His dirge of death-then strangely stupified,
He sank the shatter'd shivering rocks among,
Himself a thing as lifeless, and his bride

Torn from his straining arms, lay senseless by his side.

Long, long he slept, till, starting with a gasp
To consciousness of life and agony,

From that rude rock he scarce could loose his grasp
Bound as by grappling gyve-his vacant eye
Fell first on Adah, dull and dizzily

As on a form unknown-but Love's true ray,
Though dimm'd, was not extinct-it could not die
While the fond heart yet beat-clouds pass'd away—
He saw where pale and cold his best beloved lay;

And hung distracted o'er her, till her breast
Heaved with faint flutter, and her wan cheek glow'd
With passing hectic, while the hand he prest
Feebly return'd his pressure. Strange tears flow'd-
And Horror ceased an instant to forebode
Death's darker consummation, till the roar
Of waters smote his ear-he look'd abroad-
The City of the Plain was seen no more-
Beneath him roll'd alone a sea without a shore.

True were thy words, oh Prophet! Fierce and free
From chains that curb'd its struggling floods before
With all its waters rose the mighty Sea;
Earth's central waves disgorged their secret store
To swell the rushing torrent, till it tore
Huge forests from their place-and on its tide
The ponderous wreck of shatter'd cities bore
Frail as the floating sea-weed-e'en the pride

Of that vast mount could scarce the shock of waters bide.

Ah, wherefore shrink they back in wild affright?
The circling gloom by Heaven's behest he clave
To mock his shrieking dupes-and guide them to the grave.

Round him a dusky tabernacle hung

Of ambient mists-in pyramid and spire

The broken clouds their folds fantastic flung,
And in the midst flash'd forth, with omen dire,
His huge and swollen orb-a sea of fire.

Is this their King, their God, their Saviour, Sun?

He comes the Herald of JEHOVAH'S ire;

And storm and tempest round his car are strown,
Like armed bands of wrath around a Tyrant's throne.

We shall quote but one passage more; it occurs very near the conclusion of

the poem.

Now it is done. The swelling floods may rise

None live to perish in the gulf profound;

Devouring flames may dazzle o'er the skies

None hear to startle at the thunder-sound

There are but clouds above and waves around!
The universe is ocean. One wide sea
Appears, without a barrier or a bound,
As though it ever was, and aye shall be
Ascending upward, upward through infinity.

But wilt thou rise, proud Ocean? Shall thy flood
Through the vast void for evermore expand?
Shall not the Power, whose mightier will withstood
Thy rage through rolling ages, yet withstand?
Hark! from his throne the Voice of dread command
Goes forth-and calms the tempest. He hath said,
Whose word returns not, " Angel, stay thine hand!"
Instant the lightnings heard-the winds obeyed;
The conscious thunders cease-the Angel's hand is stay'd.

Once more grim Chaos o'er the boundless deep
Claims its primeval empire; each rude wave
Sinks like a wearied giant to its sleep;

The surge hath ceased to roar, the blast to rave,
Till o'er the surface of that pathless grave

No sound is heard the horrid stillness breaking;
Where virgin, warrior, sovereign, priest, and slave,
By myriads or by millions are partaking

That dull and dreamless sleep which knows no earthly waking.

Oh! there was terror in the storm's deep gloom,
And wrath and vengeance in the lightning-glare,
And in the thunder-peal the voice of doom,
And death in ocean, and o'er Earth despair !—
These human eye and human heart might bear-
But the cold silence of that drear abyss-
Methinks the very Angels shudder there—
And pause an instant 'mid their songs of bliss
To weep-if Seraphs can-and mourn a scene like this!

Where is the world? Alas! there is no Earth-
JEHOVAH cursed it, and it pass'd away;-
Where is the Sun? The Power that gave it birth
Hath quench'd in darkness its retiring ray-
And bade it beam no more-perchance for aye-
What recks that Orb where closed is every eye?—
And Earth and Sun were form'd but to decay-
Yet is there one who shall not-cannot die;
Oh where is Man, sole heir of immortality?

