MARY LEMAN REDE
AFTERWARDS

MARY LEMAN GRIMSTONE

Works attributed to her in the British Museum Catalogue

ZAYDA. A Spanish Tale. 1820
(Poems under pseud. OSCAR)

Cleone...(poems pseud. OSCAR) 1821

THE BEAUTY OF THE BRITISH ALPS. or Love at First sight.
1825

LOUISA EGERTON or Castle Herbert. 1830

A WOMAN'S LOVE. 3 vols. 1832

CHARACTER or Jew and Gwntile. 2 vols. 1833

CLEONE. A Tale of Married Life. 3 vols. 1834.

Block adds and cites B.M. as reference

QUINTUS SERVINTON. 3 vols Hobart, 1830
but B.M. attributes this to H. Savary.

fd56
62/5

MARY LEMAN REDE
AFTERWARDS

MARY LEMAN GRIMSTONE

A WOMAN'S LOVE. 3 vols. 1832

RECENT AC

offered for

COLIN RICHARDSON, 134a Peasc
Telephone & Cables: Windsor 1791

My first prose was the following letter inserted in the
Polemical Inquirer. The Politic letter to me is on the opposite side.

CARRICK-ARDEE COUNTY OF ANTRIM.

ON SINCERITY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE THEOLOGICAL INQUIBER.

SIR,

THERE is hardly any thing more deeply to be lamented in society, than the general want of sincerity: whether it be in the ties of blood and friendship, or any of the lesser connections in which we stand with the world. Relations are too often secret spies upon, instead of the friends of, each other. As differences of interests arise, and connections enlarge, their affections gradually weaken, and they become disunited: flown from the parent nest, and selfishly absorbed in their own establishment, sect or party, under the semblance of good-will, they suffer a narrow jealousy and rancorous envy to wind itself into their hearts, and choak every better feeling nature had implanted.

A friend in whom we can repose unlimited confidence, is a rare and an invaluable treasure. But the name is prostituted to connections that dishonor it. Intimacies formed in the tumultuous heat of pleasure, and supported by being companions in all the excesses of youthful folly, not to say vice, claim it; it is these violent and ill-judged attachments that are usually succeeded by the most inveterate hatreds; for there is a balance in the human passions, and the mind that is awake to the former, is equally alive to the latter.

It is these kind of friendships,—the fallability of human judgment,—and the long and well-known duplicity of the world, that feeds, in many, a cold suspicion that freezes the very name; they look on a sincere friendship as romance, merely ideal, and live in the world bound by no ties than the mere observance of those rules society has established: connections are formed and

Where does Genius hold her reign ?
Where does Virtue lead her train ?
Where arms, that bid the world defiance?
Where the Graces, Arts, and Science?
Hark! the sounds that rend the sky—
Britain! shouting millions cry.

Where does Want and Woe reside,
Starving Worth, and bloated Pride;
Waste, and splendid Ostentation,
Industry, begging through the nation?
Hark! the groans that rend the sky—
Britain! moaning millions cry.

M. L. R.

The above lines I sent to the British press, which they appeared Dec. 1st, 1816. Reviews to this I heard written a reply to Lord Byron's 'Far thee wile.' My poem appeared in the Continental Review, published at Brussels. About 1815 and 1816 I became a contributor to La Belle Apoemblee, where all I sent was received with avidity. Sometimes I contributed poems of considerable length. I wish I could add of considerable merit. I have always entertained an unparental sentiment of contempt for my early proclivities, they are little better than experiments, crude and common place. I insert them here, such as I happen to have by me not from any misplaced admiration, but as curiosities, and as affixing me the means of tracing my progress from bad to better. In 1820 I dedicated La Belle for some months, but not with incensed power. I was illepid. I never made a good bargain in my life. I was hardly likely to do it then. At that time I contributed a good deal of prose that appeared without any signature. The following song is mine.

Air—" Mary's Dream."

WHEN sleep forsakes my eyes at morn,
My first fond thought, oh, love! is thine;
As when the Indian views the dawn,
He kneels to bless its light divine.

But how should not my thoughts be cast
On thee with morning's early light?
When heaven know's thou wert the last,
That dwelt upon my soul at night!

Oh! bless him, is my midnight prayer,
Oh! bless him, is the wish of morn;

What scene so bright, wert thou not there,
That Mary wou'd not shun and scorn?

Could pleasure breathe a note divine,
Though angels join'd her minstrelsy?

No—trust me one dear word of thine,
Has more enchantment, love, for me.

For you I'll quit each giddy scene,
Where care a false oblivion finds,
To share the calm, the sweet serene,
Of blended hearts, and mutual minds:
Without thee, all is vague and cold,
While all is clear that's shar'd with thee;
The world for me can nothing hold
But thee,—for thou'rt the world to me!

My Dear Young Friend,

Permit me to return you my sincere thanks for the pretty little article you sent me - I am sure you I am much pleased with it and likewise with the neatness of your writing.

Now that you have written one I have no doubt but you will write more no' you might not so calculate when you were writing that - it will be a new feeling to see yourself in print, and hope it will stimulate you to further exertions and encourage you to cultivate my promising talents. You popp's -

Let me beg your acceptance of the number sent herewith and entreat you to consider yourself perfectly safe in the confidence

About 1826 I also contributed prose and verse to the Ladies Monthly Magazine, perhaps earlier than that. In 1826 & 1827 I wrote for the theatrical journals and the Literary Speculum. The following appeared in the journals.

SONG.

O tell me not a sun will break
Above my path, and gild its way,
That where I tread the flowers will wake,
And woo the sunny beam to stay.

No, there's a cold and hovering cloud
Approaching, o'er my fate to cast
A sullen gloom, a deathly shroud,
And mar each beam of brightness past.

Yet has this heart a secret string,
That can be touch'd, and touch'd so truly,

My soul seems ready to take wing,
As birds that have been feather'd newly.

And while the dear vibration lives,
With all its soft celestial sweetness,
The heart it wakes, almost forgives,
To sullen fate, its magic fleetness.

And while I deem that life will yield,
At intervals, so bright a minute;
I'll brave the strife, that strews the field,
And spurn the foes I may meet in it.

M. LEMAN REDE

The following lines were inserted in some of our leading journals, shortly after her decease: they are the production of Miss Mary Leman Rede. Their merit needs no eulogium from us: our insertion of them is the best proof of our admiration.

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. JORDAN.

And shall we breathe no tribute to thy name,
To mourn thy loss, and to record thy fame?
Shalt thou unhonour'd press thy foreign bier,
Nor draw from British eyes a sorrowing tear?
Thou, who so oft has fill'd the glistening eye,
And heaved the bosom with a heart-drawn sigh;
Raised the glad laugh, waked all the joys of birth,
And gave the gayest, finest feelings birth;
Whose magic power could rapture's glow impart,
And warm to extacy the coldest heart!
Thy wit, thy humour, all thy charms have Red,
Have sunk unnoticed to the unconscious dead.
Thou, once caress'd and courted by the great,
Saw none around thy latest moments wait,
To mourn, to mark, the fatal hour that gave
Worth, such as this, to the relentless grave!
But though no monument, no stone appears,
To note the spot that claims our mourning tears;
Though humbly borne unhonour'd to a grave,
Which strangers coldly to thy ashes gave;
Yet, while in Britain grateful memory reigns,
While sense of merit, sense of wit remains,
Still with the drama shall thy name arise,
Wake in our hearts, and whisper in our sighs.

FUTURITY.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

How dear the hope religion gives,
How soothing to the deepest woe,
That in another world there lives
The spirits whom we here forego.

That when the thread of life is spun,
We'll quit the scene of cold despair,
And soar like eagles to the sun,
And blend with every lov'd one there.

That the dull waste of earthly years,
Long as they seem, are fleeting fast,
And that for *moments* spent in tears,
We'll have *ETERNAL* BLISS at last!

TO MARY ANN.

O wake that song of love again,
That you, but now, so blandly sung;
You never breath'd a melting strain
That on your lips so sweetly hung.

Nor let those long dark lashes veil
The lustre of your speaking eyes,
For, trust me, they unfold a tale,
That all the power of words defies.

That song again ! and be it mine
To mark once more its varying measure;
Till this warm heart feels all divine,
And every throttle high with pleasure.

October, 1819.

M. LEMAN REDE.

Theatrical Inquiries

LINES

To the MEMORY of MR. RAE.

O give him the tear that humanity claims,
When in life's warm meridian it flits from our view,

Restrain the cold murmur that sullenly blames
The want of perfections, the portion of few.

And tho' from the pure path of virtue he swerv'd,
Deny not the laurel of fame to his brow ;

Accord him the praise that his genius deserv'd,
And let pity forbid us to sully it now.

How frail is the tenure of aught upon earth,
How sweet are the flowers temptation keeps planting!

Then, in holding the scales of his error and worth,
Frown not, if some grains to the balance be wanting.

In recording his faults, let us put in array

The virtues that blest and ennobled his mind;
If the first are not great, let us weep them away,
And whate'er be the last, be they lov'd and enshrin'd.

While cold and unconscious he presses his bier,
How deadly the foe who could level a dart !

And where is the friend will refuse him a tear,
For the woes that once tortur'd that motionless heart?

No, his foe will be silent, his friend be resign'd

In the heavenly hope that his faults are forgiven,
And that best brightest hope shall illumine his mind,—

That he now is a ray in the regions of heaven.
Then come to the tomb;—let us hallow the spot,

Where the relics of genius for ever repose;
Add his name to the number of those, unforgot,

Till Time shall be lost in eternity's close.

His partners in fame at his grave will attend,—
His social companions will weep o'er his worth,

And the hearts he so often cou'd rapture and rend,
Will remember the RAEs he has left upon earth.

M. LEMAN REDE.

We advise Miss REDE to prepare an address for the approaching benefit of Mr. RAE's family, the merit of which, we have no doubt, will intitle it to be spoken.

SUMMER'S MOONLIGHT ROSES

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

OH, Nature! every varying light,
In which I view thee shining—

The rosy morn—the starry night,
Or peaceful day declining—

Is dear to me, and as I trace
Each bright and latent charm,
I feel thy soft and silent grace,
My spirits sweetly calm.

But though I love the orient beam,
Which dewy morn discloses,
More dear the rays, that brightly gleam
On summer's moonlight roses.

When all is hush'd, and every star
Its little light is throwing,

Around the hills that rise afar,
Where soft the stream is flowing.

When contemplation loves to stray—
When Sorrow loves to grieve,

And let the sighs she hush'd all day,
Her pensive bosom heave—

When patient Hope serenely calm,
On some fond dream reposes—

Then, then I feel the nameless charm
Of summer's moonlight roses.

I'd rather stray among their sweets,
With those warm hearts that love me,

While every pulse of feeling beats
To that pure orb above me,

Than 'mid the cloudless glare of day,
Enjoy the festive hour,

While round the merry roundelay,
Lights ringlets through the bower.

Oh! give me soft and silent night,
When ev'ry flow'r'et closes,

And that pale beam that loves to light,
And kiss the moonlight roses.

June 3rd, 1820.

W H

M

A S

H

O

B U

O

W H

T H

LINES

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF
Robert Bloomfield.

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

THOU son of song, whom 'mid the sordid toil
Of vulgar poverty the muse caress'd,
Whose finer feelings shrunk with quick recoil
From the low ills by which thou wert oppress'd.
The griefs of poverty bring to all mankind
Wild pangs that mock all language to reveal,
But oh! how heighten'd are they in the mind,
Form'd with intensity to think and feel!
Where quick vibrations of impulsive thought,
Drive on the stream of life with fatal force;
Where hope's mild magic is too quickly caught,
And check'd as quickly in its rapid course:
No cool deductions from experience spring,
To check the aspirations fondly nurs'd,
And years the usual disappointment bring,
Unlooked for, and undreaded as the first.
Ill-formed with all the ills of life to cope,
Still though betray'd such beings trust anew,
And yielding to the luxury of hope,
Yet fondly trust to find one vision true.
Mistaken beings! late 'tis yours to learn,
How rare is friendship, and how false is fame;
That man will sooner bend before an urn,
Than breathe a tribute to a living name.
Bloomfield, I mourn thee not, for 'twas thy fate,
Ne'er to surmount life's petty ills and care,
Encroaching woe still clamor'd at thy gate,
And hope's fond smile still sadden'd to despair.
Thou reck'st but little now what fame may say,
- Ill can its praise for life's long woes alone;
But still perchance in its congenial way,
The world may yet reward thee with a stone.

Painted by Wagoman.

Engraved by Woolworth.

Robert Bloomfield?

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM. 183

PRIZE ESSAY.

TO PROVE BY ARGUMENT AND EXAMPLE WHETHER THE INFLUENCE OF WOMEN ON SOCIETY HAS BEEN MOST INJURIOUS, OR MOST BENEFICIAL TO ITS INTERESTS.

WHETHER the influence of women has been most injurious or most beneficial to the interests of society, is a question which embraces a very wide field of contemplation, especially if we were to enter on the differences arising from local circumstances. To keep within the limits of an essay, we must consider them in the aggregate, for after all, however, man may differ from the latitude in which he has been placed, still, like colour, which though capable of every variety of hue, may always be traced back to its primary one, he exhibits under every circumstance points of character indigenous to the whole species.

The influence of women on society, must naturally be great from the very powerful nature of the ties by which they stand connected to it; and were we to allow to the extent in which, perhaps, we might, that education begins, and character takes its bias with, the very dawn of perception, we must be forced to acknowledge it irresistible. It has been a remark, (whether founded on truth and reason, let others determine) that no man, unless utterly depraved, ever reverts to his mother without feeling the better part of his nature awakened. Instances, no doubt, may be found in contradiction of this assertion, but they are as rare in their occurrence, as the case is singular in its atrocity: nor is this surprising when we consider that the maternal character naturally draws forth all the virtues of the heart, and calls into action all the powers of the mind; there is no link in the whole chain of human affections more powerful or more lasting, than that which subsists between the mother and the child; it is, in fact, an instinct, dignified by reason, and heightened and animated by the passions and feelings—a new channel of self love, which, like a parent stream, refines and fertilizes as it flows. Hence may be

For this prize I lay I received
Crabbes "Tales of the Hale"
slogmally bound in three
volumes. I immediately
gave them to my sister
sister and they are now
in her possession in
Van Drenaus Land.

PRIZE ESSAY.

We have great pleasure in congratulating MISS MARY LEMAN REDE upon being the successful candidate for the Prize we proposed for the best Essay on the following subject, viz. "To prove by argument and example, whether the influence of women on society has been most injurious or most beneficial to its interests." The Essay itself will be published on the 1st of October, at which time the Prize will be ready for delivery.

In thus adjudging the Prize to a Lady, we trust our male correspondents will forget their disappointment, and accept, as their reward, the thanks of those whose cause they have so ably advocated, whilst our female competitors we hope will feel a degree of pride in their sex's superiority which will soften theirs. We return our sincere acknowledgments to our numerous candidates for several very respectable Essays, among which, we must particularly mention those of F. H. B. Reginald, E. Ball, and Fidella, from whom we again hope to be favoured with occasional communications.

LINES

To the MEMORY of MR. RAE.

He tear that humanity claims,
His warm meridian it flits from our view,
Cold murmur that sullenly blames
Of perfections, the portion of few.
In the pure path of virtue he swerv'd,
the laurel of fame to his brow;
the praise that his genius deserv'd,
by forbid us to sully it now.

The tenure of aught upon earth,
Not are the flowers temptation keeps planting
Dling the scales of his error and worth,
If some grains to the balance be wanting,
His faults, let us put in array
that blest and ennobled his mind;
Are not great, let us weep them away,
To be the last, be they lov'd and enshrined.

And unconscious he presses his bier,
Still the foe who could level a dart!
His friend will refuse him a tear,
Noes that once tortur'd that motionless heart?
Will be silent, his friend be resign'd
Aavenly hope that his faults are forgiven,
His brightest hope shall illumine his mind,—
Now is a ray in the regions of heaven.

To the tomb;—let us hallow the spot,
Of the relics of genius for ever repose;
To the number of those, unforgot,
He shall be lost in eternity's close.
In fame at his grave will attend,—
All companions will weep o'er his worth,
Hisarts he so often cou'd 'rapture and rend,
Remember the RAEs he has left upon earth.

M. LEMAN REDE.

Miss REDE to prepare an address for the approaching benefit of
ily, the merit of which, we have no doubt, will entitle it to be

LINES

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

THOU son of song, whom 'mid the sordid toil
Of vulgar poverty the muse caress'd,
Whose finer feelings shrunk with quick recoil
From the low ills by which thou wert oppress'd.
The griefs of poverty bring to all mankind
Wild pangs that mock all language to reveal,
But oh! how heighten'd are they in the mind,
Form'd with intensity to think and feel!
Where quick vibrations of impulsive thought,
Drive on the stream of life with fatal force;
Where hope's mild magic is too quickly caught,
And check'd as quickly in its rapid course;
No cool deductions from experience spring,
To check the aspirations fondly nur'd,
And years the usual disappointment bring,
Unlooked for, and undreaded as the first.
Ill-formed with all the ills of life to cope,
Still though betray'd such beings trust anew,
And yielding to the luxury of hope,
Yet fondly trust to find one vision true.
Mistaken beings! late 'tis yours to learn,
How rare is friendship, and how false is fame;
That man will sooner bend before an urn,
Than breathe a tribute to a living name.
Bloomfield, I mourn thee not, for 'twas thy fate,
Ne'er to surmount life's petty ills and care,
Enerоaching woe still clamor'd at thy gate,
And hope's fond smile still sadden'd to despair.
Thou reck'st but little now what fame may say,
— Ill can its praise for life's long woes atone;
But still perchance in its congenial way,
The world may yet reward thee with a stone.

Painted by Wagoner.

Engraved by Woolworth.

184

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

drawn an argument in favour of the beneficial influence of
woman, and at the same time a most powerful one for ad-
vancing her in the scale of intellectual existence, in order
to render that influence more permanent and extensive.

The first school of the philosopher, the statesman, citizen,
or soldier, is the nursery; and, lightly as it may be thought
of, a most important one it is. Disposition and temper
constitute a large portion of the happiness or misery of life,
and it is here that they are first perverted or improved;
many an action, could it be analyzed, might be carried back
to early impressions and examples, for the characters which
have been traced on the first pages of childhood are inde-
lieble. However the mind may be disciplined in after years,
nay absolutely habituated to a proscribed line of conduct,
it is always liable to revert to its early nature on the
slightest impetus being given to it; as on hearing the first
notes of a long-forgotten tune, we instantly recollect the re-
mainder of the strain. It certainly will not be denied that
the middle class of society has sent more dignitaries to the
temples of Fame and Science than any other; may not this,
in a great measure, be attributed to the influence of the
maternal and feminine virtues? In this class, which has
justly been regarded by the wisest and the best, as the hap-
piest state of life, a state most amicable to mental and moral
improvement, the refinements of civilization exist without
their depravity, and the female character receives the adorn-
ment of elegant accomplishments, and the polish of society,
without sacrificing herself at the shrine of dissipation. Here
the wife and mother does not regard attention to her chil-
dren and domestic duties as any compromise of her dignity
or her elegance; while the offspring of the higher orders, are
almost invariably left to the care of domestics, from whom
they imbibe the germs of future character, and are sent into
the world with hearts unawakened to the sweetest sympa-
thies of nature, with minds undisciplined by education, and
unprepared by precept, to guard against the pernicious les-
ions of example—that book which all can read, but whose
pages contain more instances “to deter than to imitate.”

Yet important as it is in this view, if in no other, that
the-fonest mind should be cultivated, a vulgar prejudice ex-
ists against it, which, though in some measure dissipated of

late years, is very far from being generally removed. Be-
cause some have exchanged the frivolity of fashion for the
pedantry of knowledge, and adopted the form, but not im-
bibed the spirit, an argument has been adduced fatal to the
education of the sex; intellectual cultivation has been thought
to interfere with the mystery of puddings and pies, and the
arrangements of the boudoir with those of the nursery; but
though “a learned woman may frequently neglect her family,
a sensible one very seldom will;” the aim, therefore, of all
education should chiefly be directed to the formation of the
latter, for that learning stands on a poor basis, which has
not sense for its foundation; and though some may have
abused the advantages they have received, yet there are few
who cannot retort upon the opponents of female improvement,
the lamentable deficiencies of men of profound erudition and
unclouded genius, and cite their faults to invalidate any ar-
gument in favour of knowledge, while they plead their ex-
ample as an extenuation of their own errors; but precedent
is a poor palliation, as there is scarcely any thing for which
one may not be drawn, and that even from the most sacred
sources; and those whom knowledge has not made virtuous,
the want of it had, perhaps, left infamous. Independent,
however, of other advantages, it may confidently be asserted
that even the pleasures of life will be more rational, and
more innocent, as mental improvement becomes more gene-
ral. The sexes mutually influence each other; and in no-
thing does the principle of re-action exist with greater force.
Did men admire beauty less, women would be less solicitous
about it, and the graces of the person would not be en-
vigorated at the expence of those of the mind. But literary
ladies are looked upon, by the majority of the other sex,
with an eye of jealousy, as usurpers and intruders upon
those privileges, which, with a spirit of feudalism; they have
applied to themselves. They seem to fear the assump-
tion of superiority and monopoly of dominion, to which they
are very unwilling to submit, however ready to exercise;
but they have in reality much more to fear from the illi-
terate than from the well-informed, who desire not that do-
minion over another which they would avoid submitting to
themselves, nor descend to the low arts of cunning by
which weaker minds establish their power; for in the ma-

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

185

PRIZE ESSAY.

