Imágenes de páginas

His life steals on,


ous engravings ! Only look at The Lo- But we must turn to the poetry. VERS' QUARREL ! Heavens and earth, And here it gives us pleasure to pre quarrel with such a bright, breathing, sent our readers with one of the very and beautiful bosom! Where may best compositions in the volume, from you seek for calm beneath the skies, the pen of the editor :if it sleep not between these tranquil billows? There is the luxury of love,

THE POET'S DEN. hallowed by its innocence !-a table spread in Paradise, to be deserted for

A Sketch on the Spot. the fare of the common earth !-Or lo !

Thus, in this calm retreat, so richly fraught the “ Forsaken” smiles faintly at her

With mental light, and luxury of thought, own credulity, and the evaporation of her lover's sigh! The dream is gone, and the languor of its delight hangs 'Tis the “ leafy month of June,” all over the maiden's face and frame.

And the pale and placid moon, But sorely mistaken indeed art thou,

In the east her cresset rearing, O fair L. E. L., in murmuring for

Tells that summer's eve is wearing ; such a Juliet, such a strain as,

But the sun is lingering still “ Forget me I would not have thee

O'er the old, accustom'd hill, know

And condenses all his rays Of the youth and bloom thy falseness laid

In one broad, attemper'd blaze, low;

Twilight's shadows deepening 'round him, That the green grass grows, the cypresses

Like a king when foes surround him, wave,

Gathering, since he scorns to fly, And the death-stone lies on thy once

Life's last energies to die ! love's grave !" Never was there a more needless

See! the parting god of day waste of sympathetic sorrow; for with- Leaves a trail upon his way, in three months after she sat to Mr

Like the memory of the dead Newton for her picture, did she, the When the sainted soul is fled, Forsaken," elope to Gretna-Green And it chequers all the skies with a particular friend of ODoherty's, With its bright, innumerous dyes. and before the year had expired, was Waves of clouds, all rich and glowing, she safely delivered of twins. Noto- Each into the other flowing, rious facts like these rob fiction of half Pierced by many a crimson streak, its pathos; nor is it possible to shed Like the blush on Beauty's cheek; tears over youth and beauty brought Here and there dark purple tinges to-bed under such circumstances. Peering through their saffron fringes, Should L. E. L. introduce into a fu- (Amethysts of price untold, ture Souvenir the “ Forsaken” as a

Set in shrines of virgin gold,) widow, let her remember that weeds And, anon, a dewy star, are mere annuals, and entitle her epi- Twinkling from blue depths afar, thalamium (or, as that accomplish- Bright as Woman's tearful eye ed scholar, the late Dr Pirie, would

When she weeps, she scarce knows why. have said, epicedium)“ A Year and

Not a sound disturbs the hush, a Day.

Save the mountain-torrent's gush, The “Kiss,” drawn by J.M.Wright,

As it struggles, with a bound, after Retch, (see his illustrations of Now through tangled brush-wood stray

From the depth of shades profound ; Goethe's Faust,) is, if possible, still more charming-fond and impassion, Now o'er velvet moss delaying,

ing, ed, but perfectly chaste and pure, and Lapsing now in parted streams, not to be gazed on, without delight, by man of woman born. While Lady And, anon, their haven won,

Like a youthsul poet's dreams, Louisa Jane Russell, youngest daugh. Gently gliding into one ! ter of his Grace the Duke of Bedford, Cooling breezes bathe the brow from the statue of Chantry at Woburn - With delicious fragrance now; Abbey, calms the spirit with a far dif- Incense sweet from many a bower ; ferent image--that of childish delight Odours from each closing flower ; and love--as the fair creation stands, Swell upon the rising gale, unadorned and innocent as an infant, On the charmed sense prevail, and presses with both gentle hands a Till the pulse forgets to move, dove to her sinless bosom.

And the soul is “ drunk with love !"

Where yon sweet clematis fings,

By the open lattice sitting, Far and wide, its starry rings;

Fever'd streams of beauty fitting Where the graceful jasmine's braid, O'er his heart, and o'er his brain, Makes a green, eye-soothing shade, In one bright, unbroken chain; And their shoots united rove

Drinking deep through every sense, O'er the trelliced roof above

Draughts of pleasure, too intense,Deep embower'd from mortal ken, Mark the poet's glistening eye Thread we now a Poet's Den!

