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height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible gra'ndeur ; some of them a thousand feet hi’gh, the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy s'ides, where mortal fo'ot/ never yet approa'ched. On these dreadful he'ights/ the e'agles build their ne'sts ; a variety of water-falls/ is seen pouring from their sum'mits, and tum'bling (in vast sh'eets) from roʻck to ro'ck/ in ru'de and ter'rible mag-nificence ; while on all sides of this immense amphith'eatre, the lofty moʻuntains rise arou'nd, piercing the clouds in sha’pes/ as sp'iry and fanta'stic/ as the very

ro'cks of Dov'edale. To th'is/ I must add the frequent and bold projection of the cli'ffs into the la'ke, forming noble b’ays and pro'-, montories : in other pa'rts/ they finely reti're-from-it, and often oʻpen/ in abrupt chasm's or cle'fts/, through which, at hand, you see rich and cultivated vaʻles ; and beyond the ́se (at various di'stance) mo’untain rising over mou'ntain ; among wh'ich, new, prospects present themselves in mi'st, till the eye is lo'st/ in an agreeable perplexity

Where active fan'cy/ travels beyond sēnse,

And pictures thi'ngsi unsee'n Were I to analyze the two places in their constituent pr’inciples, I should te'll-you, that the fu'll perfection of Ke'swick/ consists of three circumstances—bea'uty, horror, and imm'ensity, uni'ted ; (the second of which alo'ne/ is found in Doîvedale.) Of be’auty, it has little, (nature having left it almost a de'sert); neither its small exten't, nor the diminutive and li feless form of the hi'lls/, admits magn'ificence; but to give you a completeidea of these three perfe'ctions (as they are joined in Kěswick) would require the united powers of Cla’ude, Salv'ator, and Pous'sin. The first/ should throw his delicate su’nshine over the cultivated va'les, the scattered co'ts, the gro'ves, the lak'e, and wooded i’slands : the second should dash out the horror of the rugged cli'ffs, the stee'ps, the hanging woods, and foaming water-falls ; while the grand pencil of Pou'ssin/ should crown the whole with the ma'jesty of the impending mou'ntains.

So much for what I could call the permanent-beauties of this aston'ishing-scene. Were I not afraid of being tire'some, I could now dwell as long on its va’rying or accidental-beauties. I would sail round the lake, anchor in every b’ay, and land you on every promontory and is'land. I would point out the perpetual cha'nge of pro‘spect; the wo'ods, ro'cks, cli'ffs, and mou’ntains, by turns va’nishing or ris'ing into vi’ew; now

gaining on the sig'ht, hanging over our he’ads/ in their full dimen'sions, beautifully dre'adful ; and no'w (by a change of situʼation) assuming new romantic shap'es ; retiring and les'sening on the e'ye, and insensibly losing the'mselves in an azure mis't. I would remark the contrast of light and shade, produced by the morning and evening-sun ; the on'e/ gilding the we'stern, the oʻther/ the eastern-side of this immense amphith'eatre ; while the vast shadow/ projected by the mo'umtains/ buries the opposite part/ in a deep and purple glo'om, which the e'ye can hardly penetrate. The natural variety of c'olouring, which the several objects prod'uce, is no less won'derful/ than pl’easing ; the ruling tints in the va'lley/ being those of aʼzure, gresen, and gold ; yet ever vaʼrious, arising from an intermixture of the la'ke, the woʻods, the gra'ss and corn-fie'lds: the’se/ are finely contrasted by the grey roc'ks and cli'ffs : and the whoʻle/ heightened by the yellow streams of light, the purple hu'es and misty aʼzure of the mou'ntains. Sometimes/ a serene air and clear sky/ disclose the tops of the highest

at other-times/ you see the clouds involving their su'mmits, re’sting on their si'des, or descending to their b'ase, and ro'lling/ among the v’alleys/ as in a vast fur'nace. When the winds are hi'gh, they roar among the cliffs and c'averns/ like peals of thu’nder; th’en, -too, the clouds are seen in vast bo'dies/ sweeping along the hills in gloomy greatness, while the la‘ke/ joi'ns the tu'mult, and tos'ses like a s'ea. But in călm-weather, the whole scene becomes ne'w; the lake is a perfect mir'ror, and the la'ndscape/ is in all its bea'uty: isla'nds, fi'elds, woods, rocks, and moʻuntains, are seen inv'erted, and floating on its surface. I will now carry you to the top of a cli'ff, wh'ere (if you dare approach the r'idge) a new scene of asto'nishment presents its'elf; where the valley,* lak'e, and i'slands, seem lying at your fe'et ; where this expanse of water/ appears diminished to a little po'ol (amidst the vast and immeasurable o'bjects/ that surround it) ; for here/ the summits of more distant hi'lls/ appear beyond those you have already se'en; a'nd, rising behind each other/ in successive ranges and azure gro'ups-of crag‘gy and brʻoken-steeps, form an immense and awful pic'ture, which can only be expre'ssed/ by the image of a tempes

hi'lls;

* Though giving“ valley” the rising slide may be considered a depar. ture from rule, I feel persuaded the euphony is not diminished by it. -Ed.

tuous s'ea of mouứntains. Let me now conduct you down to the va'lley, and conclude with one circumstance mor'e ; which is', that when I walk by still mo'on-light (at which time the distant water-falls are heard in all the variety of sou'nd/ among these enchanting-dales), it opens such scenes of d'elicate beauty, rep'ose, and solemnity, as exceed a'll descri'ption.

