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 transeendental,
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

two poems, both for their own great Now blazing like a dozen comets, 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 Tearing along the azure vast,

articles in the volume, in prose and 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, have 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

a

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.”

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her First-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple-service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God.

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 hand 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 not, 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, THE TRUMPET.

And rises from the earth!

The mother on her first-born son The Trumpet's voice hath roused the Looks with a boding eye;land,

They come not back, though all be won, Light up the beacon-pyre!

Whose young hearts leap so high. A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire !

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound A hundred banners to the breeze

The falchion to his side ; Their gorgeous folds have cast, E'en for the marriage altar crown'd, And, hark ! was that the sound of seas? The lover quits his bride! A king to war went past!

And all this haste, and change, and fear,

By earthly clarion spread! The chief is arming in his hall,

How will it be when Kingdoins hear The peasant by his hearth;

The blast that wakes the dead ?

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:

EMBLEMS.

L. A. H. This last tale seems to be

written by no very practised hand, By the Rev. Henry Stebbing. and the parts are not well proportion

ed; but there are some touches in There is a freshness in the air,

it of simple and homely pathos, that A brightness in the sky,

go to the heart. The embellishments As if a new-born sun was there,

are in general excellent. Next to the Just seraph-throned on high ;

Hebrew Mother, of which we have And birds, and flowers, and mountain- spoken, the Dying Babe is, in our

streams, Rejoicing in his infant beams,

opinion, the best. Nothing can be

more affecting. On the whole, the Are glad as if the Winter's breath

Amulet is a very pretty, and a very Had never blown the blast of death.

agreeable, and a very instructive little Softly along the silent sea

volume. It contains, besides poetry The light-wing'd breezes creep,

and tales, some serious essays of meSo low, so calm, so tranquilly,

rit; and indeed its prevailing characThey lull the waves asleep;

ter may be said to be sweet solemnity, And, oh! as gladly on the tide

that unostentatiously distinguishes it Yon lofty vessel seems to ride,

from all similar publications. As if the calmly-heaving sail

The “Forget me Not” is little, if at Had never met a sterner gale.

all, inferior in what may be called per

sonal charms to the fairest of its rivals. And in a small, sweet covert nigh, It is indeed most beautifully got up.

Her own young hands have made, Contemplation, the Bridge of Sighis, A rosy girl hath laughingly

tlie Child's Dream, and the Cottage Her infant brother laid ;

Door, are all exquisite. Many of the And made of fresh Spring flowers his bed, compositions in prose and verse are And over him her veil hath spread, excellent-witness the following exWith looks as if for ever there

quisite lines, by the Rev. G. Croly:His form should bloom as young and fair.

THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS,
And shall these pass away, and be
A wreck of what they were,

Oh thou Atlantic, dark and deep,
Shall birds, and flowers, and earth, and Thou wilderness of waves,
sea,

Where all the tribes of earth might sleep And yon proud ship, and boy so fair, In their uncrowded graves ! Be blasted with the tempest's rage, Or worn with poverty and age,

The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Till all of life and hope shall seem

Yet never light thy gloom; A heart-deceiving, feverish dream!

The tempests burst, yet never shake

Thy depths, thou mighty tomb !
Yes!—and 'tis but few years we need,
With retrospective eye,

Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, In their repeated tale to read

Thy secrets who hath told ?Our own home's history:

The warrior and his sword are there, We know their end-to us, to all The merchant and his gold. They are but blossoms, and they fall; But yet young lise, the sun, the flowers There lies their myriads in thy pall, Are sweet as they were always ours : Secure from steel and storm ;

And he, the feaster on them all, For they are emblems to the heart

The canker-worm. Of things it cannot see, Emblems which have their counterpart Yet on this wave the mountain's brow In heaven's eternity;

Once glow'd in morning beam;
And though their day be short, or done And, like an arrow from the bow,
With our lost hours and setting sun,

Out sprang the stream :
They are, within their moment's flight,
What there shall be for ever bright! And on its bank the olive grove,

And the peach's luxury,
Some of the prose

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 hand 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 ung 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 not, 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 TRUMPET.

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 $0 high.

The Trumpet's voice bath roused the

land,
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 ingdoins 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 :