The Sun.
London, England, 1841-09-01 00:00:00

TAIT'S MAGAZINE.

Tait has no political article this month, but to
compensate for this omission he gives us one or two
. clever critical notices of new books, and several
specimens of very creditable poetry. The tale of
" Violet Hamilton" continues to be carried on
with spirit, but we should be glad to see a little
less diffusiness in the dialogues. They are na-
tural enough, but they want conciseness. "Oxo-
nian Ethics" is a carefully considered review of
Professor Sewell's work on " Christian Morals"—
a work whose chief object is to base -a new system
of ethics on testimony The' Reviewer shrewdly
points out the .absurdity of this object, and allud-
ing to the general character of Oxford scholar-
ship and divinity, says, happily enough, that
their Professors are men who " mistake a little
Greek for the wisdom of the world, and the
whisper of an episcopal benediction for the Spirit
of God upon the waters." The " Feast of the
Poets for 1841" is a collection of fugitive pieces,
serious and humorous, strung together at random,
with a lively, pertinent, introduction from the
pen of the editor. Here are some pleasing stanzas
entitled " Highlander's Lament for Glen-
garry :"
Wail ! wail ! fez thy glens, Invergarry,
Shall echo no more to the steps of the brave I
Wail ! wail ! for the chief of Glengarry
Has left his blue hills for a home o'er the ware.
Wail ! through the forest and mountain resounding
No more shall his bugle-note Startle the deer;
Nor foot, fleet as light, from crag to crag bounding,
Shall tell us how little Glengarry could fear.
Wail ! ne'er again, the blue waters dividing,
Shall be heard on Loch Oich the stroke of his oar,
And the prance of h is proud steed, the laggard wind leaving,
Shall gladden the hearts of his people no more.
Wail ! for far away is our roof-tree transplanted,
Our eagle 's forsaken his eyrie, and flown ;
The hand never stinted—the heart never daunted,
Have left us for ever—Glengarry is gone
We'll seek him in vain when the heather-bell's filling,
We'll wait him in vain at the fall of the leaf :
Never more, never more, to our Highland hearts thrilling,
Shall pibrochs swell proudly to welcome our chief.
Wail ! wail I for thy glens, Invergarry,
Shall echo no more to the steps of the brave,
Wail ! wail ! Tor the chief of Glengarry
Ilath left his blue hills for a home o'er the wave.
But bless'd for his sake be each valley and mountain,
And. sweet be the flowerets that smile on the plain,
And bright be the sparkle of river and fountain,
In lands that shall welcome him over the main.
And bless'd be his bride for the words she bath spoken,
The vows that she breathed—and the pledge that she
gave ;
For the friends she bath left—for the ties she bath broken,
To brighten and bless that far home o'er the wave !
Though ours be no more the delight to behold him,
To live for his pleasure—to die for his fame ;
May the banner of love, like a garment enfold him,
And honour for ever attend on his manic !

The review of " Miss Sedgwick's Letters from
Abroad to Kindred at Home" is skilfully and
impartially written, and the extracts are well cal-
culated to please the majority of readers. " Mu-
sings in the Wen" are a series of reflections sug-
gested to the writer by occasional stroles in the
parks of London, which Wyndham, in his quaint,
tbrcible manner, once described as the lungs of
the. metropolis. The remark that " St. James's
Park swarms with associations of those who seem
to have been born only to amuse themselves, or
utter clever sayings," is perfectly just. It is for
ever associated with Ch arles the Second, and
the gay courtiers of his day, as also with the
amusing fops and demireps of Etheredge, Wy-
cherley, and Congreve. The Mall, in particular,
is classic ground; and will be recognized as such
by all who are familiar with Count Grammont's
delightful Memoirs. " Lines written in a Roman
Camp in Bavaria" are gracefully and unaffectedly
written. We subjoin a portion of them :
There is a cloud before the sun,
The wind is hushed and still,
And silently the water's run
Beneath the sombre hill ;
. The sky is dark in every place,
As is the earth below,—
Methinks it wore the self-same face
Two thousand years ago.
•
No light is on the ancient wall,
No light upon the mound,
The very trees so thick and tall
Cast little shade around ;
So silent is the place and cold,
So far from human ken,
•
It bath a look that makes me old,
And spectres time again.
I listen half in thought to fear
The Roman trumpet blow,
I 'setirch for glint of helm and spear
Amidst the forest bough ;
And armour rings and voices swell,—
.
I hear the legion's tramp,
And see the lonely sentinel
Who guards the lonely camp.
Methinks I have no other home—
Ne other hearth to find,
For nothing but the thought of Rome
Is stirring in my mind.
And all that I have heard or dreamed,
And all I had forgot, •
Are rising up as though they seemed
The household of the spot.

And all the names which Romans knew
Seem just as known to me,
As if I were a Roman too,
A Roman born and free.
And I could rise at Czesar's name,
As if it were a charm
To draw sharp lightning from the tame,
And nerve the coward's arm!
And yet if yonder sky were blue,
And earth were sunny gay,
If Nature were the summer hue,
That decked her yesterday ;
The mound, the trench, the rampart's space
Would move me nothing more
Than many a well-remembered place
That I here marked before.