"------Breath'd hot From all the boundless furnace of the sky, And the wide-glitt'ring waste of burning sand, A suffocating wind the pilgrim smites With instant death. Patient of thirst and toil, Son of the desert, ev'n the camel feels Shot through his wither'd heart the fiery blast. Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad, Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands, Commov'd around, in gath'ring eddies play; Nearer and nearer still they dark'ning come, Till with the gen'ral all-involving storm Swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise, And by their noon-day fount dejected thrown, Or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep, Beneath descending hills the caravan Is buried deep. In Cairo's crowded streets, Th' impatient merchant, wond'ring, waits in vain; And Mecca saddens at the long delay." There are other passages of equal beauty with these; such as that of the hunted stag, followed by "the inhuman rout," "------That from the shady depth Expel him, circling through his ev'ry shift. He sweeps the forest oft, and sobbing sees The glades mild op'ning to the golden day, Where in kind contest with his butting friends He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy." The whole of the description of the frozen zone, in the Winter, is perhaps even finer and more thoroughly felt, as being done from early associations, than that of the torrid zone in his Summer. Any thing more beautiful than the following account of the Siberian exiles is, I think, hardly to be found in the whole range of poetry. "There through the prison of unbounded wilds, Barr'd by the hand of nature from escape, Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around Strikes his sad eye but deserts lost in snow, And heavy-loaded groves, and solid floods, That stretch athwart the solitary vast Their icy horrors to the frozen main; And cheerless towns far distant, never bless'd, Save when its annual course the caravan Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay, With news of human kind." The feeling of loneliness, of distance, of lingering, slow-revolving years of pining expectation, of desolation within and without the heart, was never more finely expressed than it is here. The account which follows of the employments of the Polar night--of the journeys of the natives by moonlight, drawn by rein-deer, and of the return of spring in Lapland-- "Where pure Niemi's fairy mountains rise, And fring'd with roses Tenglio rolls his stream,"