He lives-but would'st thou question whither now
Are fled the guilty train, who madly spurn'd
To Mercy's voice in Mercy's hour to bow?
Know, none from those dark regions have return'd
To tell their tale of horror-none discern'd
The worm that dies not, and the insatiate fire
That ever burns. This only have we learn'd-
Forbear by guilt to rouse Jehovah's ire,

Nor dare provoke the frown which bade a world expire.

But Light not yet was quench'd, nor yet had Time Fulfill'd its fated round, The fortieth Sun Again through ether roll'd his car sublimeBut who survived to hail his rising? NoneTowers, Temples, Priests, Adorers, all are gone. As, ere JEHOVAH summon'd Earth to be, Light, new-created, hung in Heaven alone, So beams that Sun o'er one unbounded sea, For all beside have pass'd-Rocks! Mountains! where are ye? These passages may suffice to give an adequate idea of Mr Dale's success in the management of the noblest stanza in our language-the Spenserian. Most of the poets who write that stanza at present, give too much into imitation of the march which it as

sumes in Childe Harold-Lord Byron's favourite mixture of hurried apostrophe or interrogation-with lofty and long strains of declamation. Mr Croly in particular, in his Angel of the World, fell into this error-for such imitation is always an error-in a

way not quite worthy of his high genius. Mr Dale has adhered much more closely to the gentle flow of Spenser himself, and Thomson in the Castle of Indolence. The stanza so treated is surely not a whit less dignified. Indeed, we are of opinion that the solemn sweep of Mr Dale's versification is much more in unison with the character of the terrible subject with which he has dealt, and the profound emotions which he has endeavoured, and we think successfully, to raise.

A number of very graceful minor pieces are annexed to the "Tale of the Flood," and some 66 Specimens of

a projected New Translation of the Psalms." Of these last, we are sorry to say that we entirely disapprove. They have neither the simplicity nor the power which they ought to have. And in one word, we advise Mr Dale to think no more of an adventure which, to say nothing of lesser names, Robert Burns and Milton himself tried before him-and tried, like him, in vain. The best metrical version of the Psalms extant is the old German one. Perhaps by closely studying that model, something might be done; but even from that, our hopes are slender enough.

FIRST NOTES OF AN INCIPIENT BALLAD-METRE-MONGER.

DEAR CHRISTOPHER,

I am true to my new profession as a poet, but for the life of me I cannot find out what line I am most fitted for. At one time I think I have an epic genius, and am half tempted to take up the "Caledoniad," which Jonathan Oldbuck recommended to Mr Lovel, and offered to decorate with notes-indeed, I have gone so far as to send a letter or two to that eminent antiquary, directed to Monkbarns, via Fairport, but I know not how it is, he is slow in replying; can they have miscarried? Perhaps he is not so much bent upon the work as he was formerly. In other moments I believe myself to be rather possessed of a talent for lyrics; and whether this shall be cultivated by the composition of gratis birth-day and new-year odes, since the Laureate cuts off the court with an exercise of hexameters, or whether I shall tune my throat to something bacchanalian, under the title of Devil's Punch-Bowl Melodies, is yet undetermined. For blank verse I find I have a decided partiality—and as our bards measure it out to us at present, (five feet, more or less, in a verse, and those not always free from symptoms of lameness,) it is the very "writing made easy" of all the poetic schools now going; but it by no means forms a "reading made easy" to the purchasers of their light labours. I call their labours light, because it is owing to the compositor in many instances that the poems assume the semblance of being verse at all. Let him, however, take care that the lines begin with capitals, and the world is good-natured enough to believe there VOL. XII.

is rhythm in them, if it could be but discovered.

