Oh! such an eve is sorrow's balm, Wast thou a grampus, nay, a whale, Now blazing like a dozen comets, Satan, when scheming to betray us, Was there no quirk,--one can't tell how, No stiff-necked flaw-no quiddit latent, Or kept it in the inventor's desk- Should Neptune in his turn invade thee, He must be long-tongued, with a witness, Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion, It sorts with universal fitness To make yon clear, pellucid ocean, Philosophers may talk of science, My taste is left at double distance, It may be orthodox and wise, Magazines, newspapers, reviews, have teemed, do teem, and will teem, with extracts from Mr Watts's Literary Souvenir. We have given these two poems, both for their own great merit, and because we have nowhere seen them quoted. We should suppose there are not fewer than eighty articles in the volume, in prose and verse-not many of them below mediocrity-most of them extremely good, and a few of first-rate excellence. The volume is indeed everything that it ought to be in composition and in embellishment.* The "Amulet, or Christian and Literary Remembrancer," is of a somewhat different character from the others, hav ing more of a religious spirit. The editor explains his views very judiciously in a well-written preface: "It has appeared to the publishers of the present volume, that a work which should blend religious instruction with literary amusement was still a desideratum; -for the influence of Religion is always most powerful when she is made to delight those whom it is her office to teach; and many, who would perhaps shun her in the severer garb in which she sometimes appears, may be won to her side by the attractions of a more tasteful attire. The work, however, is to be considered as a religious publication only so far as that every article tends to impress some moral lesson. It depends for its success equally on its literary merits. The nature of the contributions, and the excellence of the embellishments, will sufficiently prove that no expense has been spared to render the volume worthy of the advanced state of literature and the arts. "It will be at once perceived, that individuals of various religious denominations are among the contributors. This But who wrote the story to accompany Newton's Lovers' Quarrel? The Monthly Review is mad, or rather idiotic upon it-lauding it to the skies as if it were absolutely a Tale written by some Great Unknown. Now we pledge our critical character on the truth of the following sentence :-" It is a piece of vile cockney slang, sufficient to turn the stomach of a horse."-C. N. will be accepted as a pledge, that all entrance on the debateable ground of theology has been carefully avoided. Nothing, it is believed, will occur, either to disturb the opinions, or to shock the prejudices of any Christian: the editor, therefore, indulges a sanguine hope that the volume will prove generally acceptable." It is long since we have read anything more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans. The engraving by Charles Heath, from a drawing of Westall's, (a beautiful work of art,) and the poem, delightfully illustrate each other : So pass'd they on, And softly parting clusters of jet curls At last the Fane was reach'd, And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Turn'd from its door away, While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me, With the full water urn! Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me, And thou,-will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, A cry which none shall hear? What have I said, my child?—will He not hear thee, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me, But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me, The Rock of Strength-farewell!" We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime : THE TRUMPET. The Trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacon-pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, The mother on her first-born son The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage altar crown'd, The lover quits his bride! And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread! How will it be when kingdoms hear We do not remember to have seen before the name of the writer of the verses, entitled "Emblems." They are written with much feeling, and may be said to be even beautiful : And shall these pass away, and be A wreck of what they were,Shall birds, and flowers, and earth, and sea, And yon proud ship, and boy so fair, Be blasted with the tempest's rage, Or worn with poverty and age, Till all of life and hope shall seem A heart-deceiving, feverish dream ! Yes!-and 'tis but few years we need, With retrospective eye, Our own home's history: For they are emblems to the heart Of things it cannot see,— Emblems which have their counterpart In heaven's eternity; And though their day be short, or done With our lost hours and setting sun, They are, within their moment's flight, What there shall be for ever bright! Some of the prose tales are very interesting, especially the Vicar's Maid, by Miss Mitford, Infatuation, by Mrs Hofland, and the Sailor's Widow, by L. A. H. This last tale seems to be written by no very practised hand, and the parts are not well proportioned; but there are some touches in it of simple and homely pathos, that go to the heart. The embellishments are in general excellent. Next to the Hebrew Mother, of which we have spoken, the Dying Babe is, in our opinion, the best. Nothing can be more affecting. On the whole, the Amulet is a very pretty, and a very agreeable, and a very instructive little volume. It contains, besides poetry and tales, some serious essays of merit; and indeed its prevailing character may be said to be sweet solemnity, that unostentatiously distinguishes it from all similar publications. The "Forget me Not" is little, if at all, inferior in what may be called personal charms to the fairest of its rivals. It is indeed most beautifully got up. Contemplation, the Bridge of Sighs, the Child's Dream, and the Cottage Door, are all exquisite. Many of the compositions in prose and verse are excellent-witness the following exquisite lines, by the Rev. G. Croly: THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. Oh thou Atlantic, dark and deep, The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Yet never light thy gloom; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb! Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, There lies their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm; And he, the feaster on them all, The canker-worm. Yet on this wave the mountain's brow And on its bank the olive grove, And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Turn'd from its door away, While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me, With the full water urn! Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me, And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, A cry which none shall hear? What have I said, my child ?—will HE not hear thee, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child! Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me, Yearning for thy sweet looks! But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me, The Rock of Strength-farewell!" We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime : THE TRUMPET. The Trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacon-pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, A hundred banners to the breeze The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; 1 The mourner hears the thrilling call, The mother on her first-born son The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage altar crown'd, And all this haste, and change, and fear, How will it be when kingdoms hear We do not remember to have seen before the name of the writer of the verses, entitled "Emblems." They are written with much feeling, and may be said to be even beautiful: |