In thus adjudging the Prize to a Lady, we trust our male correspondents will forget their disappointment, and accept, as their reward, the thanks of those whose cause they have so ably advocated, whilst our female competitors will feel a degree of pride in their sex's superiority which will soften theirs. We return our sincere acknowledgments to our numerous causes didates for several very respectable Essays, among which, we must particularly mention those of F. H. B. Reginald, E. Ball, and Fidelia, from whom we again hope to be favoured with occasional communications.

LINES

To the MEMORY of MR. RAE.

tear that humanity claims,

s' warm meridian it flits from our view,

old murmur that sullenly blames

the pure path of virtue he swer'd,

forbid us to sully it now.

that blest and ennobled his mind ;

he not great, let us weep them away,

und unconscious he presses his bier,

es that once tortur'd that motionless heart ?

evenly hope that his faults are forgiven,

to the tomb ;—let us hallow the spot,

e relics of genius for ever repose ;

lts he so often cou'd 'rapture and rend,

M. LEMAN REDE.

LINES

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

THO' son of song, whom 'mid the sordid toil
Of vulgar poverty the muse caress'd,

— Ill can its praise for life's long woes alone;

Pointed by Weyman.

Expressed by Woolworth.

Robert Bloomfield.

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

184

Jority of cases, folly, the offspring of ignorance, will be found
to be the parent of vice, from the daring ruffian who assails
another's life, to the petty tormentor of the social circle.
The union of the sexes is the bond of society, and on the
condition of that union depends its happiness and respectab-
ility. They know little of human nature who would prefer
the exercise of force, in any relations of life, to the persua-
sive arguments of gentleness; the extorted tribute is ever
paid with reluctance and disgust; and it is repugnant to our
nature to be *pleased* (even by compulsion), while we cheer-
fully yield our souls to that fascination which steals on us
unperceived, which we have leisure to examine unrestrained,
and to which we submit, from the conviction of reason or
the caprice of fancy, uncompelled by arbitrary dictates. The
sun made the traveller immediately part with his cloak, while
all the violence of the wind induced him only to wrap it
more closely around him. This is a long digression, but one,
it is hoped, that may be forgiven, as it is in a great de-
gree relevant to the present question.

But to quit the threshold of existence, and enter at once on
its more busy scenes: wherever we turn ourselves, we find
the influence of women perpetual and predominant; with-
out her pleasure has no view, and ambition no aim. To
judge how far her influence is beneficial and necessary, we
have only to conceive the world deprived of her: man would
want at once a stimulant and a softener; for her worst ene-
my will concede, that it is woman almost exclusively who
refines and humanizes society. Compassion, tenderness,
and charity, are her peculiar characteristics, and rare, in-
deed, are the instances where the female heart, even when
it has been vitiated by luxury and dissipation, corroded by
distress or corrupted by sin, is insensible to the appeal of
wretchedness. It is too true she is often the herald of vice,
but more frequently the harbinger of virtue: if sometimes,
like Aspasia, she sparkles in the brilliancy of wit and beauty
only to give a zest to dissipation, and a seductive and dan-
gerous veil to depravity, how much more commonly, like the
mother of the Gracchi, and the wife of Cato, she gives lustre
to the humblest duties of life. It would be easy to detail
examples from history of the happy influence of the sex on
society, but particular cases seldom serve a general argu-

ment; and it is rather in the constituents of her natural
character, and in the economy of her education and habits,
that we are best enabled to judge of the nature of her in-
fluence.

The grand interests of society are confessedly these—re-
ligion, morality, temporal prosperity, and rational pleasure.
In the first, she has always stood preeminently distinguished;
nothing is more rare than female apostacy,—

"Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,

Not she denied him with unholy tongue;

She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave,

Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave! BARRETT.

On morality, her chaste and restrained education, the rules
that custom confine her to—as well as the tender duties of
wife, mother, sister, and friend, of which she is in the perpe-
tual exercise, certainly give her a most powerful and beneficial
influence; a truth which almost every individual is capable
of attesting.

How far the prosperity of society, political and commercial,
depends upon her, interwoven as she is with the whole sys-
tem of the world, it would not be difficult to determine; and
surely even stoics will allow, that pleasure, whether in the
fireside circle of home, or in the brilliant round of public
amusement, catches all its lustre and refinement from her
presence. Of this vale of sorrow she is the rainbow, which
turns even its tears to beauty; she covers the thorns of life
with flowers, which though sometimes species are always
lovely; her soothing voice, supporting arm, and sympathising
heart, are never wanting at the bed of sickness or of death;
and as an individual sufferer she is proverbially patient;
time invades her charms, but increases her usefulness; the
blossoms fall, only to give place to the fruit.

On an impartial review, therefore, and under every consider-
dation, it appears evident, that whatever may be the faults
of women, their virtues will be found to turn the balance;
consequently their influence on society must always have
been beneficial to its interests, and it is equally certain
that it must continue to be so, and that according to the cul-
tivation of their intellect, the force of those virtues will be
felt and increased. Knowledge is a corrective of the bad

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

187

The LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM

For this prize Gay I received
Crabbes "Tales of the Hale"
Stagger'd found in three
 volumes I imitate,
gave them to my sister
Lacy and they are now
in her hope from in
Van Diemans Land.

PRIZE ESSAY.

In thus adjudging the Prize to a Lady, we trust our male correspondents will forget their disappointment, and accept, as their reward, the thanks of those whose cause they have so ably advocated, whilst our female competitors we hope will feel a degree of pride in their sex's superiority which will soften theirs. We return our sincere Acknowledgments to our numerous candidates for several very respectable Essays, among which, we must particularly mention those of F. H. B. Reginald, E. Ball, and Fidelia, from whom we again hope to be favoured with occasional communications.

["LINES", "To the MEMORY of MR. RAE.", "The tear that humanity claims,\nHis warm meridian it fits from our view,\nCold murmur that sullenly blames\nof perfections, the Norton of few.\nThe pure path of virtue he swerved',\nThe laurel of fame to his brow;\nThe praise that his genius deserv'd,\nMay forbid us to sully it now.\nThe tenure of aught upon earth,\nThat are the flowers temptation keeps planting'\nThe scales of his error and worth,\nIf some grains to the balance be wanting.\nHis faults, let us put in array\ns that blest and ennobled his mind;\nAre not great, let us weep them away,\nTo be the last, be they lov'd and enshrin'd.\nAnd unconscious he presses his bier,\nTo the foe who could level a dart!\nThe friend will refuse him a tear,\nNoos that once tortur'd that motionless heart?\nWill be silent, his friend be resign'd\nAavenly hope that his faults are forgiven,\nSt brightest hope shall illumine his mind,—\nHow is a ray in the regions of heaven.\nTo the tomb;—let us hallow the spot,\nEe relics of genius for ever repose;\nTo the number of those, unforgot,\nHe shall be lost in eternity's close.\nIn fame at his grave will attend,—\nAll companions will weep o'er his worth,\nHearts he so often cou'd 'rapture and rend,\nRemember the RAE he has left upon earth.", "M. LEMAN REDE.", "Miss REDE to prepare an address for the approaching benefit of\nily, the merit of which, we have no doubt, will intitle it to be", "THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM", "THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.", "184 186", "188", "dras. —\nwor- —\nwar —\npassions, and the great support of the good; for by giving\nthe understanding employment, it leaves neither time nor\nto inlet to evil, while the more the sphere of action is con-\nfined, the more liable will be the mind to the taint of the\nmeanner vices; hence the deficiency of physical strength is con-\nof, — places woman in the narrow circle of domestic duties, or the\ncon- — influence which raises her above them, equally demands the\nand — exertion of mental energy, to prevent that vascity of mind\nmar — or perversion of sensibility, which trifling occupations, or\nto — the want of employment, alone occasion.\nM. L. R.\nhay — July 18th, 1820.", "libb a\ngay t\ngay t\nt is a\ngay t\ngay t\ngay t\ngay t\ngay t\

VERSES

TO MISS MARY L. R—

FORGIVE me, lady, if the praise
I venture to assign
To thee be such, as not repairs
The gentle grace of those sweet lays
Which thou avowest thine.

I would not dare, with hedge-row flowers,
To weave a wreath for thee;
Since on thy own more cherish'd bowers,
Heaven's prodigal indulgence showers
Such rich fertility.

Nor would I hope to win thy ear
By words which flatt'ry's tongue

Assumes, as spell to banish fear
From hearts that deem it insincere,
Or from compulsion wrung.

Yet may I, venturesome, thy name
Now mingle with my strain;
Because from thee the spirit came,
That bade me these weak numbers frame;
Nor will the deed be vain.

For, though there are who, weakly-wise,
Would such bold thought condemn;
Whose feelings and whose fancies rise,
But in the traitorous disguise
Of worldly stratagem;—

Whose morals would be shock'd to learn
That female ears could bend
To stranger lip:—that minds should yearn,
From kindred minds the meed to earn
Which justice may extend:—

Yet, lady, well I know that thou,
Who with a loftier mind
Art gifted, will not disavow
Attention to the strain that now
Is with thy name combin'd!

March 1823.

the,


W. B. C.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

Oh! there are beams so purely bright,
They seem not meant for earth;,
They shed the liquid glow of light,
That speaks their heavenly birth,
Then sink again in ether blue,
Regain their native sphere,
And fade for ever from the view,
Too bright to linger here.

Oh! such wert thou we've just resign'd,
In brighter worlds to shine,
And though in tears we're left behind,
We dare not e'er repine.

Too well, alas! we learned to love,
Too little learned to know,

That one so form'd for world's above,
Could ne'er be left below.

When I was on my dreamers land
William sent me some lines that
he had cut from a snagazine,
They were addressed to me in=
giving why I had laid by my
lips. I think they bore the same
initiats as the above.

OH, TURN ME THAT DEAR SUNNY LOOK.

A SONG.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

On! turn me that dear sunny look of your own,
And whate'er be your fault, it that fault shall alone,
Like the sun when he comes from his cold cloud of showers,
And kisses the rain-drops away from the flower's;
I cannot be sad while I gaze on those eyes,
Nor mark the wild minute as fleetly it flies,
Oh! Love's rosy moments, we only should keep,
By the tick of the dew which their own roses weep.

Or those clocks which, they tell us, but mark the dear hours,
By changes of fragrance breathed from their flowers,
Which bloom the bright emblems of love and the heart,
Show the rose when we meet and the thorn when we part.
Then turn me that dear sunny look of your own,
And my heart shall rekindle it when I'm alone;
As the still lake reflects when the sun has gone down,
The last rays of glory that fell from his crown.

RECOLLECTION.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

WHEN time's oblivious wing has borne
Us onward from the scene of grief,—
Has heal'd the heart by anguish torn,
And brought some new, though late, relief,—
We bear to turn and gaze again,
In melancholy's fond review,
On all we lov'd, (alas! in vain,)
'Ere death the dark cold curtain drew.

The hand that when it first was chill'd—
The eye that when it first was clos'd—

The cold, cold heart that nothing thrill'd—
The limbs in moveless death compos'd—

Which then in all their newness spoke
Wild horror to the heart bereft,

That heart, which, while it burst and broke,
Had still quick conscious feeling left,—

Could now be view'd through time's dim veil,
With feelings near akin to bliss :

But oh! the tomb's dark awful pale,
The grave's impervious sad abyss,

Forbid the view—the form there laid
Has long since lost each line so dear;

The lov'd—the lost, is now a shade,
Or only lives in memory here.

Oh! 'tis a sad, sad joy to think
O'er all of which we've been bereft;
To weep, and count each broken link
That of the chain of life is left.

To call back from the silent earth
The light of eyes whose light is o'er;
Revive the tones of vanish'd birth,
And live, 'mid all we lov'd, once more;

To seek again the very spot,
To point the path remember'd yet—

To find each trifle unforget,
Which only love could not forget:

W

A

B

W

I claim the freedom which the Muse
To all her children gives;
And surely *thou* canst this excuse,
Whose heart her wildest dreams infuse
With ev'ry charm that lives.

I claim to thank thee, as I may,
For pleasure thou hast shed
By song, by fiction, and by lay,
Upon the student's rugged way,
With care and toil o'erspread.

I claim to greet thee, as the child
Whom Fancy's self hath owned,
And whom the Muse with number's wild
Hath gifted, and, with fetters mild,
To poesy hath bound!

I ne'er have seen thee; but the tongue
Of rumour oft hath told,
That thou art fair, and good, and young,
And that life's mantle o'er thee flung
Pale sorrow doth enfold.

I know thee not; but much have heard
Of trials thou hast past:
But what can Rumour's idle word
Of the heart's miseries record,
So secret and so vast!

I cannot tell, since tongues deceive,
How true the tale may be;
But this I gladly can believe,
That thou canst well the pains retrieve
Of dire adversity.

Whilst arm'd within with such strong mail
As Virtue's self girds on,
In vain shall outward foes assail,
In vain shall worldly ills prevail,
To make the heart undone!

The soul that feels imparted power,
As storms around it rise,
May laugh, when dark'ning tempests lower:
Hope bids the friendly beacon tower
Shine in the blackest skies!

And though the winds contending blow,
And wave on wave may swell,
Reclin'd at ease upon the prow,
Virtue beholds them rage below,
All unassailable!

And such the strength the Muse imparts
To all who own her sway,
A strength which nerves their fearless hearts—
A blade, which wards off sorrow's darts,
And robs it of its prey.

Well, well I know, for I have been
The haunts of grief among;
Yet, 'mid the most untoward seen,
Have felt my spirit made serene,
By the sweet powers of song!

For poesy's a boon from heaven
To erring man below,—
A light from God's own essence given,
To cheer the mind by anguish driven
Through the long vale of woe!

This is the charm, which binds the soul
Of man to man unknown,
Connecting by its strong control
The parts of that stupendous whole,
Which God hath call'd his own!

Then, blame not, if thy gentle strains
May kindred feelings raise
In one, o'er whom disputeless reigns
The guardian muse, whom song enchains;
Who her behests obeys.

I know thou wilt not—nor reject
The thanks I thus bestow;
Since with them mingled are respect
And estimation, circumspect
Its praises to avow.

Proceed, then, lov'd one of the Nine!
Thy harp's mellifluous string,
Though stranger hands with flowers entwine,
Shall thy harmonious soul enshrine
With its sweet murmuring!

March 1833.

W. B. C.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

Oh! there are beams so purely bright,
They seem not meant for earth;
They shed the liquid glow of light,
That speaks their heavenly birth,
Then sink again in ether blue,
Regain their native sphere,
And fade for ever from the view,
Too bright to linger here.

To yield to that delusive dream,
Which all who've lov'd and lost must know,
And recreate the faintest beam
That ever bade the bosom glow.

Oh! art may keep the line of form,
And fame preserve some traits of mind,
But 'tis love's bosom, fond and warm,
Where the lost dead are best enshrined,
Like some exoties feebly rear'd,
Amid a stranger, colder clime,
They ask their native soil endear'd
By nature, tenderness, and time.

TO AMELIA K.

Good night! good night! Amelia dear,
The young white hand I press,
Tells me it is an index here

OH, TURN ME THAT DEAR That points to happiness:

A SONG.

By MISS M. LEMAN

A soft responder kind and true,
So dear at this twilight,
That to my oft declar'd adieu
Still seems to thrill.—' Good night!'

Oh! turn me that dear sunny look of the tranquil sigh thy breast that heaves,
And whate'er be your fault, it that fanfline eye so bright that glows,
Like the sun when he comes from his the lingering smile thy lip that leaves
And kisses the rain-drops away from this sun-beam quits the rose,
I cannot be sad while I gaze on those tell me that peace is dwelling there,
Nor mark the wild minute as fleetly it and innocence so bright;
Oh! Love's rosy moments, we only shold and happy love comes in to share
By the tick of the dew which their ow'ry Ame's kind.—' Good night!

Or those clocks which, they tell us, but And ne'er may ruffian passion come
By changes of fragrance breathed from, To rack thy gentle breast,
Which bloom the bright emblems of lov', Nor viper make thy heart its home,
Show the rose when we meet and the t And poison all'it prest:
Then turn me that dear sunny look of the And ever thus with sunny smile
And my heart shall rekindle it when I Of innocent delight,
As the still lake reflects when the sun's Thy Charles beloved shall bless thee, while
The last rays of glory that fell from his He hears and says—' Good night,'

W
A
T
W

AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF NAPOLEON.

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

WHERE now are all the trophy'd days,
When shouting victory breath'd thy name,
And glory caught her brightest rays
Of dazzling splendor from thy fame?
Oh! never was her torch so bright,
Nor dark ambition's eye so wild,
As where Napoleon led the fight,
And triumph on his banner smile'd.
He stood upon the hill of time,
Like a portentous meteor glaring,
Upon a world awake to crime,
When crime was at its darkest daring;
Like the apostate fiend he stood,
Dispensing subject worlds around;

The charter-bonds he scroll'd in blood,
That flow'd from many a martyr's wound.
He rose upon the frighted earth,
To grasp its bounds, its peace to mar,
And fiends cried "Havock!" at his birth,
And then "let slip the dogs of war."
Speak from thy grave, thou mighty One,
If with a world of ruin sated,
Teach future conquerors to shun
The crimes for which e'en thon wert hated.
Tell them, however proud the height,
To which thy dazzling crest was rear'd,
That wanting mercy's milder light,
'Twas never lov'd, tho' ever fear'd;
And that the brightest part ere play'd,
When virtue's lustre beams not on it,
Is worthless like thine own bright blade,
When thrown aside with rust upon it.
Speak to those souls of narrow frame,
Whose ancestry is all their worth,
Speak in thine own imperial name,
And ask what didst thou owe to birth?
Ask them, if all the charnel pride,
That ever herald's page rehears'd,
Had with the ethereal spirit vied,
Thy single soul of splendor nursed?

And tell ambition's eager sons,
Unbounded power, is power in vain;
The fount which at its height o'erruns,
Its native level seeks again.
That but for that mistaken view,
Thou now, perhaps, had reign'd supreme,
The proudest monarch Europe knew,
And purified that fætid stream:
For royalty runs rank at times,
And virtues stagnate in a line;
And a long list of kings and crimes,
Too oft on kindred records shine,
Sleep in thy bed of rock!—and oft
The wand'rer of the midnight wave,
Will turn and lift his arm aloft,
To point thy isolated grave.
And spirits yet unborn will sigh,
When tracing all thy glory past,
That such a soul should fade and die,
In duli captivity at last.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

By MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

Oh! there are beams so purely bright,
They seem not meant for earth;}
They shed the liquid glow of light,
That speaks their heavenly birth,
Then sink again in ether blue,
Regain their native sphere;
And fade for ever from the view,
Too bright to linger here.

Oh! such wert thon we've just resign'd,
In brighter worlds to shine,
And though in tears we're left behind,
We dare not e'er repine.
Too well, alas! we learned to love,
Too little learned to know,
That one so form'd for world's above,
Con'd ne'er be left below.

To yield to that delusive dream,
Which all who've lov'd and lost must know,
And re-create the faintest beam
That ever bade the bosom glow.

Oh! art may keep the line of form,
And fame preserve some traits of mind,
But 'tis love's bosom, fond and warm,
Where the lost dead are best enshrined.
Like some exotics feebly rear'd,
Amid a stranger, colder clime,
They ask their native soil endear'd
By nature, tenderness, and time.

TO AMELIA K.

GOOD night! good night! Amelia dear,
The young white hand I press,
Tells me it is an index here

A SONG.

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

OH! turn me that dear sunny look of the tranquil sigh thy breast that heaves,
And whate'er be your fault, it that faughine eye so bright that glows,
Like the sun when he comes from his cbe lingering smile thy lip that leaves
And kisses the rain-drops away from this sun-beam quits the rose,
I cannot be sad while I gaze on those cell me that peace is dwelling there,
Nor mark the wild minute as fleetly it and innocence so bright;
Oh! Love's rosy moments, we only shan'd happy love comes in to share
By the tick of the dew which their ow'ry Ame's kind.—' Good night!

