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The breast that would not feel this calm profound,
that would not love this landscape fair,
But, ah ! no scene of loveliness
last ! The earth is all mutation. Sunny skiesThe meadows gay--the sleeping lake that lies A broad bright sheet of gold—are soon o'ercast. O’er all these silent hills loud gales bave past, And erelong shall return. The gorgeous dyes Of sun-set clouds,—the calm night's countless eyes, Shall vanish at the rude storm's trumpet-blast. 'Tis thus too with the soul. Eternal change Of mood and passion seems her lot below; Nature and man with kindred movement range From fair to foul, from happiness to woe, Again to light and joy-reversion strange And naught a long monotony may know.
Yet well and wisely hath the poet said,
STANZAS WRITTEN AT SEA.
Like blossoms pale the vernal orchard strewing
Through the stiff shrouds the gale is loudly singing,
But here no human foes with fierce commotion
TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
This is the holiest day of all the year
Thine inward eye,
SONNET-SUN-RISE. How gloriously yon migbty monarch rears, His proud resplendent brow-like Fame's first light Breaking oblivion's gloom! His tresses bright Inwreathe the rosy clouds. All nature wears A bliss-reviving smile.—The glittering tears, Shed by the pensive spirits of the night Like verdant meadows, vanish from the sight, Like rain-drops on the sea ! The warm beam cheers The drowsy herd, and thrills the feather'd throngs Of early minstrels, whose melodious songs Seem like a gush of joy. Now mortals send Their orisons above, while shrubs and flowers On whispering winds ambrosial odours blend, To charm and consecrate the morning hours !
OTHELLO AND IAGO.
COLERIDGE gave it out as a discovery, that Othello was not jealous. This is either an idle truism or an outrageous paradox. If he meant that the Moor was not naturally suspicious, he merely echoed the general judgment; but if he really thought that the cunning insinuations of Iago instilled no jealousy into Othello's mind, and that it was not Shakespeare's intention to exhibit the progress and effects of that passion, his opinion is equally new and strange*.
It is true that the jealousy of the Moor is not of that despicable character which always anticipates evil, and is ever on the watch. He is not one of those sly and greedy listeners who, according to the vulgar proverb, never hear any good of themselves. He is not a Paul Pry. His is the jealousy of a fiery and impassioned nature that cannot brook a taint of dishonour either in love or
* Dr. Lowth observes, “ that the passion of jealousy, its causes, circumstances, progress, and effects, are more accurately, more copiously, more satisfactorily described in this one drama of pea than in all the disputations of philosophy.”
“ A savage jealousy that sometimes savours nobly."
If his jealousy had been of that cast which characterizes mean and suspicious minds, instead of sympathizing with him in his afflictions, we should have regarded him with mingled hatred and contempt. His distress would have seemed a fitting punishment. Even if his jealousy had spontaneously arisen in his own heart, instead of its being forced upon him, as it was, by the circumvention of a fiend in human form, it would have greatly lessened our sympathy and respect. It is almost unnecessary to observe that it was not Shakespeare's desire to render him repulsive or contemptible, but on the contrary to compel us to love and honor him even while he is writhing with a passion which would have rendered a meaner nature intolerably hateful. Though he becomes the murderer of his spotless wife, he only deepens our pity. The more pure and precious was that angelic being, the heavier was his misfortune. We forget his guilt in bis agony. Who does not sympathize with that terrible straining of the heartstrings, when the sense of his wife's death comes suddenly home to his apprehension, while Amelia is knocking at the chamber. door?
“ If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife :
O, insupportable ! O, heavy hour!" We never cease to remember, that it was the intensity of his love and the boundless confidence of his friendship that exposed him to the subtle treachery of Iago. We could not despise him for his credulity without insulting virtue. It is not the credulity of weakness like that of Roderigo, who by the dark-lantern