APPENDIX. POMPEII. A POEM WHICH OBTAINED THE CHANCELLOR'S MEDAL AT THE CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT JULY, 1819. OH! land to Memory and to Freedom dear, Land of the melting lyre and conquering spear, Land of the vine-clad hill, the fragrant grove, Of arts and arms, of Genius and of Love, Hear, fairest Italy. Though now no more The glittering eagles awe the Atlantic shore, Nor at thy feet the gorgeous Orient flings The blood-bought treasures of her tawny Kings, Though vanished all that formed thine old renown, The laurel garland, and the jewelled crown, The avenging poniard, the victorious sword, Which reared thine empire, or thy rights restored, Yet still the constant Muses haunt thy shore, And love to linger where they dwelt of yore. If e'er of old they deigned, with favouring smile, To tread the sea-girt shores of Albion's isle, To smooth with classic arts our rugged tongue, And warm with classic glow the British song, Oh! bid them snatch their silent harps which wave On the lone oak that shades thy Maro's grave,* And sweep with magic hand the slumbering strings, To fire the poet.-For thy clime he sings, Thy scenes of gay delight and wild despair, Thy varied forms of awful and of fair. How rich that climate's sweets, how wild its storms, What charms array it, and what rage deforms, Sad City, gayly dawned thy latest day, Then mirth and music through Pompeii rung; From every crowded altar perfumes rise Heedless, like him, the impending stroke await, And sport and wanton on the brink of fate. What 'vails it that where yonder heights aspire, Unroll its blazing folds from yonder height, Oh! for a voice like that which pealed of old * Dio Cassius relates that figures of gigantic size appeared for some time previous to the destruction of Pompeii, on the summits of Vesuvius. This appearance was See Eustace's description of the Tomb of Virgil, on probably occasioned by the fantastic forms which the the Neapolitan coast. smoke from tle crater of the volcano assumed. Might bid those terrors rise, those sorrows flow; The morn all blushing rose; but sought in vain Along that dreary waste where lately rung The festal lay which smiling virgins sung, Where rapture echoed from the warbling lute, And the gay dance resounded, all is mute.Mute!-Is it Fancy shapes that wailing sound Which faintly murmurs from the blasted ground, Or live there still, who, breathing in the tomb, Curse the dark refuge which delays their doom, In massive vaults, on which the incumbent plain And ruined city heap their weight in vain? Oh! who may sing that hour of mortal strife, When Nature calls on Death, yet clings to life? Who paint the wretch that draws sepulchral breath, A living prisoner in the house of Death? Pale as the corpse which loads the funeral pile, With face convulsed that writhes a ghastly smile, Behold him speechless move with hurried pace, Incessant, round his dungeon's caverned space, Now shrink in terror, and now groan in pain, Gnaw his white lips and strike his burning brain, Till Fear o'erstrained in stupor dies away, And Madness wrests her victim from dismay. His arms sink down; his wild and stony eye Glares without sight on blackest vacancy. He feels not, sees not: wrapped in senseless trance His soul is still and listless as his glance. One cheerless blank, one rayless mist is there, Thoughts, senses, passions, live not with despair. Haste, Famine, haste, to urge the destined close, And lull the horrid scene to stern repose. Yet ere, dire Fiend, thy lingering tortures cease. And all be hushed in still sepulchral peace, Those caves shall wilder, darker deeds behold Than e'er the voice of song or fable told, Whate'er dismay may prompt, or madness dare, Feasts of the grave, and banquets of despair.Hide, hide the scene; and o'er the blasting sight Fling the dark veil of ages and of night. Go, seek Pompeii now:-with pensive tread Roam through the silent city of the dead. Explore each spot, where still, in ruin grand, Her shapeless piles and tottering columns stand, Where the pale ivy's clasping wreaths o'ershade The ruined temple's moss-clad colonnade, Or violets on the hearth's cold marble wave, And muse in silence on a people's grave. Fear not.-No sign of death thine eyes shal scare, No, all is beauty, verdure, fragrance there. Lie tombs and temples, columns, baths, and towers. Advance, and wander on through crumbling halls, Through prostrate gates and ivied pedestals, Arches, whose echoes now no chariots rouse, Tombs, on whose summits goats undaunted browse. See where yon ruined wall on earth reclines, Through weeds and moss the half-seen painting shines, Still vivid midst the dewy cowslips glows, Thou lovely, ghastly scene of fair decay, The capital of the Corinthian pillar is carved, as is well known, in imitation of the acanthus. Mons, de Chateaubriand, as I have found since this Poem was written, has employed the same image in his Travels. It is the custom of the modern Greeks to adora corpses profusely with flowers The wand of eloquence, whose magie sway Now shall thy deathless memory five entwined Each lofty thought of Poet or of Sage, And live renowned in accents yet unknown; THE BATTLE OF IVRY. [KNIGHT'S QUARTERLY MAGAZINE, 1824.] [HENRY the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, "My children, if you lose sight of your colours, rally to my white plume-you will always find it in the path to honour and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valour, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, "Save the French!" and his clemency added a number of the enemies to his own army. Aikin's Biographical Dictionary.] Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day, The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King.' "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; The well-known name of Attila Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls' MADAME D'ARBLAY.* [EDINBURGH REVIEW, JANUARY, 1843.] great delight, that this Diary was kept before Madame D'Arblay became eloquent. It is, for the most part, written in her earliest and best manner; in true woman's English, clear, natural, and lively. The two works are lying side by side before us, and we never turn from the Memoirs to the Diary without a sense of relief. The difference is as great as the difference between the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop, fetid with lavender water and jasmine soap, and the air of a heath on a fine morning in May. Both works ought to be consulted by every person who wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our man ners. But to read the Diary is a pleasure; to read the Memoirs will always be a task. THOUGH the world saw and heard little of | to be made public. Our hopes, it is true, were Madame D'Arblay during the last forty years not unmixed with fears. We could not forget of her life, and though that little did not add to the fate of the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, which her fame, there were thousands, we believe, were published ten years ago. That unfortu who felt a singular emotion when they learned nate book contained much that was curious that she was no longer among us. The news and interesting. Yet it was received with a of her death carried the minds of men back at cry of disgust, and was speedily consigned to one leap, clear over two generations, to the oblivion. The truth is, that it deserved its time when her first literary triumphs were doom. It was written in Madame D'Arblay's won. All those whom we had been accus- later style-the worst style that has ever been tomed to revere as intellectual patriarchs, known among men. No genius, no informaseemed children when compared with her; for tion, could save from proscription a book so Burke had sat up all night to read her writ- written. We, therefore, opened the Diary with ings, and Johnson had pronounced her supe- no small anxiety, trembling lest we should light rior to Fielding when Rogers was still a school- upon some of that particular rhetoric which boy, and Southey still in petticoats. Yet more deforms almost every page of the Memoirs, strange did it seem that we should just have and which it is impossible to read without a lost one whose name had been widely cele- sensation made up of mirth, shame and loathbrated before anybody had heard of some illus-ing. We soon, however, discovered to our trious men who, twenty, thirty, or forty years ago, were, after a long and splendid career, borne with honour to the grave. Yet so it was. Frances Burney was at the height of fame and popularity before Cowper had published his first volume, before Porson had gone up to college, before Pitt had taken his seat in the House of Commons, before the voice of Erskine had been once heard in Westminster Hall. Since the appearance of her first work, sixty-two years had passed; and this interval had been crowded, not only with political, but also with intellectual revolutions. Thousands of reputations had, during that period, sprung up, bloomed, withered, and disappeared. New kinds of composition had come into fashion, had gone out of fashion, had been derided, had beer forgotten. The fooleries of Della Crusca, and the fooleries of Kotzebue, had for a time bewitched the multitude, who had left no trace behind them; nor had misdirected genius been able to save from decay the once flourishing schools of Godwin, of Darwin, and of Radcliffe. Many books, written for temporary effect, had run through six or seven editions, and had then been gathered to the novels of Afra Behn, and the epic poems of Sir Richard Blackmore. Yet the early works of Madame D'Arbla, in spite of the lapse of years, in spite of re change of manners, in spite of the popularity deservedly obtained by some of her rivals, continued to hold a high place in the public esteem. She lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the departed. Like Sir Condy Rackrent in the tale, she survived her own wake, and over-who succeeded to all the lands of the family, heard the judgment of posterity. We may, perhaps, afford some harmless amusement to our readers if we attempt, with the help of these two books, to give them an account of the most important years of Madame D'Arblay's life. She was descended from a family which bore the name of Macburney, and which, though probably of Irish origin, had been long settled in Shropshire, and was possessed of consider able estates in that county. Unhappily, many years before her birth, the Macburneys began, as if of set purpose and in a spirit of deter. mined rivalry, to expose and ruin themselves. The heir-apparent, Mr. James Macburney, offended his father by making a runaway match with an actress from Goodman's Fields. The old gentleman could devise no more judicious mode of wreaking vengeance on his undutiful boy than by marrying the cook. The cook gave birth to a son named Joseph, while James was cut off with a shilling. The favorite son, however, was so extravagant, that he soon became as poor as his disinherited brother. Both were forced to earn their bread by their labour. Joseph turned dancing-master, and settled in Norfolk. James struck off the Mac from the beginning of his |