My present attempt, as a balladwriter, arises from a disappointment I experienced from that arrant jiltflirt Maga. Poor Juliet twitted Romeo with the adage, that "at lovers' perjuries Jove laughs;" and so, I suppose, perforce, must the Jove of the nether sky, the ruler of Ebony's Olympus, at the perjuries of contributors; for, if he did not take this subcachinnating method of dissipating his spleen, his gizzard would become schirrous with fretting, his forehead would be intersected with more lines than all the new canals make, when scored in a new county map, and his brows would look like a finer forest than any there depictured. How many bantlings have been shewn forth in your pages, and have died off, poor things, without coming to full stature! How many series of "Hora" have been entered upon under your auspices, and how few of their authors have lived out their due number of hours! What promising introductory letters have escaped the doom of the Balaam-box, by their announcements of fine things to come in regular succession, but, like the house in Gray's Long Story, we are baulked by at length discovering that they contain " long passages that lead to nothing!" Numbers (I may well say so, but more of No. 1. than No. 2.) have there been of essays, sketches, cantos, melodies, surveys, remarks, critiques, analyses, &c. &c. professing to be the primary links in a chain of a length too extensive to have its measure made the subject of a rash guess; but, woe's me! this anticipa

I

PACKING UP AFTER AN ENGLISH COUNTRY BALL.

The clock has struck the midnight hour, and the chandeliers burn low,
And the final couple are dancing down on somewhat wearied toe;
Each belle now takes her partner's arm, who squires her to her seat,
And chaperoning matrons talk right solemnly of heat.

The gallery is clearing of the drowsy fiddlers twain;

And he who blew the clarionet, with all his might and main,

And he who made the tambourine ring and vibrate with his thumb,
Have oped their eyes and stopp'd their yawns, for their release is come.

The Ball at the Red Lion is, at last, then at an end;

All agree it has been a pleasant night, as down the stairs they wend;
And we'll descend along with them to see the ladies muffle
Their finery in hoods and shawls, and in cloaks of serge and duffle.

But oh! alas! and well-a-day! 'tis raining cats and dogs,
And men and maids have brought umbrellas, pattens, boots, and clogs;
And lest white satin shoes be soil'd, they supply some pairs of stouter,
And lanterns, lest their mistresses should flounder in the gutter.

The ladies rather wish, 'tis true, that the gentlemen were gone,
And had left them to pack up their duds at leisure and alone;
But Captain Cartridge has engaged, and so has Ensign Sabre,

To guard the three Miss Johnsons home, and their ancient maiden neighbour.

So they're lolling on the table, waiting the damsels' 'hest,

Yet though these beaux so welcome are, it still must be confess'd
That Miss Amelia would prefer, while tugging her boot lace,

That the Captain, who's short-sighted, should not raise his quizzing glass.

Come, little merry Mrs Cushion is first and foremost ready,
And stands in act to issue forth on her clicking pattens steady,

With gown drawn through her pocket-holes, secure from dirt suburban,
And with a safeguard handkerchief enveloping her turban.

But see what's going on behind, where Emma Parkes is dressing!
Sure young John Leigh's attentions are most marvellously pressing;
With what an air of tenderness he enshawls each ivory shoulder-
An offer sure will come of this, ere he is twelve months' older!

At least so think the tabbies-and I see Miss Prudence Herring,

(Who, with sister Grace, is cloak'd to the chin, so at leisure to be peering,)
Has had enough side-glances at this love-scene to instruct her
How to frame on it by inference a gossip's superstructure.

But their tall prim niece is packing too, Miss Patience Prettyjohn,
Demurely settling her calash those towering plumes upon :

(Calashes are good things enough when the weather's wet and muggy,
But they make a woman's head look like the head of an old buggy.)

"Well, sister Grace," says Prue, "thank Heaven! our niece takes after us;
You never find the men round her, making that odious fuss,
Whispering such stuff! No, she can tie her cloak without assistance,
For I've always told her-Patience, dear! keep fellows at a distance.

"Uphold your dignity, my love! The boldest men, you see,—
The most presuming,-never take such liberties with me;

Once when a suitor knelt to me, imagine, if you can,

The air with which I waved my hand, and said, Begone, base Man!