LEIGH HUNT. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was born on the nineteenth of October, 1784, at Southgate in Middlesex. His father, a clergyman of the established church, was an American refugee, and his mother a sister of BENJAMIN WEST, President of the Royal Academy. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, where LAMB and COLERIDGE were his school-fellows; and was subsequently for some time in the office of an attorney; but he abandoned the study of the law to accept a place under government, which he held until the establishment of the Examiner, by himself and his brother, in 1809. The Examiner was violent in its politics, and was for many years conducted with great ability and success. HUNT was several times prosecuted by the government, and was imprisoned two years in the Surrey jail for a libel on the Prince Regent. He covered the walls of his cell with garlands, however, and wrote as industriously as ever. It was while a prisoner that he composed The Feast of the Poets, The Descent of Liberty, and The Story of Rimini. It was in this period, also, that he became acquainted with Lord BYRON. He has been censured, and I think justly, for his conduct towards the noble poet, respecting whose faults gratitude might have made him silent, for BYRON had been a liberal friend when his friendship was serviceable to him. In 1816 HUNT established The Reflector, a quarterly magazine; afterward, in conjunction with SHELLEY and BYRON, The Liberal, and, with HAZLITT, The Round Table. He also published in weekly numbers The Indicator and The Companion, two of the most delight ful series of essays in the English language. In the preface to the last edition of these papers he tells us that they were written during times of great trouble with him, and helped him to see much of that fair play between his own anxieties and his natural cheerfulness, of which an indestructible belief in the good and the beautiful has rendered him perhaps not undeserving." In 1840 he published a selection of his contributions to various periodicals under the title of The Seer, or Common-Places Refreshed, "to show that the more we look at any thing in this beautiful and abundant world with a desire to be pleased with it, the more we shall be rewarded by the loving Spirit of the universe with discoveries which await only the desire." His other principal prose writings are Critical Essays on the Performers of the London Theatres, and Recollections of Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries. The best of HUNT's poems is The Story of Rimini. In the edition of his Poetical Works published by Moxon in 1844, it is much altered: the morality is improved, and the catastrophe is conformed to history. Besides this and the other poems to which I have alluded, he has written Hero and Leander, The Palfrey, Captain Sword and Captain Pen, Blue Stocking Revels or the Feast of Violets, The Legend of Florence, Miscellaneous Poems, and a volume of Translations. One of HUNT's most apparent characteristics is his cheerfulness., His temperament is obviously mercurial. His fondness for the gayer class of Italian writers indicates a sympathy with southern buoyancy not often encountered in English poetry. His versification is easy and playful; too much so, indeed, for imposing effect. He seems to have written generally under the inspiration of high animal spirits. His sentiment is lively and tender, rather than serious and impressive. The reviewers have censured him with rather too much severity for occasional affectations. With a few exceptions on this score his Story of Rimini is a charming poem. The Legend of Florence, written at a later period, is one of the most original and captivating of modern plays. Many of his Epistles glow with a genial humour and spirit of fellowship which betray fine social qualities. He lives obviously in his affections, and cultivates literature with refined taste rather than with lukewarm assiduity. HUNT's intimacy with SHELLEY and KEATS is well known to every one acquainted with the lives of those great poets. He is still, as in earlier days, a general favourite in society, and has more and warmer personal friends than almost any other literary man in England. FROM THE LEGEND OF FLORENCE. AGOLANTI AND HIS LADY. In all except a heart, and a black shade Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal hand And therefore he does her the honour of making her Of all he values,-public reputation, Love without bounds, in short, for his self-love: And look she gives another; and fills the house Such is poor human nature, at least such A DOMESTIC SCENE. A chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet picture of the Madonna, but otherwise little furnished. Azolanti is here alone, until the entrance of Ginerra, while he is speaking, upon which he closes the door over the picture, hands her a chair, and adjusts another for himself, but continues to stand. Ago. Every way she opposes me, even with arms Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture From this deserted room. Can she have had it Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger, Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved The face of suffering heaven? O, artifice In very piety! "Twere piety to veil it From our discourse, and look another way. Gin. (Cheerfully.) The world seems glad after its hearty drink Of rain. I fear'd, when you came back this morning, The shower had stopp'd you, or that you were ill. Ago. You fear'd! you hoped. What fear you that I fear, Or hope for that I hope for? A truce, madam, No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed Ago. O, of course not! Wishes I will not go and I will not. Be pleased to think that settled. Ago. The more easily As 'tis expected I should go, is it not? Gin. Three. Ago. You are correct as to those three. How many Open'd? Your look, madam, is wondrous logical; Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment; And cramm'd with scorn from pure unscornfulness. I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard For him, or any one; of your love of power None, as you know I have reason; though you take Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it. Antonio knows these fools you saw but now, And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues For getting a little power, not natural to them, Out of their laugh'd-at betters. Be it as All this, I will not have these prying idlers Put my domestic troubles to the blush; Nor you sit thus in ostentatious meekness Playing the victim with a pretty breath, may, And smiles that say "God help me!" Well, madam, What do you say? Gin. I say I will do whatever You think best, and desire. Ago. And make the worst of it By whatsoever may mislead, and vex? There-now you make a pretty sign, as though Your silence were compell'd. Gin. What can I say, Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided? You should not use me thus. I have not strength for it So great as you may think. My late sharp illness Has left me weak. Ago. I've known you weaker, madam, But never feeble enough to want the strength Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too! Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity Of strength itself; and women can take poor Advantages, that were in men but cowardice. Gin. (Aside) Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our self-knowledge Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus? Ago. Can you pretend, madam, with your sur passing Candour and heavenly kindness, that you never See there you have! you own it! how pretend To make such griefs of every petty syllable, Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn? Gin. One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong, Acknowledged and repented of, the habit Of unprovoked and unrepented years. Ago. Of unprovoked! Oh, let all provocation Take every brutish shape it can devise To try endurance with; taunt it in failure, Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames, Make gross the name of mother, call it fool, Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium Makes the soul swoon within its range, for want Of some great answer, terrible as it's wrong, And it shall be as nothing to this miserable, Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies, This angel-mimicking non-provocation From one too cold to enrage, and weak to tread on! You never loved me once-You loved me notNever did-no-not when before the altar, With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband, Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty, By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to love! Gin. I scorn'd you not-and knew not what scorn was Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing Ago. I thank you madam, humbly, Gin. I beg your pardon. Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong. Ago. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked And unprovoking, never-answering she! Gin. Nay, nay, say on; I do deserve it-I Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry, Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself In fellowship there at least. Ago. A taunt in friendliness! Meekness's happiest condescension! Gin. No, Go to Matteo; and tell him, from herself, Fior. Nothing, madam; I heard nothing. Gives me a painful wonder; you, your face, [man "Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel, [Ginevra kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.] Gin. Thank heaven! thank heaven and the sweet sounds! I have not Wept, Fiordilisa, now for many a day, O blessed music! at thy feet we lie, Fior. Perhaps, madam, So help me heaven! I but spoke in consciousness | Painting her landscapes twice; the spirit of fact, Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute, As matter is the body; the pure gift TO LORD BYRON. ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR ITALY AND GREECE. SINCE you resolve, dear Byron, once again To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main, And as the coolness lessens in the breeze, Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas,May all that hastens, pleases, and secures, Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours, Whose sidelong deck affords, as it cuts on, An airy slope to lounge and read upon; And may the sun, cool'd only by white clouds Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds; And may there be sweet, watching moons at night, Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light; And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth, As though her husband still had "eyes of youth;" While fancy, just as you discern from far The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar, May see the nymphs emerging, here and there, To tie up at the light their rolling hair. I see you now, half-eagerness, half-ease, Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas; I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too) Find, with a start, that lovely vision true, While on a sudden, o'er the horizon's line Phœbus looks forth with his long glance divine, At which old ocean's white and shapely daughters Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters, And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show Of harps midst bosoms and long arms of snow; And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye, A gush of voices breaks up to the sky To hail the laurell'd bard, that goes careering by. And who, thus gifted, but must hear and see In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain, Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring, Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet Long in her ears; and right before her throne Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtfulfaced, That led the hierarchy of modern taste ;- Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er, As earth is kiss'd by the sweet moon at night;- But I must finish, and shall chatter less divine, If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine! And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care, And so adieu, dear Byron,-dear to me Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn Adieu, adieu:-I say no more.-God speed you! Remember what we all expect, who read you. THE FATAL PASSION.* Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss, And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss? How mar the face of beauty, and disclose The weeping days that with the morning rose, And bring the bitter disappointment in,The holy cheat, the virtue-binding sin,The shock, that told this lovely, trusting heart, That she had given, beyond all power to part, Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother, Possession, (oh, the misery!) to another! Some likeness was there 'twixt the two,-an air At times, a cheek, a colour of the hair, A tone, when speaking of indifferent things; Nor, by the scale of common measurings, Would you say more perhaps, than that the one Was more robust, the other finelier spun; That of the two, Giovanni was the graver, Paulo the livelier, and the more in favour. Some tastes there were indeed, that would prefer And surely the more fine: for though 'twas bold, It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show If any points there were, at which they came The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride Too quickly found, was an ill-temper'd pride. The Third Canto of Rimini. The two famous knights of the Round Table, great huntsmen, and of course great carvers. Boars and peacocks, served up whole, the latter with the feathers on, were eminent dishes with the knights of old, and must have called forth all the exercise of this accomplishment. Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please, And so much knowledge of one's self there lies From this complexion in the reigning brother His younger birth perhaps had saved the other. Born to a homage less gratuitous, He learn'd to win a nobler for his house; |