Or those clocks which, they tell us, but
By changes of fragrance breathed from
Which bloom the bright emblems of low
Show the rose when we meet and the th
Then turn me that dear sunny look of
And my heart shall rekindle it when
As the still lake reflects when the sun hi
The last rays of glory that fell from his
And ne'er may rufian passion come
To rack thy gentle breast,
Nor viper make thy heart its home,
And poison all'it prest:
But ever thus with sunny smile
Of innocent delight,
Thy Charles beloved shall bless thee, while
He hears and says—' Good night.'

## LOVE'S OWN TEAR.

A SONG, BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

SORROW has the soothing tear
That weeps her woe away;
Joy, a gem divinely clear,
That blends with rapture's ray;
Fond Sympathy, a softer dew,
And Pity, pearls as bright,
When beauty's floating eyes of blue
Beam soft in humid light.

And yet has beauty's eye a charm
More exquisite than this,
But when her own tear starts wild and warm,
At passion's parting kiss.
O then its lustre is divine,
No ray of Heaven clearer,
It is love's purest, brightest shrine,
And earth holds nothing dearer.

## A SONG.

The Heart of her Lover.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

The evening was soft as the dew on the flowers,
Bright was the moonbeam, and balmy the bowers,
The spirit of peace on the air seem'd to hover,
As fondly she hung on the breast of her lover.
Soft were the accents in which she address'd him,
White were the arms that in fondness caress'd him.
But his heart had grown cold, as her bosom grew
fonder,
[wander]
And far, far, from her, it had long learn'd to

He has left her to sigh in those love-hallow'd bowers,
And fancy will often renew the dear hours,
But fancy alone—for reality never
Will re-kindle their lustre, 'tis faded for ever!
Her pure lip may keep the last kiss that he gave
[save her]
And the bright smile of hope from despair yet may
But not distant the day when her heart shall dis-
cover,
How cold, cold and false is the breast of her lover

Then, then she will wake from the dream that has
lull'd her,
[her]
And tear from her bosom the flow'r's he once cuill'd
For no beam that in future may rise can awaken,
The heart of a maid by her lover forsaken.
Awhile she may hide the deep wound that is bleed-
ing,
May stifle the sigh that for ut'trance is pleading
But the peace that once bless'd her no time can
recover,
"Till her form is as cold as the heart of her lover.

## THE WREATH.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

WEEP not that o'er the path he trac'd,
No flow'r ret bloom'd to bless his way;
That life to him a dreary waste,
Was all uncheer'd by pleasure's ray.
Though warm in heart, and pure in worth,
At fortune's sport he still was driven,
Believe the wreath he miss'd on earth,
Now blooms upon his brow in Heaven!

Then cease to trace the scenes of woe,
That wrung the heart we mourn and love,
But think that every thorn below,
Has long since turn'd to flowers above.
That even while we wept, the waste,
To which his spotless hours were given,
His Maker marked the path he trac'd,
And angels wove the wreath in Heaven,

## THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.
(PUBLISHED BY REQUEST.)

TWAS midnight, and across the wave
The moon's uncertain light was gleaming,
When in the sands they dug his grave,
With heavy hearts, and eye-lids streaming.
"Lay me," he cried, while yet the glow
Of life upon his cheek was playing,
"Upon the beach, where, soft and slow,
Her gentle step is sometimes straying.

"Cast me not in the 'whelming deep, ('Tis many a sailor's grave of sorrow. When life has fled, the cold frame keep, You'll surely touch at home to-morrow. I know the wish is vain and weak, Yet will it soothe the soul in dying, To think in pity she may seek

The lonely sand where I am lying.
"May mourn the heart her falsehood broke,
A heart that ne'er repin'd at breaking;
But still with fondness would invoke
The image that but kept it aching.
Tell her the tress that once she gave,
Still serv'd to fan life's dying embers,
Alas! how soft I've seen it wave,
Too well this wounded heart remembers.

"Tell her, as it has shared the years
Of various woe that fate decreed me,
And every night been bath'd in tears,
When none were by to hear or heed me;
So has it shard'd the last sad home,
Where all my pilgrimages ended,—
I cease to sigh, I cease to roam,
And die as I have liv'd—unfriended!

"Tell her, I never lov'd her less
For all the weary hours she's giv'n,
That still in danger and distress,
I thought of her, and then of heav'n.
That 'mid the pray'r's and pangs of death,
I never from her image parted,
And that her name was on my breath,
When the last bleeding life-string started!"

Rude were the hearts that had not wept,
Or had denied his simple prayer,
With favoring winds their course they kept,
Then sought the beach and laid him there.
And as the sands for ever hid
That mute, cold form from earthly view,
A tear hung bright on every lid,
For one so sadly, fondly true!

When away o'er land and sea,
Gentle Nina think of me,
He who whether slave or free,
Thinks on nought on earth but thee.

Deadly breach or battle fray,
Cannot chase thy form away,
All beside may know decline,
But a love so fond as mine.

Then, when far o'er land and sea,
Lovely Nina think on me,
He who whether slave or free,
Lives to love and worship thee.

8

## MARIA.

ONCE, Maria! once I thought,
Our hearts in unison were beating,
That every wish my breast had caught,
Thine own was tenderly repeating.

But, ah! too fatally I find,
When I am from Maria, parted,
She'll rarely pause to look behind
On one she's leaving broken hearted,

But go, dear girl, if go you must,
Since cruel fate will thus bereave me,
But let me, let me fondly trust,
That it will grieve thy heart to leave me.

Give me at least a kind farewell—
Give me at least a parting token—
And that upon my breast shall dwell
And heal the heart that fate has broken!

## Song.

Love you? yes beyond the scope
That passion ever knew before,
Altho' the soothing smile of hope
Will beam upon my breast no more.

Not mine the coldly selfish heart
To throb for individual joy,
No, I would sooner pine apart,
Than one dear bliss of yours destroy.

Go where you will, do as you may,
Be always happy, always free,
And that which makes you glad and gay
Can never bring but joy to me.

Like some transplanted flow'r that sees
From 'neath some cold and rugged fir,
The sun-shine on her native trees
And feels that sun enough for her.

M.

## FANCY.

A FRAGMENT.

FANCY, from thee my purest pleasure flows,
Source of my joys, and soother of my woes,
Aided by thee my muse attempts to sing,
But flutters fearful on a trembling wing.

For well may I mistrust its fragile powers,
The feeble offspring of unhappy hours,
That erst was wont to while away my woe,
Untaught by friendly science e'er to flow.

Imagination! thou canst lift the mind,
'To joys at once ennobling and refin'd.
Where without thee were elegance and taste?
Genius the barren regions had laid waste,

For more or less in every thing there blends,
Some sparkling ray that brilliant Fancy lends :
The soul he elevates refines the heart:
And rivals nature in the works of art,

Dull were the cumb'rous pile that man would rear,
If Fancy, friend to science, were not near,
Where can we gaze and yet not trace thy reign,
On the arch'd heavens or the blooming plain?

Coeval thou with nature dict'd arise,
Glow'd on the plains, and sparkled in the skies !
What wou'd the vast historic page unfold,
If read with apprehension dull and cold?

But let imagination glowing rise,
And give the living picture to our eyes,
Share in the scene, and act the foremost part,
Burn on the brain, and sink upon the heart;
Thus will instruction's page experience give,
And while we read, we feel, we act, we live !

R.

THE
APOLLONIAN WREATH.

FEMALE GENIUS.

A FRAGMENT, BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

WHERE splendid genius glows, and virtues shine,
I ever bow in homage at their shrine;
Let them adorn the high, or grace the low,
Bright from the prince or peasant let them flow,
My heart exulting kindles at their name,
Wakes to their worth, and gladdens at their fame.
But most enraptur'd ever I pursue,
Where female genius, female worth I view,
Where woman soars with energies her own,
And mounts respondently to wisdom's throne.
Knowledge, celestial beam of purest joy,
Whose heav'n-born pleasures ne'er decay or cloy—
Who gives angelic virtue added charms,
And poverty of half her rage disarms—
Who heightens ev'ry joy that wealth bestows—
Fountain of good! whence good for ever flows!
Has nature niggardly the stream supplied,
That to one half her children 'tis denied?
Or is't not rather man's ungen'rous care
To seize the prize 'twas meant that he should share?
Ye few, unprejudic'd by custom's laws,
Who view effects with ref'rence to their cause,
Who mark the gradual taint the mind attains,
As slav'ry binds it in her servile chains;
Who know the tinge that education gives,
How 'neath its narrowest laws a woman lives,
Will ye condemn her with a bigot's rage,
And 'gainst her sorrows as her faults engage?

X 3

HARRY'S GRAVE.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

My gentle love is long at rest,
And I should joy that he were so;
Yet oh, how lonely is the breast,
That has no sharer in its woe!
The sunny hours of joyous bliss
Invite and win the smile of all,
But such a cold sad tear as this,
In silent solitude must fall:

And I, who in that lonely hour,
Recall the past with fruitless pain;
Remember every faded flower,
That never will re-bloom again,—
Cannot but feel, had he been left,
How soft an aspect woe had worn,
And though of all beside bereft,
I never had been thus forlorn.

His glistening smile, his blended tear,
His sigh, had soften'd every ill;
When friends were fled, and sorrow near,
His breast had been my refuge still.
But now, though pleasure even rose
To woo me to her blest retreats,
I'd press this heart of many woes,
And turn despairing from her sweets.

For I should feel, 'mid songs of joy,
The want of that which makes them such;
Thoughts of delightful days gone by,
Would wake my wounded heart too much.
Then be it so—in youth I leave,
The scenes that once wild rapture gave;
And calm I'll wait till life's dim eve,
Then lay me down in Harry's Grave.

A SACRED SONG,

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

OH! turn not away with so cold a disdain!
What though she has stray'd from the bright path of truth,
There yet is a light can restore her again,
And bring back the beam that illumin'd her youth.

The mercy that pities will pardon her error,
Rekindle the ray that is lost to her now,
And the tear that unkindness had frozen in terror,
May glow in her eye and illumine her brow.

Remember how meek to the sinner He turn'd,
When the shout of her conscious accusers was o'er,
When, raising his eyes to the wretch they had spurn'd,
He bade her depart, and be guilty no more!
His mercy could pardon the wretched transgressor,
His purity shrunk not appall'd from her thus.
Then, tell me, if acting as her intercessor
Were not more becoming to beings like us?

For who can assert the false light that misled
This wandering daughter of error and woe,
Had it fall'n in their path, had not taught them to tread
Where virtue, forwarn'd, would have trembled to go?

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. W. L. R.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Too early lost—in all the light
That love and loveliness revealeth,
Ere life had time to bring the blight,
The wound of heart that never healeth.
Yet why too early? who that knows
The ills with which existence teemeth,
But envies thee the calm repose,
In which no more the slumberer dreameth.
If scarcely on thy cheek had blown,
The early blush of beauty's roses;
If scarcely in thine eyes had shone,
The light in which bright love reposes;
How dearer far to memory's heart,
To mourn thee thus, than to remember
That envy's shaft, and sorrow's dart,
Had wrecked thy peace in life's December.
Oh, Fanny, gentlest girl that ere
To this tumultuous world was given,

296

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

No matter—o'er my nameless grave,
No pitying drop will fall;
No lovely eye my shroud will lave,
No lip my name recall—
No blood of mine in living veins,
Will flow when I am gone:
Of me, and mine, there now remains,
Encumb'ring earth, but one.

Ye dead—I shall sleep sound as thee,
Though tears bedew me not;
How still—how calm, that sleep will be,
Forgetting and forgot—
My quenchless spirit, then may forth
To worlds' more bright, more dear;
And meet the form beloved on earth,
In a diviner sphere.

WILLIAM LEMAN REDE.

THE ROSE.

TO MISS E. W.

A Tribute to Mrs Campbell

from a heart penetrated in the liveliest manner by the
relation of her humanity to the unfortunate family in
their neighbourhood.

Oh, to find one warm heart like mine
within a world so cold as this
Has brought a glow of joy to mine
I would not for creation pay
And fast I thought what bright rewards
Had I a super-human power
I should in eternal accord
To bless thee every future hour.

But as subsiding feeling brought
My mind to reasons milder light
I thought that I should ere have thought
Of gifts to thee however bright
For thou art blessed with that which none
Divine or human could increase—
I were wishing lushe to the sun
Or balm to mercy's breath of peace.

Thine is the purest of heart that tells
The conscious soul a tale of blight

9
My uncle Tom, as
he was always familiar,
called used to come
and tell this letter to me
with drawings. The of-
his picture is one of
the sent to in a letter
I think about 10,10 or 12.

HARRY'S GRAVE.

By MISS M. LEMAN REDE

The grave is long at rest,

While his warm spirit speaking still
lives, to a world like this
Time is the glow of soul that claims
High kinds of love with a brightens eye
And prove and wade the electric wave
Such are not known to reach there.
Time is the clemency to clear
That Goodness recording angels keep
A register of every star
Compassion taught to shine to each
And a recording spirit tells
In love on this earth.
That in the heart the virtue dwells
That heaven loves the first and best.

By MIsS M. LEMAN REDE.

Too early lost—in all the light
That love and loveliness revealth,
Ere life had time to bring the blight,
The wound of heart that never healeth.
Yet why too early? who that knows
The ills with which existence teemeth,
But envies thee the calm repose,
In which no more the slumberer dreameth.

Oh, Fanny, gentlest girl that ere
To this tumultuous world was given,
Thy babes forsook this seat of care,
And heralded thy way to Heaven.
Like a sweet shrub that seeks the shade,
In unobtrusive sweetness sighing,
Thy gentle way through life was made,
You caused no tears—except in dying!
And like that shrub when it beholds
Its little buds before it wither,
Then droops its head—each leaf enfolds,—
Breathes its last sigh—and fades for ever!
So didst thou see thy infants fade,
Each to the grave in turn resigning;
Yet none could guess the wound it made,
Thy spirit was so unrepining.

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

No matter—o’er my nameless grave,
No pitying drop will fall;
No lovely eye my shroud will lave,
No lip my name recall—
No blood of mine in living veins,
Will flow when I am gone;
Of me, and mine, there now remains,
Encumbering earth, but one.

WILLIAM LEMAN REDE.

THE ROSE.

To Miss E. W.

EMMA! see the blooming Rose,
Queen of flowers! now disclose
Blushing beauty, Nature's hue,
Graces opening to the view!
Withered, pale, and dead, to-morrow
You will see, with gentle sorrow,
All its fragrance fled and gone,
All its graces ever flown!

Tears in pity seem to fall,
Tears in vain its fate recall;
If those tears in pity start,
Wisdom let its fate impart!

Think, oh! think, that, like the Rose,
Beauty's fleeting blooms disclose;
Features, even such as thine,
(Like the Rose) won't always shine.

nd, 1827.

J. W. J.

THE BROKEN HARP.

By MIsS M. LEMAN REDE.

Do you remember the last sweet-tone
Of this dear harp now broken?
Do you remember the days long flown,
When last this tone was spoken?
Oh ! often at night, it came like the light
Of some angel earth-ward flying,
Whose heavenly wings had touched the strings,
And softened the sound with her sighing.

Do you remember the melting flow
Of song that would blend with its breathing?

Do you remember the... of some
That once were around it, wrothning?

Oh ! if from above, a spirit of love
On earth was ever glimmering,
That spirit wert thou, on whose beautiful brow,
The sweetness of heaven was beaming.

This harp has not waked to a hand since that one
It cold, that cou'd touch it so sweetly;
This heart has not warmed to a beam since that sun
Which kiwled it, faded so illeotly;
And the harp and the heart to which she cou'd
Impart,
Such magic we'd never have spoken,
If the strings cou'd have flown, without waking a
tone
Of tenderness as they were broken.

HARRY'S GRAVE.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Too early lost—in all the light
That love and loveliness revealath,
Ere life had time to bring the blight,
The wound of heart that never healeth.
Yet why too early? who that knows
The ills with which existence teemeth,
But envies thee the calm repose,
In which no more the slumberer dreameth.

If scarely on thy cheek had blown,
The early blush of beauty's roses;
If scarely in thine eyes had shone,
The light in which bright love reposes;

Oh, Fanny, gentlest girl that ere
To this tumultuous world was given,
Thy babes forsook this seat of care,
'And heralded thy way to Heaven.

And like that shrub when it beholds
Its little buds before it wither,
Then droops its head—each leaf enfolds—
Breathes its last sigh—and fades for ever!

THE LADIES' MONTHLY MUSEUM.

No lovely eye my shroud will have,
No lip my name recall—

WILLIAM LEMAN REDE.

THE ROSE.

TO MISS E. W.

Tears in pity seem to fall,
Tears in vain its fate recal;
If those tears in pity start,
Wisdom let its fate impart!

And, 1827.

J. W. J.

NO. EP.

Oh! come to the Tomb.

THE WORDS WRITTEN BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

[A]tl—Oh! breathe not his Name.

Audante.

OH!

come to the tomb, where this form shall be laid, Where no

woes shall mo-lest it, no cold ones up-braid, And

give, fond-ly give, there a warm tear or two, For the

heart that has shed more than mil-lions for you.

THE BROKEN HARP.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Do you remember the last sweet tone
Of this dear harp now broken?

Do you remember the days long flown,
When last this tone, was spoken?

Oh! often at night, it came like the light
Of some angel earth-ward flying,

Do you remember the melting flow
Of song that you'd blend with its breathing?

Do you remember the arms of spars
That once were around it, wroshing?

Oh! if from above, a spirit of love
On earth was ever glancing,
That spirit wert thou, on whose beautiful brow,
The sweetness of heaven was beaming.

This harp has not waked to a hand since that one
Is cold, that cou'd touch it so sweetly;

This heart has not warmed to a beam since that sun
Which kindled it, faded so fleetly;

And the harp and the heart to which she cou'd
impart,

Such magic wu'd never have spoken,

If the strings cou'd have flown, without waking a
tone,

The Last Appeal.

ONE moment yet—as 'tis the last,
Deny me not the brief delay,
Too soon 'twill fly to join the past,
And sink like them in tears away.
Leave something for revering thought
To linger on when you are flown,
Some tone for hope, (from pity caught,)
To echo when my heart's alone.

Think what a voiceless waste 'twill be,
Companionless in life's cold gloom,
While thousand thoughts of love and thee,
Like spectres round a desert tomb,
Will haunt this heart, where lies embalmed
The visions of long promised bliss,
The dreary hopes that soothed and charmed
My soul in sorrow's worst abyss.

Alas! there is no wild appeal
So vain as love's rejected prayer—
The shrine where martyrs learn to kneel,
With such intense and wild despair!

dreamy

No

just like gaming, The world the pack, the world the pack, The

human mind in-flaming, With tort'ring rack, with tort'ring rack

The men, oh! who will doubt it,
Are oft the knaves, are oft the knaves;
But when we set about it,
We make them slaves, we make them slaves;
But some are so unruly,
They will he kings, they will be kings,
And king of clubs too truly,
And such like things, and such like things.

The ladies all to Hymen's
Bright altars crowd, bright altars crowd,
Some to be queen of diamonds,
It is allow'd, it is allow'd;
But such soon change their billing,
And call in aids, and call in aids,
And while their spouses killing,
Prove queen of spades, prove queen of spades.

But those who prize the winning
Of real bliss, of real bliss,
Despise such sordid sinning,
As much amiss, as much amiss,
And seek those honors solely,
That love imparts, that love imparts
Ambitious to be wholly
The queen of hearts, the queen of hearts.

THE CAUTIOUS MAN.
A SKETCH.

13

must be in a certain degree doubtful; but if
this fear was allowed to operate, this would
certainly be a luminous world.

"Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might
win,
By fearing the attempt."

To return to my old friend (thinking, in
fact, of whose peculiarities put me upon
writing this paper) I will mention one of his
rules as of very great advantage to London
pedestrians; he never turned a corner sud-
denly, or when close to the wall, but always
struck off to the edge of the curb-stone,
where he peered down the way he meant to
pursue, and this custom was of considerable
advantage, for having a very large nose, noble
effort, and is co-existent with selfish-
ness, parsimony, and cowardice.
R.

He was a man strictly observant of all the
ordinances of society, whether on account of
the danger of infringing them, or from a
moral principle, I will not determine, since,
however charitably inclined to lean to the
latter opinion, I have an intuitive conviction
of his principles of action, which do not leave
me at liberty to speak positively. Among his
many antipathies, he had a great aversion to
the shedding of blood, whether from his chin
under the operation of the razor, or from his
finger by any accidental scratch; (indeed I
have seen him retire from the circle on such
an occasion, and nurse the unfortunate member
for the rest of the evening in the chimney-
corner, dividing his time between looking at
and kissing it; but to get out of my long
parenthesis) or from any more vital part in
himself or any other person, therefore, when-
ever he contemplated resistance to any per-
sonal attack, (a thing he would only have had
in contemplation under any circumstances, for
resistance in such a case was with him an
unreducible theory) his first idea was to bring
his assailant down by attacking his legs, and
then to break them, under the humane im-
pression of incapacitating him from rising
again, and running after my friend, who from
hence, I naturally infer, meant at last to run

away, but I rather think, so exquisite was the
delight he took in leg-breaking, that if ever
he got a pair into his power, he would have
labored away till there was no more left of
them than Curran described to have remained
of the Kilkenny cugs.

It is perhaps having witnessed this instance
of caution personified, that has inclined me to
treat the virtue (if so it may be called) with
levity. But I think it will be granted me that
it is one, which the generous and high-minded
acquire from time and experience, and that
where it takes paramount dominion, and grows
with the growth, and strengthens with the
strength, and marks the boy as much as the
man; it is the concomitant of a mean narrow
advantage, for having a very large nose, noble
effort, and is co-existent with selfish-
ness, parsimony, and cowardice.
R.

I REMEMBER hearing of a child, who was
so extremely obstinate, that nothing could
induce him to even articulate a single letter of
the alphabet. " But surely," cried one of his
companions, " nothing can be so easy as to
say A." " Ah!" he replied, " but if I say
A, I must say B." Here was a view to con-
sequences, which it were well, perhaps, if
often er observed; for as we cannot put forth
one foot without bringing the other after it,
so there are few of our moves on the great
chess-board of life, that do not involve an
absolute necessity for subsequent ones, that
all take their character from the first. To
" look before we leap" is an excellent rule,
for it is seldom of much use to look after-
wards, unless indeed to erect a land-mark of
experience for the benefit of others who travel
the same road, but this, by the bye, is a piece
of generosity very uncommon; mankind gene-
rally are something like the fox who lost his
tail, very willing to see people in the same
predicament with themselves, that they may
not look singular. I have mostly found that
caution is one of those qualities which en-
grosses too large a share of the mind, and I
would rather see it the growth of time, than
indigenous to character. At best it has a
petrifying quality, and seems to stand some-
what in the relation of half-sister to suspicion,
and is certainly neither connected or acquainted
with the spirit of enterprise, that great prin-
ciple in all patriotic exertions, grand and
national monuments, and political improve-
ments. No great undertaking was ever
without its hazards, and to all hazards, how-
ever remote, the strictly cautious have such
an antipathy, that they never embark in them.
Caution creates and fosters a thousand doubts
and fears, which a bolder spirit despires or
subdues. I knew a gentleman who never
entered a coach without arranging in his own
mind how he should act in case it should be
overturned, sitting in such and such a way that
his arm or leg might not be broken, and I believe
not without a benevolent view of falling upon
those who happened to be in the same coach
with him, as a means of softening his ease,
(we shall say nothing of hardening theirs) he
had such a romantic aversion to any thing
that was likely to hurt him. If he stopped at
a house for the night, he always found out
of the window, to calculate the chances of
escape in case of fire, and I certainly think he
would have made himself a portable fire-
escape, only that he was too cautious to lay
out his money on what he might never have
occasion to make use of. Had he been an
Antedeluvian, (and from many of his ideas I
was often inclined to think he was one) and
if we may without profanity suppose him
an acquaintance of Noah's, I am convinced he
would have persuaded him against building
the ark, since it was impossible to foresee how
the machine would rest on the subsiding of the
waters, so he would, I almost believe, prefer
the certainty of being drowned to the uncer-
tainty of being saved.

Perhaps there is in human nature a perpe-
tual tendency to extremes, and all extremes,
however opposite, are dangerous; thus caution
is often overtaken by the very evil into which
rashness has run, and parsimony loses what
extravagance would have thrown away. But
of all extremes, extreme of caution partakes
alone of that negative character which is the
most insipid of all others; it is content to
remain in statu quo for ever, and provided
things do not get worse, seldom attempts to
make them better. In all cases the future

THE MANIAC.

"Tis Oscar pauses on the steep,
Wild as the height, he casts his sight
Upon the wide and boiling deep.

A maniac who he ranges now,
Yet who has seen that lofty mien,
That presence high and spacious brow—

And not a secret homage felt
Blend in the sighs, that e'en must rise
In hearts that ne'er before could melt?

His eyes are dark and wildly bright,
When madness wakes, their lightning break,
Like flashes at the dead of night!

Yet they a temper'd lustre know,
Soft as the beam that gilds the stream,
When mild the parting sunbeams glow.

That brow, erect in sullen pride,
Which unsubdu'd, though fate imbu'd
It early in its blackest tide—

That brow can yet relax and shine,
So soft, so bright, it seems the light,
The relic of a soul divine!

A winning sweetness lingers yet,
In smiles that tell, they used to dwell
Gay on his lip, ere his sun was set.

Hark! 'tis his wild and midnight song!
How, as he flies, the cadence dies,
The rough and rugged rocks among!

"Rise! spirit rise!"

The day has fled—

The last beam lies

On ocean's bed—

Hark! to the distant murmur, hark!

The silent scene is lone and dark;

We may now,

On yonder brow,

That o' the steep hangs wild and high,

Catch the cloud,

That seeks to shroud

The silver crescent of the sky;

For Edith lov'd the trembling ray,

Or mark'd it gild the sparkling spray,

And be it mine

To bid it shine,

Resplendent as meridian day!

Thou image of confirm'd despair!

Once thou wast Fortune's darling care;

Her splendid robes around thee flow'd,

And in thy crest her diamonds glow'd.

The noddling plumes no longer bow

O'er thy uncovered shaggy brow;

No habitation but the caves

That echo to the beating waves,

That monsters seek, and darkness shroud,

To thee, wild wand'ring, is allow'd.

That brow, which Nature's high behest

With beauty's brightest glow imprest,

W
A
B
W

THE CAUTIOUS MAN.
A SKETCH.

I REMEMBER hearing of a child, who was
so extremely obstinate, that nothing could
induce him to even articulate a single letter of
the alphabet. " But surely," cried one of his
companions, " nothing can be so easy as to
say A." " Ah!" he replied, " but if I say
A, I must say B." Here was a view to con-
sequences, which it were well, perhaps, if
oftener observed; for as we cannot put forth
one foot without bringing the other after it,
so there are few of our moves on the great
chess-board of life, that do not involve an
absolute necessity for subsequent ones, that
all take their character from the first. To
" look before we leap" is an excellent rule,
for it is seldom of much use to look after-
wards, unless indeed to erect a land-mark of
experience for the benefit of others who travel
the same road, but this, by the bye, is a piece
of generosity very uncommon; mankind gene-
rally are something like the fox who lost his
tail, very willing to see people in the same
predicament with themselves, that they may
not look singular. I have mostly found that
caution is one of those qualities which en-
grosses too large a share of the mind, and I
would rather see it the growth of time, than
indigenous to character. At best it has a
petrifying quality, and seems to stand some-
what in the relation of half-sister to suspicion,
and is certainly neither connected or acquainted
with the spirit of enterprise, that great prin-
ciple in all patriotic exertions, grand and
national monuments, and political improve-
ments. No great undertaking was ever
without its hazards, and to all hazards, how-
ever remote, the strictly cautious have such
an antipathy, that they never embark in them.
Caution creates and fosters a thousand doubts
and fears, which a bolder spirit despises or
subdues. I knew a gentleman who never
entered a coach without arranging in his own
mind how he should act in case it should be
overturned, sitting in such and such a way that
his arm or leg might not be broken, and I believe
not without a benevolent view of falling upon
those who happened to be in the same coach
with him, as a means of softening his ease,
(we shall say nothing of hardening theirs) he
had such a romantic aversion to any thing
that was likely to hurt him. If he stopped at
a house for the night, he always looked out
of the window, to calculate the chances of
escape in case of fire, and I certainly think he
would have made himself a portable fire-
escape, only that he was too cautious to lay
out his money on what he might never have
occasion to make use of. Had he been an
Antedeluvian, (and from many of his ideas I
was often inclined to think he was one) and
if we may without profaneness suppose him
an acquaintance of Noah's, I am convinced he
would have persuaded him against building
the ark, since it was impossible to foresee how
the machine would rest on the subsiding of the
waters, so he would, I almost believe, prefer
the certainty of being drowned to the uncer-
tainty of being saved.

To return to my old friend (thinking, in
fact, of whose peculiarities put me upon
writing this paper) I will mention one of his
rules as of very great advantage to London
pedestrians; he never turned a corner sud-
denly, or when close to the wall, but always
struck off to the edge of the curb-stone, strength,
and marks the boy as much as the
where he peered down the way he meant to man;
it is the concomitant of a mean narrow
pursue, and this custom was of considerable soul,
incapable of a generous sacrifice or a
advantage, for having a very large nose,
noble effort, and is co-existent with selfish-
ness, parsimony, and cowardice.

away, but I rather think, so exquisite was the
delight he took in leg-breaking, that if ever
he got a pair into his power, he would have
labored away till there was no more left of
them than Curran described to have remained
of the Kilkenny cats.

It is perhaps having witnessed this instance
of caution personified, that has inclined me to
treat the virtue (if so it may be called) with
levity. But I think it will be granted me that
it is one, which the generous and high-minded
acquire from time and experience, and that
where it takes paramount dominion, grows
with the growth, and strengthens with the
struck off to the edge of the curb-stone, strength,
and marks the boy as much as the
where he peered down the way he meant to man;
it is the concomitant of a mean narrow
pursue, and this custom was of considerable soul,
incapable of a generous sacrifice or a
advantage, for having a very large nose,
noble effort, and is co-existent with selfish-
ness, parsimony, and cowardice.

Fades fast before the blast of woe,
Ere o'er it age has shed its snow;
That Genius, the first gift of heaven,
By madness from thy bosom driven,
Scare leaves a vestige to disclose
How once its kindling fires arose,
And blaz'd with a celestial light,
For ever equal, clear, and bright,
Thou remnant of a towering mind !
A soul expanded and refined,
Wreck'd, lost and ruin'd as thou art,
Since feeling's conflict tore that heart,
To human pride, that paltry thing !
How deep a lesson dost thou bring !

M. L.

THE FAIREST FLOWER.

I ask's that Amanda would tender to me
A flow'r from her garden, as sign of esteem
Ye take what thou wilt: all are welcome
there,

"A gift unto friendship, no loss I can deem
But 'twas vain that I gaz'd on each border
fair,

On each elegant stem, on each petal so gay
A creature of tenderer beauty stood there,
More graceful, more lovely, more please
than they.

In the spirit of gallantry, gently I took
the hand of that maiden: "Thyself de-
claim;

"For there's grace in thy step, and there's pe-
In thy look,

"There's a charm in thy presence, and love
thy name!"

But when that I spake of removal away

From that sweet sunny spot, where her you
had been spent,

A cloud of regret seem'd to darken the ray
Of the delicate smile which betray'd her co-
sent.

"Nay, grieve not, dear girl! for I will not p-
sume

"To entice thee away from this Eden
thine:

"Long, long may't thou dwell, 'mid the sweet
ness and bloom,

"Which have built for thy spirit so quiet
slrine.

"A Flora, amidst this clysmus of flowers,

"Thou shall be, as thou art; and sufficient
for me,

"If a priest in thy temple, for life's futu-
hours,

"To attend on thy will. I'm permitted to be
again, and running after my friends, permitted to be
hence, I naturally infer, meant at last to run

W
A
B
W

THE ORIGIN OF PORTRAIT
PAINTING.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Who taught us first to trace with fond design,
The cherish'd lineaments of those we prize?

To catch with faithful heart the graceful line,
To give—oh! almost breathing to our eyes,
Their blessed image as a hallow'd shrine,

For hope to breathe o'er, when in absence dies
The fainting heart of love, and mem'ry's ray
But coldly picture joy long past away?

'Twas Woman—in that sweetly hallowed hour,
When fondly watching o'er her lover sleeping,
When in her bosom love's electric power

Lay hush'd in tenderness:—when mutely
weeping,

Those tears, which like the dew upon the flower,
While nature is her nightly sabbath keeping,
Spring forth in silence, and descend in balm,
Where all is voiceless peace, and sweetest calm.

She saw (when for a moment from his face
Her tearful eye of tenderness was turn'd)

His profile's shadow, and she flew to trace
The features which each other image spurn'd

From her young heart, and left no resting place,
For all to which hope, life, or fancy burn'd,
Save love, and him, with power divine, supreme,
To make her life one wild impassion'd dream.

"When thou'rt away, my sleeping love" she
cried,

"Here will I bend in visions wildly sweet,

"Here will I fancy that thy lips divide

"To tell me honey'd truths—or to repeat

"The vows ne'er heard too oft; here Woman's
pride

"Shall sink in very homage; till we meet,

"This, this shall be my solace, hope, and shrine!

"Here my heart breathe its purest prayers for
thine!"

Thus rose the art so dear to those who feel

Those best emotions of the human breast;—
Thus rose the art, whose magic can reveal,

The eye that lov'd us, and the lips that bless'd;
Perpetuate the beauty time will steal,

And register sweet visions long at rest:
And sooth'd remembrance hail it as the last
And best recorder of the cherish'd past.

Angelicus Knauffmann, R.D. (1736-1796)

J. Whitley, R.A.

Angelica Knauffmann

EVADNE.

A TALE.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

"Indulge no more the fatal dream
That only leads thy heart astray,
Turn to some other brighter beam,
That lingers yet along thy way.
Love! 'tis a name unknown on earth,
Then cherish not the false illusion,

With man 'tis mockery, sport, and mirth;
And we're the victims of delusion.

Rather let red ambition light

Thy step where woman never trod,—
Or if that beam pure, calm, and bright,
That flows from heaven, charm thy sight,
Oh! turn thee, turn thee, to thy God!

Give him that vow, give him that tear,
You vainly give to any here.

"Oh think me not to virtue lost,
Nor cold at pure religion's shrine,
But think how much that love has cost,
That now you ask me to resign !
Alas ! 'tis easy to advise,
And your advice is kindly meant,
And oft this heart of sorrow tries
To profit by the kind intent,
But finds with many a vain regret,
You first must teach it to forget !

Teach it to lose the heavenly light
That lived in all his looks of love,
That made this heart as warm and bright
As the best beam that burns above—
Teach it to lose the tender tone
That came like music to my ear,
When I have thought him all my own,
And felt he was too wildly dear !
Teach it to lose the nameless grace
That kindled on his polished brow;
All, all that ever past efface,
And cursed ev'ry burning vow.

Then cold, undone, and heartless take me,
And what you will, Amanda, make me !
Amanda turn'd to hide the tear
That started as Evadne spoke,
For oh ! she knew a tale of fear,
As dark as e'er a fond heart broke !
And 'twas her dreadful task to tell
That tale to one she loved so well.

But say Evadne, should the heart
For which you sacrificed your own,
Rend every tie of love apart,
And leave you weeping and alone—
Would then this mad devotion last,
Still would you turn with love to one,
Who after all the dear days past,
Could leave you with a heart undone !
Oh ! would not vengeance arm thy hand,
And light revenge's burning brand ?
Oh ! tell me not of dire revenge,
Oh ! tell me not of wrongs or slight,
He could not give, nor I avenge
So deadly and so dark a slight.

Yet though he tore my spotless name
From the bright register of fame—
Left me that lost and ruin'd wretch
That friends forsake, and foes despise;
Would not one pitying angel fetch
My martyr'd spirit to the skies.
Still would I turn while life was mine,
(If life without his love could be)
With changeless fondness to that shrine,
Although it burned no more for me.

Yes, should he ever wrong or wreck
The bosom where he lives enshrin'd,
The burning tear I could not check,
As hope each dream of bliss resigned.
Is all the vengeance I should seek—
All the reproaches he need fear,
Till life's red stream ran cold and weak,
Too weak for e'en a sigh or tear ?
And then when fading day withdrew,
And all of earthly love grew dim ;
Forgive me though to thee 'twere due,
I'd give my last fond lock'd to him."

"Fond foolish girl ! then 'tis no dream—
Cheat thy deluded heart no more,
Fate has withdrawn that specious beam,
And all thy hopes of bliss are o'er.
Led by that ceaseless love of change,
Which teaches all his sex to range,
Urged by ambition's fatal pride,
Thy lover sought another bride :

Thy form effaced, thy love forgot,
A recreant wretch he glitters now;
But cursed and wretched be his lot,
False as his own perfidious vow."
"Oh ! curse him not," Evadne cried,
Roused from the stupor of despair,
"No, bless him and his happy bride,
And heaven make them both its care !
For me—my heart is cold—no light
Will ever gild its deathly gloom,
And soon I trust that friendly night,
Will close upon my silent tomb,
Amanda—friend—first, only, friend,
(Look not so wild, I'm calm, my love.)
My last, my fondest wish attend,
Fulfil it when I rest above,
Fortune is false, his present bliss,
May fleet, and leave him sad and lone,
Oh ! then let all of mine be his,
I ever deemed it all his own.)
Let him not feel the world's cold sneer,
Desert him not when friends forsake him,
If to thy heart I e'er was dear,
Then to thy friendly bosom take him,
And shou'd he ever ask you, where
The lost Evadne's form was laid,
Show him the spot, and whisper 'there,
Forever sleeps the hapless maid."

## ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE,

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

SWEET Hope, so oft my childhood's friend,
I will believe thee still,
For thou canst joy with sorrow blend,
Where grief alone would kill.

## THE ORIGIN OF PORTRAIT PAINTING.

BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Who taught us first to trace with fond design,
The cherish'd lineaments of those we prize?
To catch with faithful heart the graceful line,
To give—oh ! almost breathing to our eyes,
Their blessed image as a hallow'd shrine,
For hope to breathe o'er, when in absence dies
The fainting heart of love, and mem'ry's ray
But coldly picture joy long past away?

'Twas Woman—in that sweetly hallowed hour,
When fondly watching o'er her lover sleeping,
When in her bosom love's electric power
Lay hush'd in tenderness:—when mutually
weeping,
Those tears, which like the dew upon the flower,
While nature is her nightly sabbath keeping,
Spring forth in silence, and descend in balm,
Where all is voiceless peace, and sweetest calm.

She saw (when for a moment from his face
Her tearful eye of tenderness was turn'd)
His profile's shadow, and she flew to trace
The features which each other image spurn'd
From her young heart, and left no resting place,
For all to which hope, life, or fancy burn'd,
Save love, and him, with power divine, supreme,
To make her life one wild impression'd dream.

"When thou'rt away, my sleeping love" she cried,
"Here will I bend in visions wildly sweet,
"Here will I fancy that thy lips divide
"To tell me honey'd truths—or to repeat
"The vows ne'er heard too oft; here Woman's pride
"Shall sink in very homage; till we meet,
"This, this shall be my solace, hope, and shrine !
"Here my heart breathe its purest prayers for thine!"

Thus rose the art so dear to those who feel
Those best emotions of the human breast;—
Thus rose the art, whose magic can reveal,
The eye that lov'd us, and the lips that bless'd;
Perpetuate the beauty time will steal,
And register sweet visions long at rest;
And sooth'd remembrance hail it as the last
And best recorder of the cherish'd past.

ON THE CHOICE OF SOCIETY AND FRIENDS,

(In an original Letter from a Lady to her Friend.)

My heart responds to your kind wishes for
my company at C—, dear Harriet, and the
sighs for the verdure of the country, and the
dear society, that would give a zest to all its
charms. Surely it is the most unnatural and
unhealthy of all practices, to remain immured
in cities during this delightful season of the
year, and yet we see the gay world seldom
migrate till near its close. Had I the power,
I would hail the earliest flowers of spring in
the country, but true as the needle to the pole,
return to town with the closing autumn; for
London, as you very justly estimate it, is the
centre of every rational and desirable enjoy-
ment, possessed of every advantage and disad-
vantage a place can possess; and those who
fare blessed with some share of sense and cir-
cumspection, will embrace the one, and avoid
the other.

Amid all my repinings at fortune, I have
yet something to be grateful for; but I have
met much good society, a circumstance that
stands very prominent among my grateful
acknowledgments to heaven. I am not, Har-
riet, one of those who, to relieve the empu-
ca tedious hour, would forget myself to a
familiar gossipping with any casual corner, or
when circumstances left me without society,
exalt those into the rank of friends and asso-
ciates, who were never designed for it.
know you will be inclined to reprove the pride
of this remark, but believe me it springs from
no such feeling. The qualities of the heart
and mind are the standard by which I have
judged mankind; the only inducements I
have ever acknowledged, in shunning or seek-
ing any one, poverty should form no bar to the
reception of an individual distinguished by
virtue and by talent, and feeling thus, I have
naturally been little solicitous to the extent of
comexion, or the depth of purse, of those of
whose society I have made choice. I have
introduced the present subject with a view of
reproving one of your few faults, a liberty you
have long allowed me, and which, I trust, I
have never abused. A polite silence on such
points would make me, I know, a more
agreeable correspondent, but a less worthy
friend, and I would not gain the character of
the first, by any sacrifice of the principles of
the latter.

You have, in common with many servant
women, a habit of making your servant your
confidant, and from the affability of your
nature, and the seclusion into which circum-
stances have thrown you, your tradespeople,
your associates, habits always weak, and often
fatal. I am not passing a general veto against
the classes of individuals I have mentioned;
I believe, virtue and good sense to be indi-
genous to no rank, and denied to none; and
if, after the test of experience, you find a being
in the humbler walks of life worthy of the
distinction, cherish that being by all means.
But you allow yourself neither time to prove,
nor opportunity to discover character. Re-
member that, in the subordinate classes, little
time is allowed to the cultivation of the un-
derstanding; and I firmly believe, that the
heart depends more on the mind than is gene-
rally imagined. That being who is confined
to one spot, one circle, one employment, that
absorbs every moment and every faculty, ac-
customed from the first dawnings of percep-
tion to the society of the uncultivated, is par-
ticularly favored by nature if he escapes the
tinge of narrowness and vulgarity; and
though these habits, at least the first, are too
common among those who have less excuse
for them, yet in a candid and even unaristo-
cerical review of the subject, we should hardly
hesitate in best choosing a friend, companion,
or acquaintance, from our own walk in life.

Guided by this principle, after having passed
through many vicissitudes which involved
pecuniary distress, and much mental anguish,
I have the satisfaction to say, I have formed
no intimacy to which I cannot turn with plea-
sure; but with your disposition, it had been
far otherwise. In place of the decent privacy,
which makes distress respectable, and leaves
a return to opulence, unincumbered by the
consequences of indiscriminate associations, I
should now have to lament many an ill-placed
and abused confidence, and to countenance
many a coarse and illiterate acquaintance, or
provoke their enmity and not unjust reprisals
if I slighted them. Do not imagine that I am
assuming the dictatorial voice of superior
wisdom, I am merely giving you the result of
maturer years, and more experience than you
have yet proved. Though with a mind much
more freely organized for the calm calculations
of prudence than yours, I can remember being
a very different creature at sixteen to what I
am at present, and am astonished that a few
years can make such a change. Then I was
of for trying every thing by the old Roman
standard, and expected, nay demanded, from
every one a degree of perfection, which huma-
nity cannot attain: in all my romantic specu-
lations, I never thought of weighing the weak-
nesses, and deficiencies of the mind in which
they were brooded—but such is youth, ever
blindly in the extremes; now, though not yet
quite seventy, I am more inclined to take the
world as it is, believing every soil produces
weeds as well as flowers, and forgiving the
one for the sake of the other.

I should wish you to reap the field of expe-
rience without having sown it, not but that
I am afraid you have already scattered seeds
enough to yield you some time hence a plen-
tiful harvest of your own. You will tell me
that you have a kindly heart, that yearns for
the social interchanges of confidence and dis-
course. I am not questioning the goodness
of your heart, but believe it is this cant-
feeling that ruins many women. Before
can repose confidence, we must meet co—
nial manners and sentiment, the confid
that is ready to overflow upon every
that comes in its way is not worth ha-
And tell me (for I know the person) it
sympathy can there be between you and yr
servant; you have not two ideas or feelings
in common; you are leaving on record in
your conversation and letters to her, a thou-
sand ebullitions of mind, which you will per-
haps be one day startled to find preserved and
perverted; you will blush at warm profes-
sions of unmerited regard, and they may be
brought forward to support claims you may
not feel it right to answer. It is nothing but
the idleness of habit; a habit which you per-
haps never reflect on without feeling ashamed
of it, yet still persevere in from custom.

Whatever may be your future destiny, you
will find the friends and intimates of other
years affect your happiness either directly or
indirectly. However unsocial it may sound,
it is better to have none than unfit ones. We
create many wants, that have no real exist-
ence but in our morbid fancies; and this want
of a confidant, so common among novel-
reading young ladies, is one of them. In the
strict meaning of the word, few of us can
hope to have many friends; if we meet with
one, we should be happy. And having found
that one, cry with Rowe:

—“Who knows the joys of friendship,
The trust, security, and mutual tenderness?
The double joys, where each is glad for
both?”

In the choice of society, towards whom you

may feel good will, and do good offices, with-
out engaging the deepest sympathies of the
heart, after the moral requisites of worthy
members of the social community, regard
their intellect, their habits, and their man-
ners; the first of these will determine the
quality, and the two latter the form in which
you will receive either pleasure or improve-
ment. Among the evils resulting from an
inferior association, is the false estimate we
are often led to entertain of ourselves, and the
consequent arrogance and dogmatism that is
so frequently the ridiculous characteristic of
the leaders in subordinate company; another
is the carelessness and inertia which it en-
genders, there is no stimulus, no collision, no
necessity for observing those points, which
though rather felt than seen, form a great
part of the witchery and fascination of elegant
society. “Rust will eat, where use does not
wear;” and I am convinced you will be sur-
prised by a thousand habits, expressions, and
opinions which you have unwittingly acquired,
whenever circumstances remove you to your
proper sphere. I am aware the utter absence
of society occasions deficiencies, but with a
little attention they may be supplied; but an
intercourse with the unpolished and uncul-
tivated, encumbers us with habits that must
be removed, before we can substitute better
ones in their place. “Mal-information is
more hopeful than non-information; for error
is always more busy than ignorance. Igno-
rance is a blank sheet on which we may
write; but error is a scribbled one, on which
we must first erase.”

All minds either more or less impute a
portion of character, and almost the entire
of their manners from those by whom they are
perpetually surrounded. How infinite the
consequence then, to make choice of such as
can impart no narrow prejudices to the soul,
no false or vitiated sentiments to the heart, no
unprepossessing habits to our exterior car-
riage. You will probably think I am a little
too much of the school of Chesterfield, but
believe me they are unwise who neglect the
early acquaintance of the graces of deportment.
“A good countenance is rightly said to be a
good letter of recommendation,” but I have
seen instances of its utter failure from its
possessor being unable to follow up the first
impression, while others to whom nature has
been particularly unfavorable, like Mадe
de Stael, have talked themselves into beauties.
The aggregate of mankind are superficial
observers, and even the wisest are more
swayed by appearance, than they are willing
to allow; and though there are few worthy of
being courted, all may at least be conciliat-
So far, however, am I from wishing to make
you a superficial creature, that I believe none
can secure the benefits of a friendship worth
having, without possessing a certain standard
of native merit; and the politeness that flows
from innate benevolence of character and
genuine good nature, is worth all the graces
that could be accumulated from all the courts
of Europe.

W
A
B
W

Fascinated by H. W. Playfair, 1821.

Engraved by J. Thompson.

Rev. George Crabbe, L.L.B.

STRICTURES ON THE POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY.

No. 1.—REV. GEORGE CRABBE, L. L. B.

Still he was one whom those who fully knew,
Esteem'd and trusted, one correct and true.
All on his word with surety might depend,
Kind as a man, and faithful as a friend.

NOTHING can be more disproportionate
both in quantity and quality, than the theory
and the practice of virtue: the first is
universal. Language has been exhausted in
eulogizing and recommending moral goodness,
and in a general ballot in its favor, few among
mankind would be found to refuse their vote.
But professions, like the priest's blessings, are
cheap, and therefore freely given; and many
will take more pains to *speak* well than ever
they did to *act* so. It is on examining the
*practice* of mankind that we shall find the de-
faulters. It is in the walk of duty we shall
see those halt, who in the school of eloquence,
deprecated such a suspicion; and those who
contended for virtue in public, basely desert
her principles in private. It is thus that the
meretricious carry off the reward, that, in
equity belongs only to the meritorious, and
the pursuits of pleasure and of interest super-
sede those of honor and morality.

In support of the foregoing observations
we cannot adduce stronger instances than
Crabbe and Byron, who may fairly be op-
posed to each other as the most moral and
immoral of the writers of the present day.
Oh a moderate calculation, out of a hundred

who read Don Juan and Cain, there is scarcely
one who has looked into the admirable
"Tales of the Hall." And yet out of that
number there will not be one who will not
condemn the libertine and blasphemer, and
applaud the moralist. Menage lashes this
species of hypocrisy when he says, "Books
of devotion and of love are alike bought.
The only difference I find is, 'that there are
more who read books of love than buy them,
and there are more who buy books of devotion
than read them."

If the *good* man stood before the *great* man,
if worth was more valued than wit, poetical
morals regarded beyond poetical melody, and
truth and nature held in their merited estima-
tion, then would the Rev. George Crabbe be
ranked as the first poet of the day. As it is,
among the discriminating few he will ever be
a favourite; and secure of the homage of
posterity he may dispense with contemporary
praise. To the former all appeals are vain
which are not founded on the broad basis of
real merit. Posterity is an impartial judge,
and we may always safely stand by the judg-
ment it awards. Party feelings contribute
nothing to the scale in which it weighs the
merits of a work, all the extrinsic aids of
popular events and prejudices which at its
onset floated it down the tide of public favor,
or rendered it obnoxious to public censure,

I used to supply strictures on
the poems of the day for La
Bella Assemblée and also for
the monthly magazine, in the
latter magazine they were
called portraitures and some
times written by Williams.

It was a great piece of
presumption for a girl and
boy thus to set themselves up
as critics.

have long since disappeared like bubbles on
the stream, and the writer must stand or fall
only by the merits or demerits of his produc-
tion. Like coin returned to the crucible, it
matters not what has been its current value,
the gold will be separated from the alloy, and
its real worth determinately ascertained.

In the preface to “The Tales of the Hall,”
the author observes, “There is nothing in
these pages which has the mischievous effect
of confounding truth and error, or confusing
our ideas of right and wrong. I know not
which is most injurious to the yielding minds
of the young, to render virtue less respectable
by making its possessors ridiculous, or by de-
scribing vice with so many fascinating quali-
ties, that it is either lost in the assemblage or
pardoned by the association. Man’s heart is
sufficiently prone to make excuse for man’s
infirmity; and needs not the aid of poetry or
eloquence, to take from vice its native defor-
mity. A character may be respectable with
all its faults, but it must not be made respect-
able by them. It is grievous when genius
will condescend to place strong and evil spirits
in a commanding view, or excite our pity and
admiration for men of talents, degraded by
crime when struggling with misfortune. It
is but too true, that great and wicked men
may be so represented to us, as to demand
our applause, when they should excite our
abhorrence; but it is surely for the interest
of mankind, and our own self-direction, that
we should ever keep at an unapproachable dis-
tance our respect and our reproach.”

These are observations that speak at once
for the head and the heart of the writer, who
has not deceptively the talent heaven has given
him, but made it the medium of improving
the rising generation. He is a moralist without
austerity, and a poet without profaneness, and
wins to virtue, and warns from vice, with
the mildness and moderation of a Christian
director, and an affectionate parent. Unlike
his noble contemporary, who has thrown
round the most repulsive and objectionable
characters the fascination of his splendid and
powerful genius, and teaches the mind to con-
template them without abhorrence, may to
pursue them with interest and sympathy. In
the volumes lying before us, with every thing
to mould the mind to the purest morality,
we find much to engage the sympathetic

affections of the heart. It is true, the tales
have no intricacy to excite and support a
powerful interest, but their simplicity and
truth would be ill exchanged for the myste-
rious and marvellous narrations of a wilder
imagination. The characters too, are taken
from the walks of common life; have an infinite
variety, and speak not a little for the genius
of the author, who with such materials can
paint so powerfully to the feelings. Charles
in “Boys at School,” is admirably drawn.
The victim of patronage, another name for
the most abject dependence, the most burden-
some servitude, is left by his noble friend to
his fate, who lost in the progress, the feeling
that first stimulated his favor to the boy.

"The deed was pleasant, while the praise was new."

But when he found public applause died
away, and that all he should in future do for
his protegé, was looked on as a matter of
right, Charles became a burden; and upon
a shallow pretext was discarded from the
precarious favor, which a selfish desire of
popularity alone accorded him.

Charles turns painter, and the Rector's
meeting with him in subsequent years is well
described.

But once at twilight walking up and down,
In a poor alley of this mighty town, [hide
Where in her native courts and garrets
The grieving sons of genius and of pride,
I met him musing—sadness I could trace,
And conquered hopes meek anguish in her
face.

See him I must, but I with ease addressed,
And neither pity nor surprize expressed.
I strove both grief and pleasure to restrain,
But yet I saw that I was giving pain.

He said, with quickening pace, as loth to hold
A longer converse, that, “the day was cold,
“That he was well, that I had scarcely light
“To aid my steps” and bade me then
“good night.”

He next sees him a pauper, when with all the
tenacity of pride he again shuns his former
acquaintance. He next finds him

Sitting on a workhouse bed,

And on the naked boards reclined his head,
Around were children with incessant cry,
And near was one, like him, about to die.
A broken chair’s deal bottom held the store.
That he required,—he soon would need no
more.

Tradesmen are not now what they were a
century ago, and perhaps there might at this
moment be picked from that class in the me-
tropolis of England, men as elegantly bred,
and as well educated as in any other. Young
Merton had enjoyed all the advantages that
fortune could bestow, and having naturally a
fine person, and an expressive face, no one
from his appearance, would have imagined
him to have had plebeian blood in his veins, so
well he wore the trappings with which fortune,
not foppery, had adorned him. It has been
wisely said, that “the haughtiest vaunter of
high pedigree, and the honors of unbroken
descent, from the time of William the Con-
queror, would probably weep with shame, a
being enabled to follow his name three hun
dred years farther back, through a succession
of ploughmen, mechanics, and malefactors.
The pride of birth is a false distinction, set
up by those, who had no individual merit to
recommend them, and it still keeps its place
from the courtesy of custom with some, and
policy with others, since it would be very un-
wise of those who boast of no claim, but
what they derive from their dead ancestors,
to underrate it: but with the reasoning part
of mankind, it holds its proper estimation;
we must fall in with some of the leading fea-
tures of society, in that respect, it is pleasant
to have such a passport about us, but the
really wise and good will say with Sidney,
“I am no herald to enquire men’s pedigree,
it suffices me if I know their virtues.”

WILLIAM MERTON

W
A
B
W

A yellow teapot, standing at his side,
From its half spout the cold black tea sup-
plied.

This is a scene, which, like an artist's sketch,
speaks the hand of a master. And to follow
the bent of our feelings, our extracts would
be copious; but the desire to keep within
due limits restricts us: we cannot help, how-
ever, telling the sequel in the author's own
words:

The sickening man—for such appeared the
fact,

Just in his need would not a debt contract,
But left his poor apartment for the bed
That earth might yield him, or some way-
side shed.

Thus he was found and conveyed to the work-
house, where at length subdued pride acknow-
ledged the kindness of his early friend, and
pressing his hand he expired.

Poor Charles unnoticed by thy titled friend,
Thy days had calmly past, in peace thy end.
Led by thy patron's vanity astray,

Thy own misled thee in thy trackless way,
Urging thee on by hope absurd and vain,
Where never peace or comfort smiled again.

The Elder Brother is another instance of the
deepest knowledge of human nature, its frailty
and fallibility; the moral is striking and im-
pressive, and the descriptions fraught with
energy and truth. Where all is so excellent
the task of selection is difficult, but the picture
he draws of the beautiful and unfortunate
Rosabella, her errors, her vices,' and their
consequence, is such as to challenge competi-
tion. When she weeps and relates the feel-
ings which first led her on to crime, who that
is at all acquainted with society but must feel
their strict adherence to truth? Speaking of
her orphanage and dependence, she continues:

— You could witness then,

That I was precious in the eyes of men;

So made by them a goddess and denied

Respect and notice by the women's pride :

Here scorn'd, there worshipped, will it strange
appear,

Allured and driven, that I settled here?

This is a common case, and the little leenity
which erring woman meets from her own sex,
is often more fatal to her than the libertine
designs of the other. But that being is infi-
nitely mistaken, who thinks she establishes
her own character for virtue, by severity

towards those ill-fated sisters of frailty and
misfortune, whom the arts of the one sex has
drawn from the path of honour, and the aus-
terity of the other has forbidden to return to
it. We do not wish to see the wise ordinances
of society in this country infringed, or to give
any countenance to the levity that character-
ises others. It is fit when a woman has
once fallen, that she should pay the penalty
of her crime, disproportionate as it frequently
is to the extent of her turpitude, since her
restoration to society on the footing she once
held, would act most injuriously on the minds
of those, whose youth and inexperience leave
them open to the taint of example, and the
allurement of temptation.

"The traveller if he chance to stray,
May turn unheeded to his way;
Polluted streams again are pure;
And deepest wounds admit a cure;
But woman no redemption knows ;
The wounds of honour never close."

The foregoing lines should be engraven on
the memory of the youthful fair, as a kind of
amulet, to preserve her from deviating from
the direct path. But while we acknowledge
the policy and necessity of this line of conduct,
we know of no argument which can be raised
against a generous forbearance and tenderness
towards the fugitive of folly: we cannot see
that the strictest morality can denounce pity
to her penitence; or the liberal beneficence
which by leading her to the path of industry,
relieves her from the loadings of necessity,
which might force her back on infamy and
run, is any thing but that christian duty, of
which the divine author of our religion has
set us so beautiful an example.

This is a digression; but in a work which
exclusively aims at the improvement of the
female mind, we must be forgiven if we blend
with every subject, observations on those vir-
tues and those vices which peculiarly illum-
nate or obscure the lustre of feminine beauty.
We claim the privilege of the traveller, who
 quits the main road when any incidental cir-
cumstance discovers that to his view, which
may increase the fund of knowledge he is
carrying home, though in so doing he retards
the progress of his journey.

The pernicious influence of evil habits is
evinced in Rosabella, forsaking the man who
drew her from the haunts of vice.

Alas! she did not know
How deeply rooted evil habits grow,
She felt the truth upon her spirits press,
But wanted ease, indulgence, show, excess.

She looked for idle vice the time to kill,
And subtle, strong apologies for ill;
And thus her yielding unresisting soul
Sank, and let sin confuse her and controul.

The world at length rejects, the ill-advised
votary of its specious pleasures, and she sends
to her friend.

I went to trace

Once more, the vice-worn features of that
face,

That sin-wrecked being! and I saw her laid
Where never worldly joy a visit paid :
The world receding fast! the world to come,
Concealed in terror, ignorance, and gloom,
Sins, sorrow, and neglect, with not a spark
Of vital hope,—all horrible and dark.

The feelings which impressed the friend and
lover of her youth, at this scene, when the
false colours of profligacy faded, and let her
to real anguish and certain and dreaded death,
are such as we wish may, and have little
doubt will arise in the bosoms of those who
only contemplate it with the eye of imagina-
tion.

Twas in that chamber, Richard, I began
To think more deeply of the end of man.

Was it, life throughout,
With circumspection keen to hunt about
Like spaniels for their game, where might
be found

Abundance more for coffers that abound ?
Or was it life's enjoyment to prefer,
Like this poor girl, and then to die like her ?
No ! He who gave the faculties, designed
Another use for the immortal mind;

There is a state in which it will appear,
With all the good and ill contracted here,"
With gain and loss, improvement and de-
fect;

And then my soul, what hast thou to expect,
For talents laid aside, life's waste, and time's
neglect.

We shall now close these strictures, which,
but for the fear of wearying by a longer essay,
we would willingly extend. For the field
before us is ample, and secure of both fruits
and flowers, which court the hand that is
willing to cull them, we may be allowed to
feel some regret in quitting it. While virtue
and genius are loved and admired, the name
of Crabbe will live in the veneration and
admiration of mankind, and his works will be
read by the aged and presented to the young,
as a code of morality and wisdom, by which
they may safely walk through the various
paths of human existence, and yet to which
they may also turn in the moments of leisure
and recreation, for pleasure and amusement.

