In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and as we carry a crowd of canvass, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the sea-Oh, horror upon horror! the ice opens suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily in immense concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny-the circles rapidly grow small-we are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool--and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and shrieking of ocean and of tempest, the ship is quivering, oh God! and going down. A SKETCH. BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M. D. The shades of night are fleeing fast away More brightly throws his glance across the bounding waves. The cheerful songsters of the verdant grove, The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree, From the broad fields which wave with golden grain, I hear the tuneful sound of humming bees, O'er hill and valley far away I've strayed, A holy flame that burned, amid the blight, Of fell disease and anguish, more divinely bright. The sun climbs higher in the azure skyMore fiercely on the earth descend his beamsThe tender flowers hang low their heads and die, And wearied cattle seek the cooling streams. Faint grow the ploughmen and their toil-worn teams; The reapers too have ceased their strains of mirth; No more the air with sounds of pleasure teems; And now the shadows traced upon the earth, And the fierce heat, proclaim the sultry noon-day's birth. O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove, Within a green and trellised bower I lie, And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays And here at noon-day hour I often dream O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced- In early youth upon the sea of life, We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care, Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer, But on we rush, heedless and without fear, Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie And feel the bitter pangs of black despairOr from the demon strive in vain to fly, Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die. The sun is sinking down the western skies- Along yon valley where (a silent grove!) Of happier days-the bright and smiling eyes, Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom, And made this earth seem like a ParadiseNow cold and rayless in the starless gloom, Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb. The twilight shades are gathering o'er the landShrouding the valleys in the gloom of night, While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand, And see depart the last faint rays of light Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height. 'Tis the lone night-another day has gone, And Time who speeds with never tiring flight, Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn, Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one by Charles Abraham Elton, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows: "In myrtle veiled will I my falchion wear; When they the tyrant's bosom gored, Regenerate in equality." It is a proof of the fairness with which Mr. Elton has aimed at a literal rendering of his author, that he has made even the name of ARISTOGEITON retain its That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn. place; as inharmonious a one, perhaps, as ever "filled GREEK SONG. The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva-hiding their poniards in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcaus; misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes, so fully in unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily for the paternity of this ode, he died eighty years before the event it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be greatly troubled. It never was in print before-I believe. HYMN, IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON. [Εν μυρτου κλάδι το ξίφος φορήσω Ώσπερ Αρμόδιος κ' Αριστογείτων, c.] TRANSLATION. Wreath'd in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal, Like those champions, devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave. Belov'd heroes! your deathless souls roam, In the joy-breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their homeWhere Achilles and Diomed rest. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made, at the tutelar shrine, A libation of Tyranny's blood. Ye deliverers of Athens from shameYe avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs. the trump of future fame." In the Edinburgh Review for January, 1833, we find a translation of considerable merit, in the stanza of "Bruce's Address:" less literal than Mr. Elton's, yet more brief and simple, and partaking more of the thrilling energy of the original. In its arrangement, the edition of Ilgen is followed. It is due to the author of the foregoing translation to say, that it was written long before the year in which this one was published; and before he had seen the seven or eight others above mentioned. "Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive,* Yes! let myrtle wreaths be round, Voiced by Fame eternally, Death, Harmodius! came not near thee, There the mighty dwell!" SONNET. O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted, Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.