Of the second Part or Canto, the following is a brief analysis. The poet first addresses the Spirit of Ruin; then displays various forms of destruction—a shipwreck: the descent of an avalanche. The topics next treated are intellectual decay; the fatal effects of an ill-regulated and warm Imagination; the power of Love in youth; the influence of Imagination in our choice of life; the love of Fame; an active life necessary to a person of vivid Imagination; the thirst of some overcoming the love of life. Next occurs an apostrophe to the noble and patriotic and sainted spirits of the heroes of Switzerland and America—Arnold de Winkelried and George Washington. It is then shown that Imagination represents them as still living; the power of Imagination in old age is portrayed, and the poem concludes. From this part, we regret that we have room but for two extracts; for these are of so excellent a character that the reader, like Oliver Twist, will be certain to ask for more. Our first extract is a description of the life of an Alpine shepherd. The lines are eminently good. Track thou my path where Alpine winters shed Their lingering snows o’er bare St. Gothard’s head, Ghastly his savage aspect; there recline Rocks piled on rocks, and shagg’d with stunted pine; Yet touched with beauty, when the purple haze Its softening shadows o’er their summit lays; Then melts in air, while wandering sunbeams streak, With tints of rose, each ridge and frozen peak. From cliff to cliff hoarse cataracts pursue Their shattered course; now stained with lovely hue, Lovely, and yet more transient, while a ray Athwart the shivered waters cuts its way; Now whirling in black eddies, as they lash The darkened precipice with hideous crash. But see! with trees and freshest verdure bright, A lonely valley starts upon the sight, Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side, And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide. Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knoll The lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll, Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose, As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows. Here, free from Passion’s storm and splendid Care, A hardy race Life’s simple blessings share. Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot, Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot? Sighs he for joys by Nature’s hand denied? Feels he a want by labor unsupplied? The flock which oft his children’s pranks disturb, The goats delighting in the sprouted herb, The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies, His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies. Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease, At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze; With eager industry and rustic skill