Tradesmen are not now what they were a
century ago, and perhaps there might at this
moment be picked from that class in the me-
tropolis of England, men as elegantly bred,
and as well educated as in any other. Young
Merton had enjoyed all the advantages that
fortune could bestow, and having naturally a
fine person, and an expressive face, no one
from his appearance, would have imagined
him to have had plebeian blood in his veins, so
well he wore the trappings with which fortune,
not foppery, had adored him. It has been
wisely said, that " the haughtiest vaunter of
high pedigree, and the honors of unbroken
descent, from the time of William the Con-
queror, would probably weep with shame, a
being enabled to follow his name three hun-
dred years farther back, through a succession
of ploughmen, mechanics, and malefactors.
The pride of birth is a false distinction, set
up by those, who had no individual merit to
recommend them, and it still keeps its place
from the courtesy of custom with some, and
policy with others, since it would be very un-
wise of those who boast of no claim, but
what they derive from their dead ancestors,
to underrate it: but with the reasoning part
of mankind, it holds its proper estimation;
we must fall in with some of the leading fea-
tures of society, in that respect, it is pleasant
to have such a passport about us, but the
really wise and good will say with Sidney,
"I am no herald to enquire men's pedigree,
it suffices me if I know their virtues."

William Merton St. Bello

No. XI.

Though all may forget thee.

THE WORDS WRITTEN BY MISS M. LEMAN REDE.

Allegretto.

[A]t—When he who adores thee.

Monastic seclusion is the fertile soil of all the powerful passions of the human mind, there, cherished in silence, with nothing new to arise and call the thoughts away, the one wild object that has induced seclusion, is ever present, and so far from becoming a spiritualized being, the mistaken devotee, rivets the unhappy chains that bind him to earth: we cannot then wonder that those brotherhoods so often presented communities of vice and infamy, instead of peace and piety; especially, when we reflect how few voluntarily withdrew from the world, to devote themselves to heaven. Some forsook the haunts of busy life in misanthropic disgust, the consequence of disappointed hopes; some from the wreck of vain ambition, which left them no alternative, but apparent poverty and mortifying subordination, which they could better bear to feel, than to suffer others to behold; some again driven thither by the evil passions of others. Interest immured one victim in the vice of solitude, to adorn another for the vice of society. At the dissolution of the monasteries, when daylight was let in upon priestly privacy, it is impossible to wonder at the abhorrence, which Catholicism excited in the mind of those of the reformed church, since no crimes are so revolting as those practised under the sanction of religion. In the year 1517, John Tetzel, a dominicai friar, was employed by Albert, elector of Metz, and archbishop of Madgeburg, in the sale of indulgences, crime was licenced to replenish the coffers of the papal treasury, the impotent arm of civil power fell paralyzed before the overweening and corrupt power of the pope. The stream that had taken its course from the purest of all fountains, diverged into the current of pollution, and ultimately stagnated in corruption. The lives of these venders of profanation were so infamous, that those who purchased the indulgences, were ashamed of being seen in their company. Strange infatuation, which shews how the mass of mankind will blindly follow the course of custom, till some brighter, daring spirit starts forth to lead them from the path of error, and point the proper goal which ought to bound their views. Such was Martin Luther. When young, he had entered a convent of the Augustine friars, educated in, and surrounded by all the received opinions of that dark and deluded age, how great must not that mind have been which could of itself burst the trammels which bound millions! how fearless the spirit that could come forth, and protest against those gross infractions of all moral and religious purity, and unshrinkingly declare opinions that shook the throne of papal power to its foundation. But when we contemplate a great, and powerful mind, employed in the perusal of the holy Testament, entering into, and appreciating the spirit in which it is written, and the doctrine it inculcates, and then turning his eye to contemplate the existing state of religion, and the lives of its disciples, we must feel it as consequent on the common deductions of his reason, to see the necessity of reform: we must then suppose that there were many before Martin Luther, who in the sanctuary of their own hearts condemned the perversion of the institutions of religion, but they were either not bold enough to stem with their single arm the torrent of corruption, or not good enough to risk their private views of interest and ambition, in a struggle with superior power, though it were for the redemption of mankind and the honor of God.

m LR

She remembers thy sighs as they breath'd on her ear,
In the accents of sorrow and pain;

And feels that thy sufferings have made thee more deat
Than any will e'er be again.

She would have thee once more with the waste of thy woe,
With feelings of fondness and pride,

But since that is a thought she must ever forego,
She would joy to lay down by thy side.

Then though all may forget thee, who once in the glow
Of thy fortune press'd round with delight;

Though the grave is forgot where they saw thee laid low,
And bade thee for ever good night,

That one who for thee could resign every dream,
That from youth and ambition arise,

Will still think on thee here, as her life's dearest beam,
And her beacon of worlds in the skies.

on a workhouse bed,
asked boards reclined his head,
children with incessant cry,
some, like him, about to die.
their deal bottom held the store
red,—he soon would need no

Monastic seclusion is the fertile soil of all
the powerful passions of the human mind,
there, cherished in silence, with nothing new to
arise and call the thoughts away, the one wild
object that has induced seclusion, is ever pre-
sent, and so far from becoming a spiritualized
being, the mistaken devotee, rivets the un-
happy chains that bind him to earth: we
cannot then wonder that those brotherhoods
so often presented communities of vice and
infamy, instead of peace and piety; especially,
when we reflect how few voluntarily withdrew
from the world, to devote themselves to
heaven. Some forsook the haunts of busy life
in misanthropic disgust, the consequence of
disappointed hopes; some from the wreck of
vain ambition, which left them no alternative,
but apparent poverty and mortifying subor-
dination, which they could better bear to feel,
than to suffer others to behold; some again
driven thither by the evil passions of others.
Interest immured one victim in the vice of
solitude, to adorn another for the vice of
society. At the dissolution of the monasteries,
when daylight was let in upon priestly privacy,
it is impossible to wonder at the abhorrence,
which Catholicism excited in the mind of
those of the reformed church, since no crimes
are so revolting as those practised under the
sanction of religion. In the year 1517, John
Tetzel, a dominic friar, was employed by
Albert, elector of Metz, and archbishop of
Madgeburg, in the sale of indulgences, crime
was licenced to replenish the coffers of the
papal treasury, the impotent arm of civil
power fell paralyzed before the overweening
and corrupt power of the pope. The stream
that had taken its course from the purest of
all fountains, diverged into the current of
pollution, and ultimately stagnated in corrup-
tion. The lives of these venders of profana-
tion were so infamous, that those who purchased
the indulgences, were ashamed of being seen in
their company. Strange inflation, which
shews how the mass of mankind will blindly
follow the course of custom, till some brighter,
daring spirit starts forth to lead them from
the path of error, and point the proper goal
which ought to bound their views. Such was
Martin Luther. When young, he had entered
a convent of the Augustine friars, educated in,
and surrounded by all the received opinions of
that dark and deluded age, how great must
not that mind have been which could of itself
burst the trammels which bound millions !
how fearless the spirit that could come forth,
and protest against those gross infractions of
all moral and religious purity, and unshrink-
ingly declare opinions that shook the throne
of papal power to its foundation. But when
we contemplate a great, and powerful mind,
employed in the perusal of the holy Testa-
ment, entering into, and appreciating the
spirit in which it is written, and the doctrine
it inculcates, and then turning his eye to con-
template the existing state of religion, and the
lives of its disciples, we must feel it as con-
sequent on the common deductions of his reason,
to see the necessity of reform: we must then
suppose that there were many before Martin
Luther, who in the sanctuary of their own hearts
condemned the perversion of the institutions of
religion, but they were either not bold enough
to stem with their single arm the torrent of
corruption, or not good enough to risk their
private views of interest and ambition, in a
struggle with superior power, though it were
for the redemption of mankind and the honor
of God.

She remembers thy signs as if

And feels that thy sufferings have made thee more dear

Than any will c'er be again.

on a workhouse bed,
ked boards reclined his head,
children with incessant cry,
one, like him, about to die.
rs deal bottom held the store
red,—he soon would need no

Monastic seclusion is the fertile soil of all the powerful passions of the human mind, there, cherished in silence, with nothing new to arise and call the thoughts away, the one wild object that has induced seclusion, is ever present, and so far from becoming a spiritualized being, the mistaken devotee, rivets the unhappy chains that bind him to earth: we cannot then wonder that those brotherhoods so often presented communities of vice and infamy, instead of peace and piety; especially, when we reflect how few voluntarily withdrew from the world, to devote themselves to heaven. Some forsook the haunts of busy life in misanthropic disgust, the consequence of disappointed hopes; some from the wreck of vain ambition, which left them no alternative, but apparent poverty and mortifying subordination, which they could better bear to feel, than to suffer others to behold; some again driven thither by the evil passions of others. Interest immured one victim in the vice of solitude, to adorn another for the vice of society. At the dissolution of the monasteries, when daylight was let in upon priestly privacy, it is impossible to wonder at the abhorrence, which catholicism excited in the mind of those of the reformed church, since no crimes are so revolting as those practised under the sanction of religion. In the year 1517, John Tetzel, a dominican friar, was employed by Albert, elector of Metz, and archbishop of Madgeburg, in the sale of indulgences, crime was licenced to replenish the coffers of the papal treasury, the impotent arm of civil power fell paralyzed before the overweening and corrupt power of the pope. The stream that had taken its course from the purest of all fountains, diverged into the current of pollution, and ultimately stagnated in corruption. The lives of these venders of profanation were so infamous, that those who purchased the indulgences, were ashamed of being seen in their company. Strange infatuation, which shews how the mass of mankind will blindly follow the course of custom, till some brighter, daring spirit starts forth to lead them from the path of error, and point the proper goal which ought to bound their views. Such was Martin Luther. When young, he had entered a convent of the Augustine friars, educated in, and surrounded by all the received opinions of that dark and deluded age, how great must not that mind have been which could of itself burst the trammels which bound millions ! how fearless the spirit that could come forth, and protest against those gross infractions of all moral and religious purity, and unshrinkingly declare opinions that shook the throne of papal power to its foundation. But when we contemplate a great, and powerful mind, employed in the perusal of the holy Testament, entering into, and appreciating the spirit in which it is written, and the doctrine it inculcates, and then turning his eye to contemplate the existing state of religion, and the lives of its disciples, we must feel it as consequent on the common deductions of his reason, to see the necessity of reform: we must then suppose that there were many before Martin Luther, who in the sanctuary of their own hearts condemned the perversion of the institutions of religion, but they were either not bold enough to stem with their single arm the torrent of corruption, or not good enough to risk their private views of interest and ambition, in a struggle with superior power, though it were for the redemption of mankind, and the honor of God.

m LR

Engraved from an Original Picture by Huyck

Thomas Campbell Esqr.

No. 4.—THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

—Can it bear the shock
Of rational discussion? —

MR. CAMPBELL's poetical celebrity is one of those instances of good fortune, for which it is difficult to account. If the science of astronomy was not exploded, we should be apt to believe he was among the few who are born under a happy planetary influence, so that wander in what path he may, the star of his fortune still attends him. There are many who will start at this heresy, against their poetical orthodoxy, and, who like true believers, have never paused to enquire into the nature of their poet's mission—we shall do so for them, not with any cynic views as to affecting their apostacy, but simply for the sake of agitating the question, and then leaving it to subside as truth and justice shall direct. The mind should ever come unbiassed to the task of criticism; and most critics, like most traders, begin by very fair protestations. From this rule we shall step aside, and leave our strictures to speak for themselves. The general fallibility of human nature should teach us to judge each other with more candour and good nature than is generally done. Perhaps there are no censors who assume so high a tone as the literary ones; they launch their fulminations against unhappy authors with little mercy, and arrange an oracular style to themselves which seems to say—

I am Sir Oracle,

And when I speak, let no dog bark.

But to proceed to the author of “the Pleasures of Hope,” we by no means intend to deny that he is often a very elegant, and generally a

pleasing versifier; but we do not hesitate to affirm, that he has little claim to the distinguished rank he at present holds among the British poets, and that he has yet much to do to secure future fame. The support and applause of contemporaneous genius, has contributed in some considerable degree, to bias the public mind. Lord Byron, weary of dealing death to literary reputations, turns to Campbell and Rogers with—

Come forth, oh! Campbell, give thy talents
scope,

Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope;

And thou, melodious Rogers, rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past?

Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wanted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne.

Assert thy country's honor, and thine own.
There is little meaning in all this—much
more of sound than sense, and, by the bye,
more addressed to Rogers than to Campbell,
who is unquestionably the superior of the for-
mer. It was however, sufficient, in conse-
quence of the subsequent fame of the noble
lord, and then continued friendship with him,
to keep them in the sphere of notice, both with
the public and publishers; and when once an
author has the tide of general opinion in his
favor, he may launch what he pleases on the
stream, it will float for a time at least, for
“All own the chief, where fortune owns the
cause.”

On the “Pleasures of Hope,” the fame of
its author solely rests, since the minor pieces
that followed it had met a speedy oblivion, had

not that heralded his name. It is the production of a cultivated and reflective mind, (but without demanding in a poet the title of what Dr. Johnson declares it necessary for him to possess;) we conceive it to be distinguished by no marked traits of a vivid or poetic imagination. We might quote many passages of sweet and flowing lines, but the poem is so generally known, it would be superfluous. On that passage in which the mother is described watching over her sleeping babe, much praise has been bestowed. It is nothing more than common place, both in expression and idea; and why the mother should contemplate laying her “head beneath a willow tree,” we know not, it is evidently an expletive.

The description of the “friendless man,” passing a home of rural peace and beauty, strongly reminds us of Bloomfield, and one line, “There should my hand no stinted boon assign,” recalled one of Shenstone’s:

> “Nor could my hand a niggard boon assign.”
>
> An instance undoubtedly of accidental plagiarism, and we mention it rather as a proof how often memory will play the cheat, than as a point at all material. A similar instance occurs in

> “The queen of beauty, bowed to taste the wave.”

Mason says in his lines to the memory of his wife,

> “She bowed to taste the wave—and died!”

The story of “Gertrude of Wyoming” is simple, yet simple as it is, it is often deformed by obscurity, such as the introduction of Henry on his return to Pennsylvania, and Gertrude’s death.

> “And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned,
> [zone,
> And while she clasped him lifeless to her
> Say, burst they borrow'd from her father's
> wound
> [own.”

Those drops? Oh God! the life blood is her

How these drops were occasioned we are not told, and the absurdity of the second line in saying she clasped her dead father to her girdle, is extreme. Nothing can be weaker than the last line of the verse immediately preceding:

> “And Albert—Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds.”

Equally so is that in which he laments that “want’s stern edict,” and “feudal grief,” should force the brave son of Scotland “from a home he lov’d so dear.”

There is a coarseness in

> “I boast no song in magic wonders rife.”

Speaking of Gertrude,

> “Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild,

> The parted ringlets shone in simple guise,

> And innate in the house of Albert smil'd,
> And blest his noonday walk—she was his only
> child.”

> “Her mind could culture well repay,
> And more engaging grew from pleasing day
to day.”

> “And here of beauty perfected the frame.”

> “No never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem.”

These are faults that occur but too frequently through the poem. We will now turn to the more grateful task of noticing its beauties; when the Indian brings

> “A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went
> Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,
> Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought
> by night.”

The description of Oneyda is excellent,

ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS.

NO. 3. SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

## Essay'd to break a lance
In the fair fields of old romance.

THE characteristics of a country will always
be found in its poetry, thus the lay of the soft
Asiatic partakes of the voluptuousness of the
clime, in which the fruits of the earth spring
almost spontaneously, and man is left to indolence
enjoyment. The hardy sons of the north
on the contrary, whose energies are awakened
by the imperative mandates of necessity,
string their wild harps to a bolder and a
nobler strain. In a like manner the poetry of
the wandering Arabs and other different
tribes differs materially from that of a fixed
and settled people. To this national influence
much of the beauty of Sir Walter's poetry
may be traced. The high spirit—the proud
and noble daring of the northern chiefs—the
enthusiasm and devotedness of confederate
clans—the manners and customs tinged with
superstition and romance—the deep glens—
the dark ravines—the mountains and moun-
tain-torrents—lakes and burns, are all the
materials of which poetry is made, at least
the inspirers of images, and ideas which are
its constituents; since then his country has
done so much for Sir Walter, it is but fair to
ask what has he done for his country.

The productions of our bard, are something
like those beings we occasionally meet in life,
who without that symmetry of form and fea-
ture, which belongs to the higher class of
beauty, and which bear the most analytical
review, have yet a vividness of complexion
and animation of manner which (taking them
in the *tout ensemble*) renders them wonder-
fully captivating. It is the *spirit* which per-
vades "Marmion," "The Lady of the Lake," &c.
&c. &c. that gives them their enchantment,
we have an instance of this in the song of
"Lochinvar." It is vulnerable to critical
censure in many instances, but there is a
bustle and life in it that is highly pleasing,
requires just such reading as that poem and

There was mounting 'mongst Græmes of
the Netherby clan,
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they
rode and they ran,
There was racing and chasing on Canobie
Lee,
[they see.

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did
Here we must notice another instance in
which he is indebted to the happy peculiarities
of Caledonia, and that is in the names of her
leaders, lakes, rocks, ruins, and fastnesses,
o which though a seeming trifle, contributes no
inconsiderable charm to his verse, and if not
always remarkable in their euphony, are always
conspicuous for their energy, and a certain
crispiness which is congenial to the character
of the poetry. Some will say "What is
there in a name? Brutus will start a spirit as
soon as Caesar," true, but it may be gene-
terally remarked that authors, in selecting o
names, prefer such as are sonorous and agree—
able; unless where the *associations* preclude
all feelings to their prejudice. There are few
of our modern Sapphos and Anacreonics who
would willingly exchange their Julias, Emmas,
Henries and Edwins, for Grizzles, Bridgets,
Jonathans, and Timothies. We are not so
fastidious as the Spaniards, who are not
fastidious unless the name of the hero occupies
a page and a half at least; a characteristic,
on the account of which Lord Chesterfield
facetiously advised Mr. Bubb, (afterwards
Lord Melcombe) not to think of going on
the embassy to the court of Spain. Bubb
begged to know his lordship's reasons.
"Why," replied he, "your name is too short.
Bubb, Bubb, do you think the Spaniards, a
people who pride themselves on their family
honors, and the length of their titles, will
suppose a man can possess any dignity or im-
portance with a name of *one* syllables, and
which is pronounced in a second? No, no,
my friend, you must not think of Spain, unless
thus destroys the pathos and sweetness of

ing
all
a-
re
of
n
y
y
d
n
d

waller fell

20

"A monumental bronze, unchanged his look,
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shock :
Train'd from his tree-rocked cradle to his
bier,

The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook;
Impassive—fearing but the shame of fear,
A stoic of the woods—a man without a
tear.

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock
Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow;
As lives the oak unwithered on the rock,
By storms above, and barrenness below :
He scorned his own who (but) felt another's
woe."

It is a sweet idea that Gertrude's eyes

"Seemed to love whate'er they looked upon."
But the second line from it is faulty to a degree,

"Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast."
The 6th verse of the second part is unex-
ceptionable. The humming birds "like atoms
of the rainbow fluttering 'round," is prettily

conceived, and the following verses are more
in the tone of true poetry, than we often meet
in our author.

"Then wou'd that home admit them—happier
far

Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon,
While here and there a solitary star [June."
Flushed in the darkening firmament of

* * *
"Oh! love in such a wilderness as this—
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a God indeed divine."

There is some sweetness in the last words
of Gertrude, but none of the scenes or situa-
tions are wrought up, as in the hands of inspi-
ration they might have been. And we close
this poem after an impartial perusal, with the
impression of its being a weak and defective
performance, and that had it preceded instead
of *following*, "the pleasures of hope," it would
have been little known beyond the poet and
his publisher. Campbell's early miscellaneous

pieces never rise above mediocrity, and gene-
rally speaking, he is an indifferent song writer,
of which "the wounded Hussar," is one in-
stance, and "the Harper," another, still more
melancholy. Some of his poetry, however,
which has lately appeared in the new Monthly
Magazine, bears so superior a character, (inter-
mixed with many very indifferent pieces,) that
we are led to hope that Campbell will yet give
to the world, a more brilliant memorial of his
talent than either of the poems we have just
noticed. As a prose writer, the little he has
given us, is sufficient to establish him as an
elegant and valuable addition to that numerous
band. It will be felt that throughout this re-
view, we do not deny his several productions
*merit*, we only enter our protest as to the
degree, and while we think from fortuitous cir-
cumstances they have been overrated, and
acquired a fame that will not be equal or per-
manent; we shall never be backward to allow
that we have never sat down to the perusal of
'the Pleasures of Hope,' without much satis-
faction.

you make some addition to your name," The distressed Bubb requested his lordship to suggest something for him, when Lord Chcesfield, after a mandatory hesitation, cried, "I have it! what do you think of calling yourself Silly-Bubb?"

"The Lady of the Lake" may in every
point of view be allowed to claim the prefer-
ence. Ellen is a character so sweetly simple,
that he must be stoical indeed who does not
admire it. Fitz-James is admirably sketched,
and poor Blanche touching to an extreme de-
gree. The story is not darkened by obscu-
arity, and the denouement is gratifying and
pleasing. Marmion (taken as a whole) is a
striking poem, glowing with vivid colorings
and abounding in fine descriptions, of which
none struck us as truer to nature than the fol-
lowing. When the fate of the unhappy Con-
stance is determined, and the sad knell wakes
on the ear.

Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rang;
To Wenworth cell the echoes roll'd,—
His beads the wakeful hermit told; —
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot fell,
Then couch'd him down beside his hind
And quak'd amid the mountain fern,
To hear that sound so dull and stern.

"The Lay of the last Minstrel," "The Lord of the Isles," &c. &c. &c. afford an ample field for the severest criticism, an ungrateful task which we readily forego, we cannot how-
ever pass by the "Bridal of Triernain" with-
out observing that it is a most ill-constructed
tale, distinguished by few beauties, and those
of the most common order, such as

They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare,"
Match'd with thy eyes I thought they faded,
They praised the pearls that bound thy hair,
I only saw the locks they braided.

This is pretty, but merely pretty, and the
word "rare" is unpleasant to the ear of taste,
and the perversion of language in placing the
adjective after the noun, is a very frequent
fault of Sir Walter's; perhaps there is no
poet who makes more free with what is tem-
ed poetic licence. The following description
is written with his usual felicity in the de-
scriptive.

Equally so is that in which he laments that
"want's stern edict," and "fetal grief,"
should force the brave son of Scotland "from
a home he lov'd so dear."

There is a coarseness in
"I boast no song in magic wonders rife."

Speaking of Gertrude,

"Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead
mild,

The parted ringlets shone in simple guise,
An innate in the house of Albert smil'd,
Or blest his noontday walk—she was his only
child.

"Her mind cou'd culture well repay,
And more engaging grew from pleasing day
to day."

"And here of beauty perfected the frame."

"No never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem."
These are faults that occur but too fre-
quently through the poem. We will now turn
to the more grateful task of noticing its beau-
ties; when the Indian brings

"A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went
Of Christian venture, and complexion bright,
Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought
by night."

Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger's rein,
With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And from beneath his glove of mail
Seam'd at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armour bright
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon light.

"Helen and William" needs the apolog
with which the author has thought proper
to preface it. We are willing to allow the
ple of youth in extenuation of its faults, but
hardly that of the persuasion of his publisher
for its appearance. It is a pity that poets
endanger their fame, by giving to the world
the effusions of a careless or unprolific
hour, there are moods both of health and
spirits in which the brightest genius is
himself; "even Homer must be allowed to
sometimes," if then, through a proud impa-
tience of even a momentary suspension of me-
tal power, they goad their dormant faculté
to reluctant exertion, how unwise, to suff-
ire them to extend beyond the purpose of whole
some exercise, and permit them to come
mortifying comparison with the bright of
springs of their hours of inspiration.

Sir Walter has fallen from the pinnacle
which popular feeling for a time raised him
when he came upon the public mind, with
novel and energetic style which could not
strike every breast of taste and sentiment
He has rather been superseded to degrade
and though no longer read, he is remember-
with pleasure, and his new editions are pu-
chased since no library is considered comple-
without him. In the temple of Scottish gen-
ius he will unquestionably fill a most respect-
able as a poet, as the author of the Scott-
ish novels, indeed, (should it ever be proved
that he is such) he will claim a pre-eminence
few of any country will be found to dispute

The merit of those wonderful productions
are unequal, there is a great deal of bood
making and spinning out, the trick of trac-
it is observable in them, and it is to be lamented
that it is so, nevertheless with all the draw-
ing in every page. The Lord of Mortham is the
elder, Mertoun—Cleveland—the piratical
and wonderful in the facility with which
have been produced. And in this age of stea-
ment the habits—manners—history are as
and machinery (were it not beyond a
possibility) we might almost be led to

pose that our author had invented a machine
for the production and concentration of men-
tal power. Many are the conjectures, and
still more numerous the tales afloat, respect-
ing the author of "Waverly," like the cele-
brated letters of Junius, they have succes-
sively been attributed to many, but the period
certainly will arrive when their real parent
will proudly acknowledge them, he has not
like that political satirist, to fear the discovery
of apostatized principles, or the infraction of
the claims of gratitude, blood, or friendship,
(the only reasons that can easily be assigned
for the obscurity, in which the author of those
letters chooses to shroud himself, and which
is sanctioned by the virulence which frequently
appears in them.) The concealment of the
author of these popular productions, might
at first have arisen from policy, willing
to try the temper of the town before he
hazarded his name, on such an uncertain
tide; policy may also have continued it, the
very circumstance quickened curiosity, and
by agitating the question of inquiry kept
alive public interest. Opinions were at
the same time more freely given, for praise is
ever more willingly bestowed on an unknown
than a known author, it is the same feeling
which hangs the trophy on the tomb of genius,
but denies it to his living brows.

On our own minds there is not a doubt that
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. is the author
of the novels in question, on a review of them
and his acknowledged works, there are simi-
litudes which must strike the most curious
observer. There is the same spirit runs
through both, the same choice of characters,
and the notes to all his poems discover him
as the possessor of that mine of Scottish his-
tory, and research from, which those novels
are drawn; those notes frequently offensive
from their length and detail, and being often
obtruded when the subject they illustrate,
little calls for them, are generally interesting
and sometimes entertaining, and afford we
imagine unequivocal proof of the author's
identity. In the notes to Rokeby, for instance,
the author of "The Pirate" is discoverable
in every page. The Lord of Mortham is the
elder, Mertoun—Cleveland—the piratical
and wonderful in the facility with which
have been produced. And in this age of stea-
ment the habits—manners—history are as
and machinery (were it not beyond a
possibility) we might almost be led to

the notes to it discover. He who could dig
into such a quarry, and use the materials
drawn from it as he has done, is at once a
phenomenon of genius, erudition, and, in-
dustry; and to add to their value they are
not deteriorated by the slightest indication of
vanity, they are undebased by any deviation
from the principles of religion and morality.
The knowledge of human nature in every
class and under all circumstances is great, and
his historical resources inexhaustible. Where
can there be finer historical portraits than
those of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and
the lovely and unfortunate Mary Stuart?
Where so unique, so perfect a picture of sim-
ple steady virtue, as in Jeannie Deans? In
the character of the earl of Leicester, the
truth of history is violated, a deviation which
we feel conscious of throughout the story,
and which spoils it to us. Of all these novels
that have been dramatised, none were so
grossly abused as Kenilworth at Covent
Garden, where with the best materials, they
contributed to produce the most ineffective re-
presentation that was ever presented to an
audience.

We cannot close this article without turn-
ing to some of our old favorites north of the
Tweed, among the first of whom is Robert
Burns. He is to Scotland what Moore is to
Ireland, less cultivated and refined, 'tis true,
but at the same time more natural and unsu-
phisticated. Much of Burn's merit is lost to
the English reader, by the dialect in which
he has written, no glossary will supply that
intuitive apprehension of an author's meaning
which a thorough knowledge of his language
gives, few have the patience or perseverance
to impress the dialect sufficiently on their
memory to enable them to read him with ease,
and where ease is wanting pleasure is
out of the question. In England then (with
a solitary exception here and there,) he is
nothing as a humorous poet, and even his
serious productions receive an injury, not
alone from our ignorance of Scottish words,
but from an unfortunate association with
terms of our own, with which, excepting in
sound, they do not in the least assimilate.
We feel this in his song of "John Anderson
my Jo," it matters not how often we are
told that "my Jo," is my love, it invariably
reminds us of the nickname of Joseph, and
thus destroys the pathos and sweetness of

Wallace

"A monumental bronze, unchanged his look,
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook :
Train'd from his tree-rocked cradle to his
bier,

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock
Of Oualissi's heart disdained to grow;
As lives the oak unwithered on the rock,
By storms above, and barrenness below;
He scorned his own who (but) felt another's
woe.

than grandeur's most magnificent saloon,
While here and there a solitary star [June,"
Flushed in the darkening firmament of

"Oh! love in such a wilderness as this—
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of his perfect bliss,
And here thou art a God indeed divine."

There is some sweetness in the last words
of Gertrude, but none of the scenes or situa-
tions are wrought up, as in the hands of inspir-
ation they might have been. And we close
this poem after an impartial perusal, with the
impression of its being a weak and defective
performance, and that had it preceded instead
of following, "the pleasures of hope," it would
have been little known beyond the poet and
his publisher. Campbell's early miscellaneous

pieces never rise above mediocrity, and gene-
rally speaking, he is an indifferent song writer,
of which "the wounded Hussar," is one in-
stance, and "the Harper," another, still more
melancholy. Some of his poetry, however,
which has lately appeared in the new Monthly
Magazine, bears so superior a character, (inter-
mixed with many very indifferent pieces,) that
we are led to hope that Campbell will yet give
to the world, a more brilliant memorial of his
talent than either of the poems we have just
noticed. As a prose writer, the little he has
given us, is sufficient to establish him as an
elegant and valuable addition to that numerous
band. It will be felt that throughout this re-
view, we do not deny his several productions
merit, we only enter our protest as to the
degree, and while we think from fortuitous cir-
cumstances they have been overrated, and
acquired a fame that will not be equal or per-
manent; we shall never be backward to allow
that we have never sat down to the perusal of
'the Pleasures of Hope,' without much satis-
faction.

the song. What unaffected tenderness is there not in the following.

Thou' some folks say you're auld, John,
I never think ye so,

Y're eye the same gudeMAN to me,
John Anderson my JO.

Love is with them an evergreen smiling in un-
diminished verdure through the frost of age,
the conclusion (deformed to the strictly Eng-
lish reader perhaps by the dialect) is very
beautiful.

John Anderson my JO, John,
We've climb'd the hill together,

And monie a cantie day, John,
We're had wi' ane anither;

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And we'll sleep together at the foot,
John Anderson my JO.

None but the poet of nature can dare to touch
the precincts of old age, and the common
place of every day life; he who has formed
his style on the classical models of the ancients
may have more *fancy*, but he will have less
*feeling*. Moore's pages scarcely present an
instance in which he touches on age; he is
all youth, sunshine and flowers; subjects
which certainly do as much for the poet as
the poet does for them, he has only to call
forth, not create their brilliance. The same
remark may be carried into the ties and cir-
cumstances of life, to one wife that is cele-
brated there are a thousand mistresses; they
are generally beautiful creations of the head,
but the wife of Collin, is a creation of the
heart, how much do we not admire her affect-
ionate bustle when she hears of her husband's
return:

And are ye sure the news is true? and are
ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark? make
haste, fling by your wheel,

Is this a time to think o' wark! when Collin's at the door?

I Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quay, and see
him come ashore.

ay that a tone of genuine love in
Sae sweet his words, sae smooth his speech,
his breath like caller air, [the stair.

His very foot has music in't, as he comes up
there is a pathos in the following which goes
immediately to the heart.

"want's stern edict," and "feudal grief,"
should force the brave son of Scotland "from
a home he lov'd so dear."

There is a coarseness in
"I hoast no song in magic wonders rife."

Speaking of Gertrude,

"Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead
mild,
The parted ringlets shone in simple guise,
An inmate in the house of Albert smil'd,
Or blest his noontday walk—she was his only
child."

"Her mind coud culture well repay,
And more engaging grew from pleasing day
to day."

"No never! thou *that yet dost lovelier seem.*"
These are faults that occur but too fre-
quently through the poem. We will now turn
to the more grateful task of noticing its beau-
ties; when the Indian brings

Is not the frost that freezes ten,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency,

"Tis not sic could that makes me cry,

But my love's heart's grown could to me.

Oh! Oh! that my young babe was born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I myself were dead and gane,

And for maid again I ne'er shall be!

We shall close these brief remarks on the
poetry of Burns with a few on his beautiful
song

"Thou'rt gane awa from me, Mary."
The acquiescence to an inevitable fate, the
tender and checked expostulation is admirable,

Until this hour I never thought,

That aught could alter thee, Mary;
Thou'rt still the mistress of my heart,

Think what you will of me Mary.

Thou' you've been false, yet while I live,
No other maid 'll woo, Mary,

Till friends forget and I forgive

The wrongs to them and me, Mary.

So then farewell: of this be sure,
Since you've been false to me, Mary,

For all the world I'd not endure,

Half what I've done for thee, Mary.

Joanna Baillie has never had justice done to her, but she is secure of the award of a grateful posterity. The last favorite we shall mention is Macniel, as our limits warn us, it is time to draw to a close. The enchanting simplicity which abounds in his poetry is perhaps no where more observable than in his song of

I lo'ed ne'er a faddie but ane,

He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me;

He is willing to make me his ain,

And his ain I am willing to be.

Let others brag weel of, their gear,
Their land and their lordly degree,

I care na for aught but my dear,

He is ilka thing lordly to me.

While we fund Scotland thus rich in genius
we must also observe she is conspicuous for
industry and perseverance, there is not a
country in the world where education is met
with general, and we believe we may add where
the exornities that deform society are less fre-
quent. May this not be adduced as a proof
of the advantages resulting from the universal
dissemination of knowledge?

walter fenn

20

"A monumental bronze, unchanged his look,
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook:
Train'd from his tree-rocked cradle to his
bier,

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock
Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow;
As lives the oak unwithered on the rock,
By storms above, and barrenness below:
He scorned his own who (but) felt another's
woe."

"Seemed to love what'er they looked upon."
But the second line from it is faulty to a degree,

"Or if a shade more pleasing them o' ercast."

"Then wou'd that home admit them—happier
for

than Grandeur's most magnificent saloon,
While here and there a solitary star [June,"
Flushed in the darkening firmament of

"Oh ! love in such a wilderness as this—
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a God indeed divine."

There is some sweetness in the last words
of Gertrude, but none of the scenes or situa-
tions are wrought up, as in the hands of inspi-
ration they might have been. And we close
this poem after an impartial perusal, with the
impression of its being a weak and defective
performance, and that had it preceded instead
of following, "the pleasures of hope," it would
have been little known beyond the poet and
his publisher. Campbell's early miscellaneous

pieces never rise above mediocrity, and gene-
rally speaking, he is an indifferent song writer,
of which "the wounded Hussar," is one in-
stance, and "the Harper," another, still more
melancholy. Some of his poetry, however,
which has lately appeared in the new Monthly
Magazine, hears so superior a character, (inter-
mixed with many very indifferent pieces,) that
we are led to hope that Campbell will yet give
to the world, a more brilliant memorial of his
talent than either of the poems we have just
noticed. As a prose writer, the little he has
given us, is sufficient to establish him as an
elegant and valuable addition to that numerous
band. It will be felt that throughout this re-
view, we do not deny his several productions
*merit*, we only enter our protest as to the
degree, and while we think from fortuitous cir-
cumstances they have been overrated, and
acquired a fame that will not be equal or per-
manent; we shall never be backward to allow
that we have never sat down to the perusal of
'the Pleasures of Hope,' without much satis-
faction.

ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS.

STRICTURES ON THE POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY,

NO. 2. THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

"Oh! who that loves Erin—or who that can
see

Through the waste of her annals that epoch
sublime—

Like a pyramid raised in the desert—where he
Will in glory stand out to the eyes of all
time!"

WHEN Wit and Fancy formed a compact,
and resolved to introduce themselves to the
world under the auspices of melody, they cer-
tainly chose the pericranium of this gentleman
as their temple. They transferred into his
brain all the beautiful variety of the rainbow
on which they rode—all the airyness that dis-
tinguished their flight, and suffered no idea
to take wing from his lips or his pen, without
catching lustre from the one, and elegance
from the other. He is an anointed bard; and
if he has not, like the bard of Fingal, sung of
fued and battle, it is not that his master-hand
is incapable of striking those bold chords, but
that love and beauty refuse to relinquish the
poet who excels all others in bower or ban-
quet-hall.

"The string that now languishes loose o'er the
lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the war-
rior's dart,

And the lip, which now breathes but the song
of desire,

Might have poured the full tide of the pa-
triot's heart."

Instead of lyrics, we might have been charmed
and astounded by philippics, for, of national
zeal, Mr. Moore is by no means deficient, and
adopting Dr. Johnson's definition of genius,
we should have seen him holding a brief in a
court of law, with the same grace that he now
holds a sonnet in that of Parnassus, or stand-
ing in the senate like Jupiter in the synod,
dispensing flashes of wit, and thunders of elo-
quence. It will be said by the hyper-critics,

that such a little man is very inaptly com-
pared to Jupiter, but they must recollet, that
he is " a mighty little man," and that we are
much of the opinion of Lord Keeper Bacon,
that tall men, like tall houses, are generally
worst furnished in the *upper story.*"

Mr. Moore has been charged with licen-
tiousness, and, as far as that charge is founded
in truth, we are sorry for it; it is a fault
which, however, he has corrected, and we are
happy to turn with him, from the errors of a
young man and too vivid imagination. In his
late production there is nothing to offend.
Perhaps he thought it best to take the advice
of his great contemporary, who bade him
"mend his line, and sin no more." How
much it is to be lamented, that his lordship
has adopted the licence he was so ready to
reprobate, and that he has, in riper years,
fallen into the error (to call it no worse),
which even youth cannot excuse. Greatly as
we admire the subject of the present stric-
tures, we must acknowledge that his poetry
has no higher aim than to please, it is not of
a nature to carry any moral or important
lesson to the mind; he has here and there
some fine energetic bursts of high and noble
feeling, but he never inculcates a moral which,
blending with the sequel of the story, leaves
a permanent impression on the mind. We
are not, however, such strait-laced moralists
as to quarrel with him for this, especially as
we have so many, whose pages we may inter-
mingle with his, and thus save ourselves from
the intoxication his poetry is likely to produce.
It is not every writer, who, like the Apollo-
nicon, combines every degree of tone and
power, and since we possess such fine orga-
nists as Millman and Crabbe, we may be al-
lowed to praise and appreciate the exquisite
harp and viol of Moore.

Lalla Rookh claims the distinction of pri-
quality of mention from its bulk, rather than its

ars in the song of "Oh! doubt
rse is,

rough many a garden roves,
his lay of courtship o'er,
meets the flower he loves,
there, and hums no more."

this idea is to be found in a
great Pye,

collects his honied store,
y various flow'r that blow,
she tastes the fragrant rose,
weets that pleas'd before,
n to rove no more."

Melodies are uniformly beautiful.
Melodies are equally exquisite in
be, but he was never designed for
pet, they are the productions of
unhallowed by heavenly inspir-
ive too much of this world, to
our thoughts entirely on the
occasional songs, few are more
"The day of Love," and
ght dews," and he is, without
first song-writer of this, or per-
age. To notice the few faults
r to, is like censuring the sun
and then overcast. Yet, we
we are sorry that the weeds of
us hour should be preserved,
mong the flowers of his happy
ince he has already written so
well, it were to be wished that
othing fid its way to the world
teriorate the splendor of his
ind are often ungrateful enough
pleasures, as well as past be-
mistaken who imagines, " that
if one day will atone for the idle
r, and that applause begun by
will be continued by habit."

R.

beauties, boundless as they are, since its
author's character as a poet was already estab-
lished, and will probably ultimately rest on
his occasional and lyrical effusions. They
are the very gems of poetry, and will outlive
a thousand epics, " not that we mean to say
Lalla Rookh is an epic quite the reverse."

"The veiled prophet of Khorassan" is the least pleasing production that has issued from the pen of this popular writer. Al Mokanna, whose true name was Hakem Ebu Hesham, was originally a secretary to Abu Moslem, governor of Khorassan. On going to Maro-aralnahr, he usurped the title of prophet, and the names of Al Mokanna and Al Borkai, both signifying the veiled: for, having lost an eye, and being otherwise on the left side of beauty, he adopted the custom of covering his face with a veil or girdle-mask, by which he an-swered the double purpose, of concealing his natural deformity, and spreading a belief of his supernatural beauty. He soon declared against the khalif, and gained possession of many fortified places in Khorassan, which ob-liged Al Mobhi to send an army against him; when hard pressed by the besiegers, and all hope was over, he infused poison into the wine he gave his family and followers, fired the castle, and lastly threw himself into a vessel of aquafortis, or something of a similar nature, which entirely consumed him. On the enemy's entering, they found only one being alive, a concubine of the impostor's, who, sus-pecting his horrid design, concealed herself, and thus proved a solitary exception to the general and dreadful scene of desolation. It is worthy of remark, that the mode Mokanna made use of to destroy himself, by leaving no evident proof of his death, continued for many years, the belief of his divinity; so prone, is the perverted mind to cling to the supersti-tion by which it has been deluded. With such materials from historical record, we can award the poet but little praise on the score of invention, or even conduct; the story of Azim and Zelica, which he has engrafted upon it, is in every point repulsive and incongruous, and the versification frequently deficient in euphany and rhythm; the character of the im-postor is merely what the bard found it; far differently would it have come from the hand of Byron, with " All its elements—convulsed, combined." But, in fact, this is not the sphere

in which the muse of Anacreon best loves to
plume her celestial wing; and "Paradise and
the Peri" is at once the most congenial and
felicitous of her efforts. Genius never in-
spired, rapt attention never lingered over a
more exquisite fiction, we shall not trust our-
selves to begin extracting, but pass to the
succeeding poem of "The Fire Worshippers,"
unquestionably the finest piece in the volume,
equally felicitous in expression and illustra-
tion with "Paradise and the Peri," and more
striking from the construction of the story,
and the forceful and exquisite portraitures of
Hafed and Hinda. "The Light of the Haram"
is a delightful trifle, and the songs with which
Nourmahal wins back her royal lover, are

"whisper'd balm—are sunshine spoken."

