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
Of superstition, he is man enough!

Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal hand
As far as the purse goes; albeit he likes
The going to be blown abroad with trumpets.
Nay, I won't swear he does not love his wife
As well as a man of no sort of affection,
Nor any domestic tenderness, can do so.
He highly approves her virtues, talents, beauty:
Thinks her the sweetest woman in all Florence,
Partly, because she is,-partly, because
She is his own, and glorifies his choice;

And therefore he does her the honour of making her
The representative and epitome

Of all he values,-public reputation,
Private obedience, delighted fondness,
Grateful return for his unamiableness,

Love without bounds, in short, for his self-love:
And as she finds it difficult, poor soul,
To pay such reasonable demands at sight
With the whole treasure of her heart and smiles,
The gentleman takes pity on-himself!
Looks on himself as the most unresponded to
And unaccountably ill-used bad temper
In Tuscany; rages at every word

And look she gives another; and fills the house
With miseries, which, because they ease himself
And his vile spleen, he thinks her bound to suffer;
And then finds malice in her very suffering!
... And yet, observe now :-

Such is poor human nature, at least such
Is poor human inhuman nature in this man,
That if she were to die, I verily think
He'd weep, and sit at the receipt of pity,
And call upon the gods, and think he loved her!

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,
To these exordiums and pretended interests,
Whose only shallow intent is to delay,
Or to divert, the sole dire subject,―me.
Soh! you would see the spectacle! you, who start

No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed
Any thing, of my own accord; or contrary
To your good judgment.

Ago. O, of course not! Wishes
Are never express'd for, or by, contraries;
Nor the good judgment of an anxious husband
Held forth as a pleasant thing to differ with.
Gin. It is as easy as sitting in my chair
To say,

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?
And then you will sit happy at receipt
Of letters from Antonio Rondinelli.
Gin. Return'd unopen'd, sir.
Ago. How many?

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
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself—But why repeat
What still is thus repeated day by day,
Still ending with the question, "Why repeat?"
[Rising and moving about.]
You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done,
Good God! what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none ?

Ago. I thank you madam, humbly,
That was sincere at least.

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,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,
And convalescence. Mark you that addition.
She's getting well; but to get well, needs rest. [Exit.
Fior. Needs rest! alas! when will you let her rest,
But in her grave? My lady! My sweet mistress!
[Applying a volatile to her temples.]
She knows me. He has gone: the Signor's gone.
(Aside.) She sighs, as though she mourn'd him.
Gin. (listening.) What's that?

Fior. Nothing, madam; I heard nothing.
Gin. Every thing

Gives me a painful wonder; you, your face, [man
These walls. My hand seems to me not more hu-
Than animal; and all things unaccountable.
"Twill pass away. What's that? [An organ is heard.]
Fior. Yes, I hear that.

"Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I ask'd him,
Thinking that, as the Signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks to him of religion,
It might have done no harm to you and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he's old
And slow, is the good father.

[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,
And the sound freshens me; loosens my heart.
[Music is heard.]

O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,
Pitied of angels surely.

Fior. Perhaps, madam,

Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love
In that, would you but know it, and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.

Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,

As matter is the body; the pure gift
Of Heaven to poet and to child; which he
Who retains most in manhood, being a man
In all things fitting else, is most a man ;
Because he wants no human faculty,
Nor loses one sweet taste of the sweet world.

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
Wonders like these, approaching Italy?—
Enchantress Italy,-who born again

In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain,
And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before,
Copier of Greece and Amazon no more,
But altogether a diviner thing,

Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her
flowers.

Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet
tone

Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and painting, and wing'd poetry,

Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtfulfaced,

That led the hierarchy of modern taste ;-
Heavenly composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious;
Poets, that knew how Nature should be woo'd,
With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.

Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great masters of our song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turn'd to Italy for added light,

As earth is kiss'd by the sweet moon at night;-
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine :
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,-so may they be,-
England the high-soul'd man, the charmer Italy.

But I must finish, and shall chatter less
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-well'd Castally,-
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit,
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
Gods! What may not come true, what dream

divine,

If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.

And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care,
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushion'd mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.

And so adieu, dear Byron,-dear to me
For many a cause, disinterestedly ;-
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys;—
Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and you
Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true,
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying,
How well I look'd, when you both thought me
dying;-

Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn
Of those who trifle with an age free-born ;-
For early storms, on fortune's basking shore,
That cut precocious ripeness to the core ;-
For faults unbidden, other's virtue's own'd;
Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned,
For virtues too, with whatsoever blended,
And e'en were none possess'd, for none pretended ;-
Lastly, for older friends, fine hearts, held fast
Through every dash of chance, from first to last;-
For taking spirit as it means to be,-
For a stretch'd hand, ever the same to me,-
And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.

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
Giovanni's countenance as the martialler;
And 'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye
Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high,
An eagle's nose and a determined lip
Were the best marks of manly soldiership.
Paulo's was fashion'd in a different mould,

And surely the more fine: for though 'twas bold,
When boldness was required, and could put on
A glowing frown as if an angel shone,
Yet there was nothing in it one might call
A stamp exclusive or professional,-
No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready,-
No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady,-
No soldier's, for its power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refined.
The very nose, lightly yet firmly wrought,
Show'd taste; the forehead a clear-spirited thought;
Wisdom look'd sweet and inward from his eye;
And round his mouth was sensibility

It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood could go ;-
A morning glass of unaffected nature,-
Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.

If any points there were, at which they came
Nearer together, 't was in knightly fame,
And all accomplishments that art may know,—
Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow,
The rush together in the bright-eyed list,
Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely miss'd,
And the decision of still knottier points,
With knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints-
Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got,
And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.†
But leave we knighthood to the former part;
The tale I tell is of the human heart.

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,
Punctual and right in common offices,
He lost the sight of conduct's only worth,
The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth,
And on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;-
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleased to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience,-so design'd to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else go
sleep,

And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion would have touch'd him more,
Than that of wanting on the generous score;
He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scorn,
Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ill-temper'd for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience, nor the genial spirit.
And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the many,
Left him at last unloveable with any.

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;
And both from habit and a genial heart,
Without much trouble of the reasoning art,
Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good,-
To be, and make, as happy as he could.
Not that he saw, or thought he saw, beyond
His general age, and could not be as fond
Of wars and creeds as any of his race,-
But most he loved a happy human face;
And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown,
He struck the looks he wish'd for, with his own.
So what but service leap'd where'er he went!
Was there a tilt-day or a tournament,-
For welcome grace there rode not such another,
Not yet for strength, except his lordly brother.
Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance,
Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France,
Or summer party to the greenwood shade,
With lutes prepared, and cloth on herbage laid,
And ladies' laughter coming through the air,-
He was the readiest and the blithest there;
And made the time so exquisitely pass
With stories told with elbow on the grass,
Or touch'd the music in his turn so finely,
That all he did, they thought, was done divinely.
The lovely stranger could not fail to see
Too soon this difference, more especially
As her consent, too lightly now, she thought,
With hopes far different had been strangely bought;
And many a time the pain of that neglect
Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect: