The Sun.
London, England, 1833-09-02 00:00:00

COBBETT'S MAGAZINE.

There is a sad want of a kindly, cordial spirit
in this number. It is snappish, cynical, and
intolerant ; in proof whereof we may adduce the
two articles, one on " Whigs and Tories," and
the other on " Mr. Sheridan Knowles and the
Edinburgh Review." In both of these the
author finds fault wholesale, as if for the mere
pleasure of showing off his petulance. " Fas-
cination, a Story of Unholy Love," is a striking,
specimen of diablerie, of a high German cha-
racter. " The Etruscans" is the most agreeable
paper in the number ; the topographical infor-
mation is conveyed in a very easy, animated
manner. The following sprightly jeux d'esprit
may amuse :

WINE. WIT, AND WOMAN.
A MYTHOLOGICAL SONG.
Boys ! three planets bright
Life's dull sky illumine,
To put old care to flight—
Wine, and Wit, and Woman.
Once in times of old,
Ere Troy had yet its Hector,
Jove, as we are told,
Sat and sipped his nectar.
Round him gaily quaff'd,
All the gods assembled,
And the Thund'rer laugh'd
Till Olympus trembled.
Sudden, midst their mirth,
To mix his bitter leaven,
Lo! a sprite of earth
Amidst the sons of heaven :
Care had stolen up,
With his brow of ,adness,
To pour his bitter cup
In their bowl of gladness.

Through the banquet, still
And unnoticed, fleeting,
Every heart grew chill,
And hush'd its joyous beating.
Seen at last, as gall
He pour'd in Juno's nectar,
They hasted, one and all,
To exorcise the spectre.

Apollo, all on fire
That heav'n should thus be haunted,
On his thrilling lyre
The service gaily chaunted.
Venus rung the toll,
As heav'n's fairest daughter,
While Bacchus from his bowl
Sprinkled holy water.

From heav'n chased, the sprite
Again to earth descended;
The Thund'rer mark'd his flight,
And seeing where it ended,
" To mortals bear," the sire
To Venus cried, " this dragon
To chase—Apollo's lyre
And a drop from Bacchus' flaggon."
Hence three planets bright
Life's dull sky illumine,
To put old care to flight—
Wine, and Wit, and Woman.
J. K. B.

CO UR T MA GAZ INE.

The embellishments to this number are each
of a high order. One is a portrait of the Hon.
Miss Gardiner, and has been engraved with
great care and richness of effect by Cochrane ;
the other is a view of Dunrobin Castle, the
magnifice►►t family seat of the late Duke of
Sutherland. As respects the literary department,
Mrs. Norton has shown her usual taste i►► selec-
tion. The ankles are numerous, and hqpily
varied ; and one of them, " The Vision of
Sadak," from the pen of the author of the
" Usurer's Daughter," is worthy of any periodi-
cal of the day. " A Scene on the River Plate"
is sketched with much graphic spirit. " The
Bride's Return" is a poem containing many
tender, pleasing thoughts. Our readers may
perhaps, like to peruse it. Here it is for them :.

THE BRIDE'S RETURN.
BY H. S. B.
She bath her wish,—for which in vain
She pined in restless dreams—
" Oh mother ! is this home again ?
How desolate it seems ?
Yet all the dear, familiar things
Look as they did of yore ;
But oh! the change this sad heart brings,—

This is my home no more!
" I left thee !—like the dove of old

I left thy parent breast,—
But on life's waste of waters cold
My soul hath found no rest
And back the weary bird is come,
Its woes--its wanderings o'er ;
Ne'er from the holy ark to roam—
Yet this is home no more

" Oh mother! sing my childhood's songs!
They fall like summer's rain
On this worn heart, that vainly longs
To be all thine again !
Speak comfort to me! call me yet !
Thy Mary'—as of yore;
Those words could make me half forget
That this is home no more !

" Sit near me! Oh this hour repays
Long years of lonely pain ;
I feel—as if the old bright days
Were all come back again !
My heart beats thick with happy dreams—
Mine eyes with tears run o'er!
Thou'rt with me, mother ! Oh it seems
Like home!—our home once more I

" Oh home and mother!! can ye not
Give back my heart's glad youth ?
The visions which my soul forgot,
Or learnt to doubt their truth :
Give back my childhood's peaceful sleep,
Its aimless hopes restore!—
Ye cannot!—mother, let me weep—
For this is home no more!"

Thou mourner for departed dreams
On earth there is no rest—
When grief bath troubled the pure streams
Of memory in thy breast:
A shadow on thy path shall lie
Where sunshine laugh'd before;
Look upwards—to the happy sky I
Earth is thy home no more:"