To open the Irish Melodies, is to "banquet
on," till the impossibility of selection induces
us to close the book, or quote the whole. The
beauty of the ideas, and the felicity of the ex-
pression, call forth feelings which mock the
ineffective agency of language, and we ex-
claim this is indeed the "witchery of song."
But anxious to indulge poor human nature in
a little of the spleen so necessary to its happi-
ness, we shall endeavour to find a few faults
on which to hang our criticisms, and thus
throw a dash of acidity to qualify the "sur-
feit of sweet panegyric." Yet, our censures
must be confined to the *last* number, as to
enter a caveat against the trifling errors of
the proceeding ones, would be something of a
piece with the criticism of Momus, who unable
to find any room for animadversion in the
faultless form of Venus declared, "her slip-
pers were too noisy."

"Of all the fair months that round the sun"
has nothing of Moore about it, and we should
not know it for his, but for the company it is
in. "The Fortune Teller" is a similar pro-
duction, who would believe the following
verse to have flowed from his pen:

"Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly,
As ever was told, by the new moon's light
To young maiden, shining as newly."

In the song of " Ne'er ask the hour," he has
turned plagiarist on himself, and the beautiful
duet of " Love and the Sun-dial" has the
same idea more happy in expression and per-

sonation. The same occurs in "Oh! ye dead!"
in which he has these lines,

"To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that weep your full"
And in "Oh! where's the Slave" occurs

"Farewell Erin ! farewell all
Who live to weep our full."

The Parallel, "Yes, Sad one of Sion," wants
the spirit that sparkles through his other
patriotic effusions. "Drink of this Cup," is
deficient in the accustomed elegance of his
Bacchanalian songs. When we read, "Shall
the harp then be silent," we instantly sub-
scribed to the remark of Dr. Johnson, that an
epitaph or an elegy is imperfect which omits
the name of the being commemorated. We
suppose the verses to be written to the
memory of Henry Grattan, a name of which
Ireland, and not Ireland alone, but humanity
in general, may well be proud. It is one of
the fixed stars of genius, whose steady lustre
will shine through ages. The last verse but
one has none of that felicity of language so
peculiar to the author—

"Such a union of all that enriches life's hour
Of the sweetness we love, and the greatness
we praise,

As that type of simplicity blended with power,
A child with a thunderbolt only pourtrays."

and the concluding verse is a common climax,
and very weakly expressed.

In spite of the foregoing remarks with re-
spect to the former numbers of the Irish me-
lodies, we cannot but visit one instance of
plagiarism with the utmost severity, since a
theft that wants the plea of necessity is always
of an aggravated character, and there are few
who have less occasion to invade the stores
of another than Moore, thearcency to which

we allude, occurs in the song of "Oh! doubt
me not," his verse is,

"The bee through many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he meets the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more."

The original of this idea is to be found in a
song by the laureat Pye,

"The bee collects his honied store,
From every various flow'r that blow,
But when she tastes the fragrant rose,
Forgetting sweets that pleas'd before,
She fixes then to rove no more."

The national Melodies are uniformly beautiful.
The sacred Melodies are equally exquisite in
point of poetry, but he was never designed for
a devotional poet, they are the productions of
human genius, unhallowed by heavenly inspir-
ation, 'and have too much of this world, to
allow us to fix our thoughts entirely on the
next. Of his occasional songs, few are more
delightful than "The day of Love," and
"When twilight dews," and he is, without
exception, the first song-writer of this, or per-
haps any other age. To notice the few faults
we have adverted to, is like censuring the sun
for being now and then overcast. Yet, we
must confess, we are sorry that the weeds of
an inauspicious hour should be preserved,
and placed among the flowers of his happy
fancy; and since he has already written so
much, and so well, it were to be wished that
he would let nothing fid its way to the world
that would deteriorate the splendor of his
name. Mankind are often ungrateful enough
to forget past pleasures, as well as past be-
nefits. He is mistaken who imagines, "that
the diligence of one day will alone for the idle
ness of another, and that applause begun by
approbation, will be continued by habit."

R.

over the world; this is what the Arabs call the chamora or hamar; the Jews, the chamor; and the Turks, the hymar: a term evidently derived, in the language of all those people, from its reddish colour. On such a lowly animal "the flight into Egypt" most probably was performed; most probably "the recal to Jerusalem" obeyed! To this unresisting, despised creature, in our more modern times, the eye of fainting nature has turned; and from its healing udder drawn the peculiarly balmy nutriment, long considered the only specific against consumptive mortality; and, to which many a happy family (neglectful, alas! of the poor dumb medium of the mercy!) owe, under heaven, the recovery from premature decay, of the young, the noble, the beloved!

I had scarcely made myself acquainted with the natural and traditionary history of

the Asiatic tribes of this animal, I beheld one of them, bearing a large paſſ on each flank, with something lying across them, heaped highly, and covered with a white woolen blanket. It stumbled over some loose stones in the path, and fell, just before me. The blanket dropped on one side, when a coffin was discovered, braced to the paniers. At the same instant, a shriek issued from the wife of the deceased, seated, under her veil, on the back of another chamor; and one cast herself headlong on the other prostrate animal. It lay, without a struggle, as if tenderly conscious of the grief, then mourning over the burthen it had sunk under; and so impressed, I stooped, and called my attendants to assist in raising both.

P.J.

(To be continued.)

## THE MISER.

THE sole survivor of the wreck, Harold gazed the next morning on the scene of desolation with feelings more easily imagined than described. The waves had washed back some of the bodies of the unfortunate beings which the ocean had the night before engulfed. Harold stooped to recognize them. Here lay one, lately full of rude health and ever-joyous spirits, pale, cold, and distorted; there another whose few grey hairs told of many winters—he had seen his last—the few remaining sands had been rudely shaken from the glass. Not far from him lay stretched a youth of seventeen; and Harold, who had as yet shed no tears, felt one drop as he relinquished the cold hand of the boy, and saw it fall heavy and powerless on the rock. He remembered the gay anticipations in which he had so lately indulged, as the approach to England brought the hopes of home still closer to his heart. “Poor lad!” cried Harold, “would I could give my heart the warmth of mine, and send thee to joy the eyes, that now are doomed to weep for thee! I could have lain in his place without costing any in the world a pang. He turned away, and just then a burst of sunshine mocked his heart with its

brilliance. When all is desolate within, how gain the lustre of external objects: there is no chord that can be touched in unison with them; the violent contrast creates a jar, a discord, abhorrent to the soul.

They had been wrecked on the coast of Scotland, Harold's native place. He had left it in the flush of youth, impelled by necessity and allured by hope. The former had again brought him back, but the latter had long flown away, with all her fairy-colours, and left his barren fortune such as she first found it. Time had been still more unkind, and one by one had robbed him of all that makes moment precious. The mother, whose clinging arms circled him in a last embrace the day he quitted home, had soon after ended her weary sojourn here: his father had gradually shrunk from all his early friends after the loss of his wife, sought a new scene, and died among strangers; while the few who were Harold's playmates in his little native village were scattered or dead.

Such were the tidings time had brought him. Having been an only child he was brotherless, and all the fond affections which grow out of the relations of life were want-

Misfortune is a good school to teach command of mind: I had been an early pupil in it, and no inapt scholar. Habits of melancholy had led to much reflection, and I now called on all that contemplation had ever suggested, to bring me relief. I remembered that this world was but a probationary passage; that the fulfilment of our wishes did not always contribute to our happiness; that even the possession of felicity could not secure its continuance; and I concluded in exclaiming with Lord Byron—

The past is nothing—and at last
The future can but be the past.

The above is from a tale I wrote for La Belle called "The Cousin."

## Degradation

It is a pity the world forms so few distinctions, between degradation arising from circumstances over which we have no control, and that which we incur from actual and voluntary error. To visit guilt with punishment and neglect, is the natural feeling consequent on beholding crime, though it might frequently be blended with less severity and a greater wish to reclaim than to condemn; but to slight or shun those who from fortuitous circumstances innocently and unfortunately bear the stigma of hereditary error, is a species of prescriptive injustice, which the practice of the world cannot sanctify, nor common sense, to say nothing of common feeling, sanction nor excuse.

The above from a tale I also wrote for La Belle called "Alice Boyce."

### To my beautiful JULIA.

Can all the dreams of ardent youth,
In fancy's colours dress,
Be realized with more breast
In this too happy breast?
Have tips for which a world might sigh
In fondness sigh'd on mine,
And sealed the promise of that eye,
Which, beaming, said, "I'm thine?"
Oh! Julia, as of old they brought,
The Delphic shrine to hea,
Each treasure first in wish—in thought,
O'er mountain, plain, and deep;
So would I through worlds afar,
O'er trackless sand or sea,
Through fields of death, and floods of war,
To find aught worthy thee!

But vain the hope—I therefore bring
Thou boundless love alone;
And at thy feet I fondly fling
All I can call my own.
Oh! tell me, can a love so warm
Replace the world you quit?
And Julia, in her Sabine farm,
Forget the realms of wit?
Can classic lore supply the place
Of pleasure's splendid joys,
And bright domestic bliss displace
Cold fashion's tinsel'd toys?
Yes, hope—love—say this will be mine.
Oh! smile or I'm undone!
Oh! say, my life, can you resign
Ten thousand slaves for one?

These songs are from
The tale of "the Cousin."

Yes, all I've yet of pleasure tasted
I now with flattered joy resign;
And I shall think each moment wasted
That is not spent at Henry's shrine.
He bids me seek the tuneful muses,
As friends whom time nor fate can change;
He has no wish my heart refuses,
However new, however strange.

With him the verdant vale I'll wander,
And climb the mountain's rugged brow,
And smile to think I' er could squander
My days, as I have done till now.

Far nobler views my being swaying,
I'll try to earn his boundless love,
And knowledge round my temples playing,
Shall gild the wreath that passion wove.
And oh! that wreath, unlike the flowers
That fashion's chilly world supplies,
Shall catch new sweets from passing hours,
And brighten as time onward flies.

I must not trust my heart to beat
Again so near to thine,
I dare not trust again to meet,
Those dangerous eyes with mine.
The trance is past—thick heaven it is!
Which I must ne'er renew,
Oh! well I know how great the bliss,
But ah! how fatal too.
Then leave me the lone solitude,
My destiny enjoined;
Oh! give no image to intrude,
Too fondly on my mind.
Go stray alone the path that I,
Too gladly would partake,
The sacrifice has cost a sigh—
Ah! sighs that would awake.
But oh! you go pursued by prayers,
Too wildly, deeply thine;
They soothe me while my heart despairs,
And only will decline,
When vital warmth shall quit the breast,
That used their home to be;
And every pulse has sunk to rest,
That beat so oft for thee.

Introduced this song in a tale called "La Belle

to his heart, which, like a country
denied the blessing of fertilizing streams,
now felt parched and desolate. Nature
had given him the quickest sensibilities,
and by a singular chance, the circum-
stances and changes of his fortune had in-
creased them; he was therefore particu-
larly alive to the isolation of his fate. The
homeless man—he who has none to love, to
hope, to fear for him—is the most pitiable
object in creation. To him the future
is a matter of indifference; no eye will
brighten at his prosperity, or glisten with
a tear at his distress. He grows reckless
of all around him, and the chance is that
he becomes a bad man. From this Harold's
better angel had preserved him, and per-
haps few men had reached nine-and-twenty
with less of error to bemoan. The sensi-
bilities which betray so many had preserved
him; his heart readily attached itself to
the unfortunate, and thus he had in turn
united himself to many as a friend and
benefactor. But an unkindest fate had still
pursued him, and in looking back on the
past he had to mourn the ingratitude of
many, and the death of one who was never
to be replaced in this world; with whose
gentle nature blended the firmest virtues,
and who endured sorrow and suffering here
with the mildest patience, in the bright
hope of a transition to that place where
they are unknown.

The common, and it is said the strongest
principle that actuates the heart of man—
self-preservation—led Harold on. The
tempest had only been as if gathered new
strength; the winds appeared to have
returned with fresh forces to tear the few
stunted pines that remained from the rocks;
again the waves came on with their high
crest of foam, as if indignant that nature
should have placed any barrier to their im-
petuous course, and broke with redoubled
violence against the opposing rocks. The
skies grew denser every moment. The
Harold felt that his exhausted strength
could not long bear the buffet of another
storm. His soul looked up to the tre-
mendous author and director of all; and,
in the midst of all the horrors that surround-
ed him, felt the good man's hope. On the
inscrutable and resistless power that direct-
ed all he threw himself,

The wind again fell, and, cheered by

the wind, the sun shone, and the air was
cool; but it was not to take the advice
tempestuous, who bade him, and sim no more." How
lamented, that his lordship's licence
he was so ready to that he has, in riper years,
error (to call it no worse), can not excuse. Greatly as
subject of the present strik-
acknowledge that his poetry
than to please, it is not of
any moral or important
ind; he has here and there
c bursts of high and noble
ever inculcates a moral which,
the sequel of the story, leaves
pression on the mind. We
r, such strait-laced moralists
th him for this, especially as
they, whose pages we may inter-
and thus save ourselves from
his poetry is likely to produce,
writer, who, like the Apollo-
se every degree of tone and
c we possess such fine orga-
n and Crabbe, we may be al-
most and appreciate the exquisite
Moore.

the view of a distant light, Harold renewed
his course and re-assured his heart. The
day just served to discern the habita-
tion he approached, and as soon as he had
gained it he knocked loudly at the door.
No answer was returned. Again he knock-
ed, and convinced by the marks of footsteps
outside, as well as the light within, though
the latter was now extinguished, at least
no longer visible, he raised his voice in
supplication for shelter and relief. Alas!
the waves that beat the distant rocks were
not more powerless to impress them, than
was the voice of Harold to move the flinty
heart that he appealed to. Avarice had
left no room for any feeling but the love of
gold; that which had been bestowed as
a blessing, was perverted to a curse; instead
of forming and increasing his means of
communication with his kind, it served as
a barrier against them; and the wretched
miser beheld, in every fellow-being who
approached him, the open marauder or
the secret plunderer. A good office was
looked upon as a covert attack upon his
purse, and induced suspicion instead of
gratitude; the very commonest interchange
of general salutation seemed to threaten
him with leading to an acquaintance which
might involve disbursements, and they were
consequently avoided. Thus had the old
man been suffered to become a complete
recluse, seldom seen in the wretched ham-
let near which he had fixed his abode, and
as seldom thought of.

Among the circumstances of Harold's
unprotopious fortune, perhaps this was the
worst. The inhospitable door was im-
moveable. As the winds grew louder his
fainting voice became wholly inaudible—
probably as much from that sickness of
the soul at the callousness of the being he
implored, as from the effects of physical
suffering. Crouching himself at the door,
he waited till the last vital drop to
stagnate, the last pulse of agony cease.
He did not wait long; that heart, so warm
with sympathy for others, at last grew
cold; the languid pulses fluttered for a
moment, and then ceased for ever! He
died, and there were none to close the
glazed eye, to compose the shruken limbs,
or wipe the last tear of agony from his
hollow cheek.

Again with the returning morning the

sun looked forth upon him, as powerless
to reanimate his heart, as to thaw the frost
in which every limb was bound. The
bright icicles hung from his black hair; his
hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer,
or imploring; probably the former, for
having proved, howsoever near, it was
vain to hope for human aid, he would
naturally turn to that power which he
could not appeal to in vain, and in the
hope of whose mercy only we can dry the
tear that falls to Harold's fate.

With morning, too, the many bars of
the miser's door were removed. He lis-
tened between every one; no sound arose
to alarm his fears, and at length the door
slowly turned upon its hinges: it opened,
and the stiffened corpse fell in! As its
cold heavy weight rolled at his feet, even
the miser shuddered! The unreproaching
silence, the passive helplessness, was more
eloquent than its living tones of supplica-
tion, and with some feelings of compunc-
tion he bent to raise it. The matted and
frozen hair had fallen over the face; he
pushed it aside from the pale cold brow,
and, as he did so, discovered the features
of his son—his only son! The uncon-
sious corpse fell from the arms that had

too late been stretched forth to sustain it,
while a groan, such as never issued before
from mortal lips, spoke the horrid com-
punction and wordless agony of his father's
heart.

After the departure of his son and the
loss of his wife, chance had thrown some
portion of wealth into the old man's hands.
At first he treasured it up for his child,
and fed his fancy with the hope of making
him rich; but he gradually began to
love his gold for itself, and when re-
port told him he was childless, he aban-
doned himself wholly to the passion of
avarice, and made his wealth the only
object of his contemplation, the only idol
of his worship.

With a delirious yet desiring hope,
the wretched old man dragged the remains
of his ill-fated child into the house. A
few hours sooner, that act would have
preserved to him a son to solace his clos-
ing years, and an inheritor of his now
useless wealth. "Too late—too late!" he
gassed, at intervals, as he madly tried
to call back the life he had refused to save.
"Too late! all too late!" he mur-
mured, as he sank and expired on the corpse
of Harold.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

"Can it be?" exclaimed Isabel, as she
glanced her eye over the title-page of Ac-
ckermann's Forget-me-Not, bearing the ad-
vanced date of 1827; "is another year so
late? In how different a light is the
same subject viewed at different periods
of life! In childhood—gay and happy
childhood—the close of the year was re-
garded as the boundary of all care and sor-
row—for even childhood has its sorrows—
and beyond that boundary all was bright
and glorious. What plans were not laid for
our future conduct—what improvements
were we not to make—what studies were
we not to pursue—what pleasures were not
to be crowded into the approaching year
Now, the waning months serve
but to remind us of the lapse of time—
which, but for their silent warning, would
steal by us all unheeded—serve but to re-

call the memory of joys departed! Last
year! Can I look back with calmness
for the changes which have been wrought since
last year? Then friendship—friendship
the deepest and most intense—engrossed
my whole being. Then every thought,
every action, had but one object—her in
which my soul confided. Now, the hand
which was wont to cling to mine returns
no answering pressure—the heart I reposed
in is cold—and to my bosom happiness
may never again be restored! Ah! too
true are the words of song—

'And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that bulls to sleep?
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep!'

Thus thought Isabel; but the thought
was founded in error—the friend of her
heart was faithful.

Misfortune is a good
school to teach command of mind: I had
been an early pupil in it, and no inapt
scholar. Habits of melancholy had led to
much reflection, and I now called on all
that contemplation had ever suggested, to
bring me relief. I remembered that this
world was but a probationary passage; that
the fulfilment of our wishes did not al-
ways contribute to our happiness; that
even the possession of felicity could not
secure its continuance; and I concluded
in exclaiming with Lord Byron—

Degradation

It is a pity the world
forms so few distinctions, between degrad-
dation arising from circumstances over
which we have no control, and that which
we incur from actual and voluntary error.
To visit guilt with punishment and neglect,
the natural feeling consequent on behold-
ing crime, though it might frequently be
blended with less severity and a greater
wish to reclaim than to condemn; but to
slight or shun those who from fortuitous
circumstances innocently and unfortunately
bear the stigma of hereditary error, is a
species of prescriptive injustice, which the
practice of the world cannot sanctify, nor
common sense, to say nothing of common
feeling, sanction nor excuse.

I must not trust my heart to beat
Again so near to thine,
I dare not trust again to meet,
Those dangerous eyes with mine.
The trance is past—thank heaven it is !
Which I must ne'er renew,
Oh! well I know how great the blias,
But ah! how fatal too.
Then leave me the lone solitude,
My destiny enjoined;
Oh! give no image to intrude,
Too fondly on my mind.
Go stray alone the path that I,
Too gladly would partake,
The sacrifice has cost a sigh—
Ah! sighs that would awake.
But oh! you go pursued by prayers,
Too wildly, deeply thine;
They sooth me while my heart despairs,
And only will decline,
When vital warmth shall quit the breast,
That used their home to be;
And every pulse has sunk to rest,
That beat so oft for thee.