No more the strains we hear, that all abroad
Thy fancy wafted, as the inspiring God
Prompted ‘the thoughts that breathe, the words that burn.’
“But hark! a voice in solemn accents clear
Bursts from heaven’s vault that glows with temperate fire;
Cease, mortal, cease to drop the fruitless tear;
Mute though the raptures of his full-strung lyre,
E’en his own warblings, lessened on his ear,
Lost in seraphic harmony expire.”
I have met also, at a dinner party lately, the celebrated antiquary, Sir William Gell. He, too, lives abroad. His work on Pompeii has become authority, and displays very great learning. He is a tall, large-featured man, and very commanding in his appearance, though lamed terribly with the gout.