathed 'twere flooded) Sultry, and silent, on the hill's turf brooded. Oh in these moments we such joy have felt, Within that very sanctuary of thine When shapes, and sounds, seem'd as but modes of Thee!) That with experience gain'd were heaven to me! Oft in the fulness of the joy ye give, Oh, days of youth! in summer's noon-tide hours, From insects' drowsy hum, that all my powers Who can have watch'd the wild rose' blushing dye, From white to deepest flush of vermeil stain? Who, amid lanes, on eve of summer days, Which sheep brouse, could the thicket's wealth behold In every satin sheath that helps to raise The daisy, cowslip, each have to them given- I had a cottage in a Paradise! Onward, in front, a mountain stream did rise Up, whose long course the fascinated mind (So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes) Might localize the most romantic dreams, |