NAPLES.

THIS region, surely, is not of the earth. Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove, Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings On the clear wave some image of delight, Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, Some ruined temple or fallen monument, To muse on as the bark is gliding by, And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, Was with his household sacrificing there, From daybreak to that hour, the last and best, When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow, And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn Steals o'er the trembling waters.

Everywhere

Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came,
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers,
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came;
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew,
A thousand, thousand colors not their own:
And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,
Those fields with ether pure and purple light
Ever invested, scenes by him described
Who here was wont to wander, record
What they revealed, and on the western shore
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee,
Beloved Parthenope.

Yet here, methinks,
Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape
Filling the mind by turns with awe and love,
By turns inclining to wild ecstasy
And soberest meditation.

When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail, and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain

Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,
Waiting to hear his doom :-

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God,
For he has smote thee with his chastening rod,
And to the desert wild

From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague his people may be free,

"Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ;
And stay thou not to hear

Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide, Nor kneel thee down to dip

The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze, And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when

Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

Who, from the tribes of men,
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod.
Depart! O leper! and forget not God!"

And he went forth alone! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken, and alone,
For God had cursed the leper!

to die!

It was noon,

And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blest, to die!
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name.
"Helon!"- the voice was like the master-

No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear, yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn;
His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance, the impress of a God,
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.

Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field ; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine, While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,

And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn: Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, While twilight loves to linger for a while; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, And villager abroad at early toil. But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost. What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,

Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapor, tossed In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now

embossed!

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro

found!

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight; Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene.* Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. JAMES BEATTIE.

THE BELLS.

I.

Now