-Milton. P. It was an infant dying! and I stood SPECIMENS OF LOVELETTERS IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV. From the second volume of a Collection of Original Letters written during the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III. By John Fenn, Esq. M. A. and F. R. S. I. Right reverend and worshipful, and my right well beloved Valentine, I recommend me unto you, full heartilie desiring to hear of your welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his pleasure, and your heart's desire. And if it please you to hear of my welfare, I am not in good heele (health) of bodie, nor of heart, nor shall be till I hear from you For there wottes (knows) no creature that pain I endure And for to be dead (for my life), I dare it not discur (discover) And my lady my mother hath labored the matter to my father full diligently, but she can no more get than ye know of, for the which God knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily that ye do, ye will not leave me therefore; for if that ye had not half the livelihood that ye have, for to do the greatest labour that any woman alive might, I would not forsake you. And if ye command me to keep me true wherever I go, I wis I will do all my might you to love, and never no mo, They shall not me let (hinder) so for to do, And if they be never so wrath I trust it shall be better in time coming No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping; and I beseech you that this bill be not seen of none earthlie creature save only yourself. And this letter was endited at Topcroft, with full heavy heart &c By your own II. MARGERY BREWS. Right worshipful and well beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise, I recommend me unto you &c. And heartilie I thank you for the letter, which that ye send me by John Beckerton, whereby I understand and know that ye be purposed to come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter, but only to have a conclusion of the matter betwixt my father and you; I would be the most glad of any creature alive, so that the matter might grow to effect. And thereas (whereas) ye say, an (if) ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business for that cause a good while | after, which causeth my heart to be full heavie; and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should I be much more sorry, and full of heaviness. And as for myself I have done, and understand in the matter that I can or may, as God knoweth; and I let you plainly understand, that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf, but an 100l. and 50 marks (33l. 6s. 8d.) which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire. maiden on ground; and if ye think not yourself so satisfyed, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you afore; good, true, and loving Valentine, that ye take no such labor upon you, as to come more for that matter, but let what is, pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover and beadwoman during my life. No more unto you at this time, but Almighty Jesu preserve you both bodie and soul &c. Topcroft 1476.7. By your Valentine MARGERY BREWS. MARCELIA. Then she is drown'd? Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia! The shallow brook that ran throughout the forest, Never may net The story goes, that a Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world Frown'd upon,) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought Did cast her in the stream. You may have heard Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who Fell ill, and came to want in youth? No?-Oh! She loved a man who marked her not. He wed, And then the girl grew sick, and pin'd away, And drown'd herself for love!--Some day or other Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, I would be the merriest | I'll tell you all the story. TO MIRA. BY L. A. WILMER. Far from the gaudy scenes my earliest youth Far from those pleasing scenes 'tis mine to roam. Ere yet I bid a long, a last farewell To the sweet Muse, reluctant to forego The sacred solace and enchanting spell Which charm'd my solitude, and sooth'd my woeEre I renounce my harp, and cease to know The poet's rapture, when his eye surveys The heavenly visions fancy doth bestow, On which her favored sons alone may gaze, Once more I lift my voice to sing in Mira's praise. While sickly flattery heaps the unhallowed shrine Of pomp and pride with praise that palls the sense, Let spotless candor, Heaven-born truth be mine: Base are the praises sold at truth's expense: Mira! thy name all falsehood drives from hence! Accept this tribute due to worth like thine-Accept this offering of a heart from whence No guile shall rise to taint this verse of mine, But friendship's holy signet sanctify each line. O might I deem my verse could live beyond As long as years revolved, and seasons came, Then would my lot be blessed, my hopes accomplished all. Tho' placed by Fate in this ungenial clime, Where scarce the sacred Muse hath deigned to tread- I have seen womankind in all their charms- And gay costumes that mock the painted bow Then, Mira, not to pride my harp is strung- My footsteps stray-but Truth directs my song: And Virtue, Worth, and Thou shall still employ my tongue. With thee, sweet Modesty and Truth resideSincerity from courts and crowds exiledVirtue, that shuns the haughty brow of PrideAnd Charity, Heaven's first-born, favorite child,— As if the skies upon thy birth had smiled, And given thee all to make a woman dear. Yes! thou couldst humanize the savage wild, Make tigers pause thy soothing voice to hear, Melt marble hearts, and smooth the brow of cankering care. When the last echoes of my harp expire, In mournful breathings on Patapsco's shore— When the unpractised hand that struck the wire, Shall wake those wild and artless notes no moreWhen the green meadow and the torrent's roar-The woody walk, so long my dear delight, With all that charmed my fancy most beforeWhen Death shall veil these objects from my sight, O say, wilt thou my