To piteous helplessness; ungrateful youth
Its cheerful smiles denying him, his mind
Dwells undiverted on the view of death
Approaching with deliberate pace, as loth
To seize a prey so fair, so long resisting.
Bear with his childishness, and let him taste
A social hour; thine ear awhile allow
To his garrulity, his fav'rite tales

Of earlier times, when he was young and gay. Twill make him happy, stir his sluggish blood

To brisker circulation, and perhaps Defer the hour when it must flow no more. This is the only pleasure age can know; Nor surely less the pleasure to bestow it. Of late my worldly callings drew me oft Where such a man dozed out his eve of life. A man of bustle he had been, and chose Life's busiest cares: his active spirits yet Searce ninety pilfering years had plundered

out;

And thus his heavy fate more heavy seem'd.
His energies decaying, he resigned

His interests to the kindred next his heart,
And sought repose. Sole on his interests beirt,
His kindred soon forgot their source. Neglect
Repaid their benefactor, or when nigh,
Cantempt was smirking in each face,and sneers
For errors of his fast-decaying sense
And wasted memory. The old man felt
His mortifying lot, and drooped apace.
Yet when die zephyr breath d, and the bright.

sun

Shone gaily forth, he hobbled to his door And cheery gazed upon the world: and oft Hestopt (for such acquaintance had he made) A passer by, to ask how fared his health And what the news. In ruder times he sat njoyous in an old arm-chair. When I appear'd,

le rose (twas all he could) and shook my hand.

l- gladden'd at my sight, for well he knew scorned him not, but had a willing ear or his discourse. He told me his complaints; Een that was comfort-told me how his friends

No more delighted in his sight; and thence,

A natural step, reverted to his days Of youth and happiness: then tidings ask'd Of how the world went now. Unsparing I Freely the wished intelligence supplied, 'Till smiles would play upon his wrinkled cheeks,

And all his cares, and all his woes seem'a nought.

And when the hour of separation came,
He griev'd it was so soon; in warmest phrase
Taik'd of what thanks he was in debt to me,
That I had done him so much charity;
Then with his palsied hand again shook mine,
And bad me soon return."

The following lines are part of a poem occasioned by a satire upon short people.

A nose of the bottle kind, nose that's too spare, Or nose you might make into two.

"On an uncomely leg, or a mere stump of wood

Assuming the place where a leg has once stood,

Depend on't my wit sha'nt be stinting. No face with more mouth than should come to its share,

Or short of an eye any longer I'll bear,

And let me catch any man squinting! "Next ailings of every description I'll scout: Colds, agues, and fevers, the gripes and the gout,

Shall get a satirical trimming. And dotage shall feel too the gall of my pen; For no good excuse can be for old men,

And surely still less for old women."

There is some merit in these passages, but Mr. Kenney is often feeble and often incorrect.

THIS little volume exhibits a very gular instance of literary imposi3. We use the word in no dishonour

ble sense, and wish that one less equivocal could have been found to express our meaning. The trick which Lord Strang

ford has practised is perfectly the reverse of that of which we have convicted Mr. Peter Bayley, junior. Instead of pilfering the reputation of another, Lord Strangford has been increasing it: he has imputed his own merits to Camoens. "The late ingenious translator of the Lusiad has pourtrayed the character, and narrated the misfortunes of our poet, in a manner more honourable to his feelings as a man, than to his accuracy in point of biographical detail. It is with diffidence that the present writer essays to correct his errors; but as the real circumstances of the life of Camoens are mostly to be found in his own minor compositions, with which Mr. Mickle was unacquainted, he trusts that certain information will atone for his presumption."

It does not, however, appear that any inaccuracies have been detected in Mickle's account. Enough has been added to elucidate, in some degree, the character of the poet, and still more that of his present biographer.

"The family of Camoens was illustrious, and originally Spanish. They were long settled at Cadmon, a castle in Galicia, from which they probably derived their patronymic appellation. However, there are some who maintain that their name alluded to a certain wonderful bird, whose mischievous sagacity discovered and punished the smallest deviation from conjugal fidelity. A lady of the house of Cadmon, whose conduct had been rather indiscreet, demanded to be tried by this extraordinary judge. Her innocence was proved, and in gratitude to the being who had restored him to matrimonial felicity, the contented husband adopted his name.'

Of Vasco Pires de Camoens, Alcayde of Alamquer, the ancestor of the poet, some anecdotes might have been found in history, little to his honour. He is accused of having accepted a commis. sion to assassinate the master of Ovis, afterwards Joam I. at Atouguia, and it is certain, that after he had capitulated with that prince upon honourable terms, he engaged in a conspiracy against his life, in resentment, because certain favours had been refused to his solicitations.

Lord Strangford having stated that

the poet was born at Lisbon, observe that the place of his nativity is ascertain ed by his frequent application of the ep thet paternal to the Tagus. There is reason to doubt the fact, because it is cer tain that his parents were Lisboners; b no such inference can be deduced from

his calling the Tagus paternal. The epi thet would have been equally applicable had he been born at Santarem, Salva terra, Abrantes, or any village upon the course of the river.

"During the period which he passed" the university, he was an utter stranger to that passion, with which he afterwards be came so intimately acquainted. It is even recorded, that while the manly graces of his admiration, he treated his fair captives with person inspired many of the better sex with disdain, or at most, as the mere objects of temporary transport.

