The air, which before was sultry and hot, was now cool and refreshing; and every breeze was loaded with a thousand perfumes-the whole ground being covered with the richest aromatic plants. Many parts of this region are surely the most heavenly spots upon earth; and if Etna resembles hell within, it may with equal justice be said to resemble paradise without. It is indeed a curious consideration that this mountain should reunite every beauty and every horror; and, in short, all the most opposite and dissimilar objects in nature. Here you observe a gulf, that formerly threw out torrents of fire, now covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, and, from an object of terror, become one of delight. Here you gather the most delicious fruit, rising from what was lately a black and barren rock. Here the ground is covered with every flower, and we wander over these beauties, and contemplate this wilderness of sweets, without considering that hell, with all its terrors, is immediately under our feet; and, that but a few yards separate us from a lake of liquid fire and brimstone. But our astonishment still increases on casting our eyes on the higher regions of the mountain. There we behold, in perpetual union, the two elements that are at perpetual war—an immense gulf of fire, for ever existing in the midst of snows, which it has not power to melt; and immense fields of snow and ice for ever surrounding this gulf of fire, which they have not power to extinguish. PATRICK BRYDONE. PATRICK in long x land m a steam boat bunt Soundon Jan. Toth 18466 in CXC.-THE LEXINGTON. NIGHT rested on the sea-the moon alone, The warm hand pressed, with many a generous token, They thought of friends to whom they should return, Nor thought, alas! those friends so soon would mourn. In blissful dreams they think no more they roam, Amid that scene of terror and alarms, From post to post the affrighted victims fly, For help, but oh! what heart in danger feels? A sail! a sail! a hundred voices rave-- She comes, and hope cheers up those hearts again, A demon's watchword, and the mark of shame; Now o'er the ice-cold sea the victims swim, From down-beds warm, and from their joyous sleep, Fair Baltimore, thy children too must weep How many a tear shall yet, alas! be shed, MILFORD BARD. CXCI.-MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. WHAT are those gems in the heart's casket, that gleam with such steady lustre? What are those stars in the galaxy of life, that twinkle with so pure a ray? The memories of kindness. Hearts that are the most susceptible of gratitude and generosity, cherish most deeply the memories of kindness. Touching instances of their force occur throughout the life of Politiano, one of the early poets of Italy. His birth was in obscurity, about the year 1454; and the kindness of the Medicean family-who distinguished themselves as the patrons of genius-supplied him with the means of obtaining a good education. This favor he engraved, as he ought, on the tablet of unfading remembrance. Attracted by his precocity, and zeal in the prosecution of study, Lorenzo de Medici, whom you know in history by the title of the Magnificent, invited him to become a member of his household. Thus protected from want, and fortified by friendship, he devoted himself with indefatigable in'dustry to the learning that he loved. His first poem that received publication was written at the age of fourteen. It contained 1400 lines, and, though not free from the faults of a juvenile production, breathed the true spirit of genius, and contributed to the establishment of a purer taste among the people. Not satisfied with the cultivation of poetical flowers, he disciplined his young mind by the severer study of languages, with criticism and illustration of ancient authors. Thus he examined 'Ovid, 'Suetonius, the younger Pliny, °Statius, and Quintilian, portions of whose works, rendered more valuable by his explanations, were given to the public. At the close of his annotations on oCatullus, a slight record informs the reader that he was then at the age of seventeen. Previously to this, he had made considerable progress in translating the Iliad into Latin verse, and had composed a poem, which in elegance was pronounced scarcely inferior to the Georgics of Virgil. The miscellaneous writings of Politiano prove the variety and extent of his erudition. The emendations on ancient literature with which they are interspersed, he was accustomed daily to repeat to his benefactor, Lorenzo de Medici, as they took their quiet rides on horseback, amid the luxuriant scenery of Florence. With these congenial subjects he mingled, as he advanced in years, those which were less fascinating, but more distinguished by utility. The system of jurisprudence that prevailed at that time in Italy was principally the Roman civil law, founded on the constitution of the emperor Justinian. It became important that the few existing copies of that work should be compared, collated, and simplified for general comprehension; and this laborious undertaking was com mitted to Politiano. His habits of research and investigation in this extensive field, purchased for him a high rank among the professors of law,,-a science not often combined with the graceful and brilliant favors of the Muse. Popular applause followed his career, and of course rivalry and °detraction. One of his remarks, at this period of his life, it may be well to remember:: "I am no more elated by adulation, or dejected by obloquy, than astonished at finding my own shadow of unequal length at different times; never having been led by that circumstance to suppose myself a taller man in the morning than at noon-day." The parting interview of the grateful poet with his patron, is touchingly narrated by Roscoe, the accomplished biographer of Lorenzo de Medici. When the time came that this great man was to die, having taken leave of his nearest relatives, and given to the son who was to inherit his honors, the last precepts of political wisdom and paternal love, he desired once more to see the man whose genius he had delighted to foster. As Politiano approached, de Medici raised himself with difficulty on his couch, and affectionately taking both the hands of the poet, waited with a placid countenance till the sobs and tears of the latter should subside. But the tempest of grief only grew more violent from the attempt to restrain it, till at length, rushing to his apartment, and prostrating himself, he yielded to the agony of its control. When its turbulence had abated, he was again summoned to his dying benefactor, and reclining by his side, and bending over the pallid face that he might lose no whisper of that faint, decaying voice, he listened to his parting words, poured forth the eloquence of gratitude, and exchanged the last farewell. Brief, however, was to be the separation. After the death of Lorenzo de Medici, a cloud of sorrow settled on the mind of Politiano. As he was one day adapting to the mournful music of his lute, some elegiac verses he had composed as a tribute to his benefactor, he suddenly fell from a high flight of marble steps, and, in consequence of the injuries he sustained, expired. In this slight biographical sketch, we see the strong influences of a life-long gratitude on the susceptibility of the poetic temperament, as they were illustrated some four hundred years ago. We would scarcely expect, or wish, a similar exhibition in our own differing times. |