Concluding tone.

CELADON AND AMELIA.

Thomson.

Young Celadon
And his Amelia, were a matchless pair';
With equal virtue formed and equal grace ;
The same', distinguished by their sex alone':
Hers' the mild lus'tre of the blooming morn',
And his/ the ra'diance of the risen day'.
They lov'ed; but, such their guileless passsion was,
As in the dawn of time / informed the heart
Of in'nocence and undissembling truth'.
'Twas frie'ndship, height'ened by the mutual wish':
The enchanting hope', and sympathetic glow',
Beamed from the mutual eye'. Devoting all
To love', each/ was to each' a de’arer self';
Supremely happy, in the awakened power
Of giving joy'. Alo'ne, amid the shades,
(Still in harmonious in'tercourse) they lived
The rural day', and talked the flowing heart,
Or sigh'ed/ and look'ed-un'utterable things'.
So passed their life', (a cle’ar, un'ited stream,
By care unru'ffled); till, in evil hour',
The tempest ca'ught them on the tender walk',
Heedless how far”, and whe“re its mazes stray'ed,
While', with each other blest', creative love
Still bade eternal E'den) smile around'.
Presaging instant fate', her bo‘som heav'ed
Unwon'ted sig hs; a'nd, stealing oft a look
Towards the big gloom', on Celadon/ her eye
Fell tear'ful, wetting her disordered cheek:
In vain assuring love, and confidence
In Heaven, repr'essed her fea'r; it grew', and shook

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Her frame' near dissolution. He perceived
The unequal con'flict, a’nd (as* angels look
On dying saints') his eyes compas'sion shed',
With love illumined high'. “ Fear' not,” (he said)
“ Sweet in'nocence ! thou stran'ger to offence
“ And inward storm'! He', who yon skies/ involves
“ In frowns of dark'ness, e'ver-smiles on theel
“ With kind regard'. O'er th'ee/ the secret shaft/
“ That wastes at mid'night, or the undreaded hour
“ Of noîon, flies harʼmless; and, that very vosice,

(Which thunders terror through the guilty heart',)
“With tongues of se'raphs/ whispers pe'ace to thine'.
“ 'Tis safety/ to be near thee sure', and thus /
“ To clasp perfec'tion !” From his void embrace',
(Mysterious Hea'ven !) that mo'ment to the ground/,
A blackened corse' was struck' the beauteous maid'.
But, wh'o can paint the lover as he stood',
Pierced by severe amazeʼment, hating life',
Speech'less, and fixed in all the death of wo' ?
So', (faint resem'blance !) on the marble tomb',
The well-dissembled mourn'er, stooping stands',
For e'ver si'lent, and for e'ver sad'.

Concluding

tone.

OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.

SHAKSPEARE.T
Most po'tent, grave', and reverend Sig'niors,
My very noble, and approv'ed-good mas'ters,
That I have ta’en away this old man's daugh'ter,
It is most true'; true', I have mar'ried her:
The
very
head and front of

my offend'ing/
Hath this extent; no more'. Ru'de am I in sp'eech,
And little ble'ssed, with the set phrase of peace' ;
Foʻr/ since these arms of mi'ne/ had seven years' pith',

• A simile or comparison should be pronounced in a lower tone of voice-something in the way of a parenthesis.

† This mighty master of “The Passions”—this prince of dramatic poets-"whom no age or nation can pretend to equal”-died at Stratfordupon-Avon (which had the honour of giving birth to the immortal bard) on the 23rd of April, 1616, aged 52.

Till now' (some nine moons wast'ed) they have used
Their de'arest ac'tion/ in the tented field':
And little of this great world' can I speak',
More than pertains' to feats' of bro'ils and battles ;
And, there'fore, little shall I gra'ce my cause,
In spea'king for mys'elf. Yet', by your pa'tience,
I will a round', unvar'nished-tale deli'ver
Of my whole coʻurse of love'; what drugs', what charms',
What conjura'tion, and what mighty mu'gic,
(For such proceed'ings/ I am charged withal',)
I w'on his daughter with.

Her fa'ther lo'ved me;. o'ft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life',
From year' to year'; the battles, sieges', for'tunes,
That I have pass'ed.
I ran it through', even from my bo‘yish days,
To the very moʻment/ that he ba-de-me-tell-it.
Wherein', I spoke of most disastrous chan'ces,
Of moving ac'cidents, by flood' and field';
Of hair-breadth ’scapes, in the im'minent, dea'dly breach';
Of being ta'ken/ by the insolent foe',
And sold to sla'very ; of my redemption thence';
Of battles, bra'vely, hardly-fought; of victories
For which the con queror mo'urn'd/ so ma’ny fell" :
Sometimes I told the story of a siege',
Where'in/ I had to com'bat plagues' and fa'mine ;
Soldiers/ unpaid'; fear'ful to fight,
Yet bold' in dangerous mu'tiny. All these to hear
Would Desdemo'na/ seriously incli'ne.
But still the hou'se-affairs/ would draw her thence',
Whi'ch/ e'ver as she could/ with haste dispatch'
She'd come again', and, with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse': which, I observ'ing,
Took once a pliant hour', and found good means'
To dra'w from her/ a prayer of earnest heart',
That I would all my pilgrimage dila'te ;
Where'of/ by par cels) she had some thing he’ard
But no't distinctively. I did consent',
And often did beguile her of her tears',
When I did speak of some distress'ful stroke
That my y'outh suffered. My story being done',
She ga've me/ for my pains'/ a world of sighs';

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