"But the scene was soon to be changed, and on his arrival at Lisbon, he was destined to feel the full vengeance of that god whose power he had contemned. Love is very nearly allied to devotion, and it was in the exercise of the latter that Camoens was introduced to the knowledge of the former. In the church of Christ's Wounds, at Lisbon, on the 11th of April, 1542, he first beheld Dona Caterina de Ataide, the object of his purest and earliest attachment. The churches of Spain and Portugal, says Scarron, are th very cradles of intrigue; and it was not loa before Camoens enjoyed an opportunity declaring his affection, with all the romanti ardour of eighteen, and of a poet.

"But, in those days, love was a state of no trifling probation, and ladies then uncon scionably expected a period of almost chivarous servitude, which, happily for gentleme", is no longer required. The punctilious setrity of his mistress formed the subject of er poet's most tender complaints; for, the her heart had secretly decided in his favour, still Portuguese delicacy suppressed all aros of her passion. After many months of of her hair, she was so far softened by his ration, when he humbly besought a ri treaties, as to make a compromise with dery, and bestow one of the silken s which cacircled her head! These anecdote. must not be despised, for they mark the tenper of the times.

"The peculiar situation of Dona Caterins

age.

The

Me, other than I was, ye now behold, I gaze around, and tears suffuse my eyes; Ye tell me, lovely scenes, of days of old, And thoughts of former happiness arise. But it is the humour of Lord Strang. ford to represent Camoens as very amorous, and very successful in his amours.

"There are some who assert that Camoens

quitted Lisbon in consequence of a discover ed intrigue with the beautiful wife of a Portuguese gentleman. Perhaps this story may not be wholly unfounded. It is improbable that he remained long constant to the memory of a departed mistress, when living beauty was ready to supply her place. His was not a heart that could safely defy temptation, although the barbarous ingenuity of some commentators would make us believe, that all his amours were purely platonic, and that he was ignorant of the passion in every other respect. Happily for himself, the case was different, and his works record that he more than once indulged in the little wanderings of amatory frolic."

"Gallantry was the leading trait in the disposition of Camoens. His amours were various and successful. Womau was to him as a ministering angel, and for the little joy which he tasted in life, he was indebted to her. The magic of female charms forms his favourite theme, and while he paints the allurements of the sex with the glowing pencil of an enthusiast, he seems transported into that heaven which he describes. Nor did this passion ever desert him; even in his last days, he feelingly regretted the raptures of youth, and lingered with delight on the remembrances of love. A cavalier named

Ruy de Camera, having called upon our author to finish a poetical version of the seven penitential psalmis, raising his head from his miserable pallet, and pointing to his faithful slave, he exclaimed, Alas, when I was a poet, I was young, and happy, and blest with the love of ladies, but now, I am a forlorn deserted wretch-See-there stands my poor Antonio, vainly supplicating four-pence to purchase a little coals-I have them not to give him! The cavalier, as Sousa quaintly relates, closed his heart and his purse, and quitted the room. Such were the grandees of Portugal!"

Having, therefore, assigned the character of Camoens, Lord Strangford writes poems in the purest manner of Little Moore, and prints them as translations from the Portugueze. "Thou hast an eye of tender blue, And thou hast locks of Daphne's hue, And cheeks that shame the morning's break, And lips that might for redness make

Roses seem pale beside them;

But whether soft or sweet as they,
Lady! alas, I cannot say,

For I have never tried them.

"Yet, thus created for delight,
Lady! thou art not lovely quite,
For dost thou not this maxim know,
That Prudery is Beauty's foe,

And e'en that woman's angel face,
A stain that mars a jewel!
Loses a portion of its grace,

If woman's heart be cruel!
"Love is a sweet and blooming boy,
Yet glowing with the blush of joy,
And (still in youth's delicious prime)
Tho' ag'd as patriarchal time,

The withering god despises:
Lady! would'st thou for ever be

As fair, and young, and fresh as he—

Do all that Love advises!"

Some of the comment of Faria, says his Lordship, has been introduced into the translation of this poem, and certain very necessary liberties taken with the original. The original poem to which he refers

Não sei quein assella
Vossa formosura,
Que quem he taō dura
Nao pode ser bella, &c.

lies open before us, and the necessary berty which has been taken is to write a new one, differing totally in every part and point. We have not the edition of Faria y Sousa to look for his comment, nor, poet as old Manuel was, are we dis posed to believe that the present ingeni ous writer has been more indebted to the note than to the text.

The original referred to for the fol. lowing Madrigal consists of only three lines, being the mote or text which Ca. moens was to amplify.

"The simple youth who trusts the fair,

Or on their plighted truth relies, Might learn how vain such follies were, By looking in his lady's eyes,

And catch a hint, if timely wise, From those dumb children, cradled there! Poor fool thy wayward feats forbear,'

(Those mute advisers seem to say) And hence with sighs, and tears, and care, For thou but fling'st thy heart away,

To make a toy-for babies' play."

He who trusts in eyes, says the origi nal, may see in their babies that babies have no faith.

Quem se confia em hūus olhos,
Nas meninas delles ve,
Que meninas nao tem fe.

Lord Strangford might have succeed ed in his stratagem. if he had not affixed the line of Portugueze to each of his poems; we should then in vain have