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marked, but marked to strengthen, rather than diminish, the interest we take in the man; thus the deformity of Richard will add to his terror, and the enormous stride of Edward to his dignity. If my limits permitted, your own recollection would dispense me from expatiating in examples on this more familiar branch of invention. The history of our own times, and of our own country, has produced a specimen, in the death of a military hero, as excellent as often imitated, which, though respect forbids me to name it, cannot, I trust, be absent from

your

mind.” Although Mr. Fuseli applies the rules he lays down in this passage to mere unmixt historic painting, I shall beg leave to suggest, that even epic and dramatic subjects must occasionally be circumscribed by historic truth. In another place he says, “ We seldom meet with a human performance exclusively made up of epic, dramatic, or pure historic materials.” Thus far Mr. Fuseli. To me, history appears to be the generic name, and to admit of as many modifica. tions as the human form and features.

AN

EVENING

IN THE

VALE OF FESTINIO G.

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AN EVENING, &C.

This is the time when most the mind delights
To lay aside the burthen of its cares,
And give itself to Nature........Sweet and mild
Evening's first breeze comes stealing up the vale,
Wafting soft sea-sounds from the rippling wave,
With flow unceasing; and the balmy air,
Filled with delicious coolness, o'er the soul
Breathes a still quiet, and a holy calm.
A gentle shower, now past and hushed, has bathed
The scene with humid freshness; the green turf,
Besprent with many a dew-drop (brushed away
Where'er foot has crushed the tender blade),
Shines in the sun-beam; and the mellow tints
Of yon rich wood, wash'd in reviving rains,
Acquire new tones, and more transparent hues.

my

It is a blessed scene, and I rejoice
That I have felt in wove into my being
A love of the green fields, and azure sky,

Mountains, and all the multitud'nous throng
Of waves that sound along the rocky shore.
And therefore (for this never-dying passion,
This craving appetite, has led me on,
As though possessed with moody thoughts, and fed
With wayward fancies)....therefore have I roamed
Through devious wilds, through pathless glens,

and climbed
The tall cliff's topmost crag, and therefore bared
To the sharp mountain-blast my glowing breast.
Nor nursing other feelings have I sought
The savage grandeur of yon wilds sublime,
The foaming cat’ract, or the softer voice
Of bubbling hill-streams....... To this place I come
Led by the self same impulse.

This hoar stone, Studded with

moss,

with green and fringed moss, With crimson fret-work, and bright cups of gold, And all embossed with curled knots, and tufts Of lichens.........this hoar stone shall be my seat.

O lovely is the scene! Here let me sit, Here see and feel the blended harmony That tempers down each sharp extreme of form, Tint, shade, or light, and in a kindred mass Unites the whole........Oh for thy pencil, Claude ! Thy pencil, dipt in pure ethereal hues, In clear and liquid freshness! So the scene

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