Wandering now o'er earth and sky! Bright confusion revels there,

'Tis a blissful hour to him, Ne'er had she a realm more fair ;

Slave of feeling-child of whim!'Tis a wilderness of mind,

Builder of the

lofty rhyme,Redolent of tastes refined.

Bard,-musician,-painter,-mime ; Tomes of wild romantic lore,

Ever sway'd by impulse strong, Cull'd from Fancy's brightest store,

Each by turns, and nothing long: (Caskets full of gems sublime,

Fickle as the changing rays From the silent depths of Time,)

Round the sun's descending blaze; Poets, whose conceptions high

Still in search of idle toys; Are sparks of immortality;

Pining after fancied joys; Sages, Wisdom's self hath crown'd,

All that charm'd his heart or eye, People all the walls around;

Sought-possess'd-and then thrown by! Or beneath the 'wilder'd eye,

Doom'd on shadows thus to brood, In “ admired disorder ” lie

Whilst life's more substantial good, Ingots rich of Fancy's ore,

All that wiser bosoms prize, Scatter'd o'er the crowded floor.

Fades like day from yonder skies !

There is much fancy of thought and Mystic scraps are strewn around,

elegance of expression in the "Ode to Like the oracles profound

a Steam-Boat," byt. Doubleday, Esq. Of the Delphic prophetess; And-as difficult to guess!

ODE TO A STEAM-BOAT. China vases, filled with flowers,

On such an eve, perchance, as this, Fresh from evening's dewy bowers; When not a zephyr skims the deep, Love-gifts from his lady fair,

And sea-birds rest upon the abyss, Knots of ribbon, locks of hair ;

Scarce by its heaving rocked to sleep,Sprigs of myrtle, sent to keep

On such an eve as this, perchance,
Memory from too sound a sleep;

Might Scylla eye the blue expanse.
Violets, blue as are the eyes
That awake his softest sighs,

The languid ocean scarce at all
And reward his love-sick lays

Amongst the sparkling pebbles bissing With their smiles of more than praise ; The lucid wavelets, as they fall, Spells of sweetness, gather'd 'round,

The sunny beach in whispers kissing, Make those precincts hallow'd ground ! Leave not a furrow-as they say

Oft haps, when pleasure ebbs away.
Here a broken, stringless lute;
There a masker's antic suit;

Full many a broad but delicate tint
Fencing foils; a Moorish brand;

Is spread upon the liquid plain; Tokens strange from many a land; Hues rich as aught from fancy's mint, Memory's lights to many a scene Enamellid meads, or golden grain ;Where his roving steps have been ; Flowers submarine, or purple heath, Cameos rich, from mighty Rome;

Are mirror'd from the world beneath. Laurel wreathes from Virgil's tomb; Golden fruit from Scio's vine;

One tiny star-beam, faintly trembling, Views along the winding Rhine ;

Gems the still waters' tranquil breast; Wither'd shrubs from Castaly,

Mark the dim sparklet, so resembling Spread below, or ranged on high,

Its parent in the shadowing east; Mingle there promiscuously!

It seems—so pure, so bright the traceAnd many a fair and sunny face,

As sea and sky had changed their place. Many a sculptured shape of grace, Such as Guido's pencil warm’d,

Hush'd is the loud tongue of the deep :And Canova's chisel form'd,—

Yon glittering sail, far o'er the tide, Brows by deathless genius crown'd, Amid its course appears to sleep; Breathe their inspiration 'round; We watch, but only know it glide Like the smile of primal Light,

Still on, by a bright track afar, Making even Chaos bright.

Like genius, or a falling star!

Oh! such an eve is sorrow's balm, My taste is left at double distance,
Yon lake the poet's Hippocrene : At the first sea-quake of thy pistons.
And who would ruffle such a calm,
Or cast a cloud o'er such a scene !