name in thy remembrance write? Then let the world its malice all combineIts hate I reck not, and its wrongs despise : A bliss they dream not of shall still be mineA bliss untold, yet worthy of the skies, Which all their curs'd malevolence defies. Even in the anguish of the mortal hour, My soul superior to the gloom shall rise, And smile on Death when all his terrors lower, And the grim tyrant stalks full panoplied in power. STANZAS. Oh! never, never, until now, Seem'd happiness so near me- Sad memory is chiding- And weep while I'm confiding. I thought my spirit had grown old, Of newly waken'd feeling, LEILA. Critical Notices. THE HEROINE. The Heroine or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard. and is one day turned out of the house for allowing certain undue liberties on the part of the butler. In revenge she commences a correspondence with Miss Cherry, in which she persuades that young lady that Wilkinson is not her real father-that she is a child of mystery, &c.-in short that she is actually and bonâ fide a heroine. In the meantime, Miss Cherry, in rummaging among her father's papers, comes across an antique parchment-a lease of lives-on which the following words are alone legible. This Indenture For and in consideration of Reasonable amends and satisfaction Molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson. Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of women-of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit, humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by the hand?-who so lost as not to have cultivated thy acquaintance?-who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy companionship?-who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable, inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical. Every body has "It is a written covenant," says this interesting young read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unlady in a letter to her Governess, "between this Grehappy as not to have done this thing. But if such gory Wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an there be--if by any possibility such person should exist, heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly that would devolve to him at my death) stipulating to man, and purchase forthwith "The Heroine: or Adven-give Wilkinson "Sylvan Lodge," together with "trees, tures of Cherubina.” Cherry Wilkinson only daughter of This "excruciating MS." brings matters to a crisis-for Miss Cherry has no difficulty in filling up the blanks. some stones, &c." as "reasonable amends and satisfaction" The Heroine was first published many years ago, (we believe shortly after the appearance of Childe Harold ;) but although it has run through editions innumerable, and has been universally read and admired by all possessing talent or taste, it has never, in our opinion, attracted half that notice on the part of the critical press, which is undoubtedly its due. There are few books written with more tact, spirit, naïveté, or grace, few which take hold more irresistibly upon the attention of the reader, and none more fairly entitled to rank among the classics of English literature than the Heroine of Fired with this idea, Miss Cherry gets up a scene, Eaton Stannard Barrett. When we say all this of a rushes with hair dishevelled into the presence of the book possessing not even the remotest claim to origi- good man Wilkinson, and accuses him to his teeth of nality, either in conception or execution, it may rea-plotting against her life, and of sundry other mal-pracsonably be supposed, that we have discovered in its tices and misdemeanors. The worthy old gentleman matter, or manner, some rare qualities, inducing us is astonished, as well he may be; but is somewhat conto hazard an assertion of so bold a nature. This is ac-soled upon receiving a letter from his nephew, Robert tually the case. Never was any thing so charmingly Stuart, announcing his intention of paying the family written: the mere style is positively inimitable. Ima- a visit immediately. Wilkinson is in hopes that a lover gination, too, of the most etherial kind, sparkles and may change the current of his daughter's ideas; but in blazes, now sportively like the Will O' the Wisp, now that he is mistaken. Stuart has the misfortune of bedazzlingly like the Aurora Borealis, over every page-ing merely a rich man, a handsome man, an honest over every sentence in the book. It is absolutely radi-man, and a fashionable man-he is no hero. This is ant with fancy, and that of a nature the most captivat-not to be borne: and Miss Cherry, having assumed the ing, although, at the same time, the most airy, the most capricious, and the most intangible. Yet the Heroine must be considered a mere burlesque; and, being a copy from Don Quixotte, is to that immortal work of Cervantes what The School for Scandal is to The Merry Wives of Windsor. The Plot is briefly as follows. Gregory Wilkinson, an English farmer worth 50,000 pounds, has a pretty daughter called Cherry, whose head is somewhat disordered from romance reading. Her governess is but little more rational than herself, name of the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, makes a precipitate retreat from the house, and commences a journey on foot to London. Her adventures here properly begin, and are laughable in the extreme. But we must not be too minute. They are modelled very much after those of Don Quixotte, and are related in a series of letters from the young lady herself to her governess. The principal characters who figure in the Memoirs are Betterton, an old debauché who endeavors to entangle the Lady Cherubina in his toils— VOL. II.-5 |