It may be orthodox and wise,
'Tis done!-and nature weeps thereat, And catholic, and transcendental,
Thou boisterous progeny of Watt ! To the useful still to sacrifice,

Without a sigh, the ornamental; Wast thou a grampus, nay, a whale, But be it granted me, at least, Or ork one sees in Ariosto:

That I may never be the priest ! Went'st thou by rudder, oar, or sail,

Magazines, newspapers, reviews, Still would'st thou not so outrage gusto!

have teemed, do teem, and will teem, But when did gusto ever dream

with extracts from Mr Watts's LiteOf seeing ships propelled by steam?

rary Souvenir. We have given these Now blazing like a dozen comets,

two poems, both for their own great And rushing as if nought could bind thee; merit, and because we have nowhere The while thy strange internal vomits

seen them quoted. We should supA sooty train of smoke behind thee;

pose there are not fewer than eighty

articles in the volume, in prose and Tearing along the azure vast, With a great chimney for a mast! verse—not many of them below medi

ocrity-most of them extremely good, Satan, when scheming to betray us,

and a few of first-rate excellence. The He left of old his dark dominions,

volume is indeed everything that it And wing’d his murky way through Chaos, ought to be in composition and in emAnd waved o'er Paradise his pinions ;

bellishment.* Whilst Death and Sin came at his back, The “Amulet, or Christian and LiteWould leave, methinks, just such a track. rary Remembrancer,” is of a somewhat

different character from the others, hava Was there no quirk,one can't telling more of a religious spirit. The how,

editor explains his views very judici. No stiff-necked flaw-no quiddit latent, ously in a well-written preface: Thou worst of all sea-monsters thou ! “ It has appeared to the publishers of That might have undermined thy pas the present volume, that a work which tent,

should blend religious instruction with liOr kept it in the inventor's desk

terary amusement was still a desideratum ; Fell bane of all that's picturesque ? —for the influence of Religion is always

most powerful when she is made to deShould Neptune in his turn invade thee, light those whom it is her office to teach ; And at a pinch old Vulcan fail thee, and many, who would perhaps shun her The sooty mechanist who made thee in the severer garb in which she someMay hold it duty to bewail thee :- times appears, may be won to her side But I shall bring a garland votive, by the attractions of a more tasteful atThou execrable locomotive!

tire. The work, however, is to be consi

dered as a religious publication only so He must be long-tongued, with a wit- far as that every article tends to impress ness,

some moral lesson. It depends for its Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion, success equally on its literary merits. It sorts with universal fitness

The nature of the contributions, and the To make yon clear, pellucid ocean, excellence of the embellishments, will That holds not one polluted drop, sufficiently prove that no expense has Bear on its breast a blacksmith's shop. been spared to render the volume worthy

of the adyanced state of literature and Philosophers may talk of science,

the arts. And mechanicians of utility;

“ It will be at once perceived, that inIn such I have but faint reliance :

dividuals of various religious denominaTo admire thee passeth my ability; tions 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 en- It is long since we have read anya trance on the debateable ground of theo- thing more beautiful than the followlogy has been carefully avoided. Nothing, ing poem by Mrs Hemans. The enit is believed, will occur, either to dis- graving by Charles Heath, from a turb the opinions, or to shock the preju- drawing of Westall's, (a beautiful dices of any Christian : the editor, there- work of art, and the poem, delightfore, indulges a sanguine hope that the fully illustrate each other : volume will prove generally acceptable.”

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So pass'd they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd,
The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. - But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,
Turn’d from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell’d high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song—" Alas!" she cried,

“ Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,

And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-

How shall I hence depart?

How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing
So late along the mountains at my side ?

And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted !
Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away,
While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,

Went like a singing rill ?

Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water urn !
Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

And thou,—will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee
Without thy mother's band to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck ; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child ? ---Will He not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Will He not guard they rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

I give thee to thy God !—the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

Therefore, farewell !-I go; my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks !
But thou, my First-born! droop pot, nor bewail me,
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell !"

We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime :


The mourner hears the thrilling call,

And rises from the earth!
The mother on her first-born son

Looks with a boding eye;-
They come not back, though all be won,

Whose young hearts leap so high.

The Trumpet's voice hath roused the

Light up the beacon-pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire !
A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast,
And, hark! was that the sound of seas ?

A king to war went past!

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound

The falchion to his side ;
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 Kingdoins hear

The blast that wakes the dead ?

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

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:

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