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every part strictly in character. Here we con of composition! for that is the fit expression, template a bigh law officer; we see the Magis. ibe motto of this chef d'æuvre." trate, yet not passing judgement, nor eveu on The figure, he observes, is stuffed; even the bench, but merely leading his little girl by loaded with drapery, like a painter's layman; the hand from one chamber to another. He made up, in short, into a buudle; yet art ba. seems either gning to the Court of Justice, or shewn its power of drawing it out from its returning from it; but we see clearly, says the massy envelope, and of marking its outline; Parisian critic, that he is not there; in short, and after all, it must be owned to be decently arlds this hypercritic, who seems inclined to dressed, and haring nothing even bordering give life to resemblance, “ I rather think that

upon the ridiculous. he is going there, and that he is just in the The visage, ad's this savant, cannot but be act of giving up the little girl to its nurse be- || a good resemblance; for it is stamped with a fore - he goes out, for all his costume is in seal of truth which would be much more diffi. exact order; his ruff is not at all deranged; || cult to invent than to copy. The child too he has the air and complexion of one who had

has quite the family air, both in dress and ad. just enjoyed a good night's rest; and he seems

dress, for it is nearly swaddled in its accoutrenot yet to have taken the air.”

ments, but apparently justly dressed, and neat How unlucky that Van Dyk did not intro

as a pin (range) as the old nurse, no doubt, duce the good loquacious old nurse! With

would have said. what accuracy, what ease of developement,

This child's head was often taken as a model what quickness of idea would this accurate by Van Dyk's scholars, because, says this man critic have told us what the old woman said, I of taste, it enables them to dispeose with copyand what she meant to say; we should then ing after nature, and we may add, that if bis have known whether she too had enjoyed a

pupils copy his criticisms, they may in like good night's rest, and whether she had taken

manner be said to“ dispense with nature," and the air, or any tbing else she liked better !

to adopt a mode of art 100 refined to be in. Well might he then have exclaimed, as he telligible. does, “See here the wisdom, the knowledge



From Poetic Trifles,by Ann of Swansea.
HARK! 'tis the raven hoarsely croaks,

The white owl shrilly screams;
The wind groans through you aged oaks,

The stars sbed sickly gleams.
Ob! would that morning's beams gave light,

I dread these falling glooms;
Have you not heard, at dead of night,

How ghosts forsake their tombs?
What form is that which on the beath

Glides slow as if on air?
God! 'tis as pale as ashy death,

And seems a shroud to wear.

Albert to Eda often swore

He lov'd her more than light;
That ev'ry day he lov'd her more ;

To her his faith did plight.
He vow'd, if Heaven would spare bis life,

That be with her would wed,
That she alone should be his wife,

She only sbare bis bed.
A ring he gave, a ruby heart,

Pierc'd with an arrow keen,
From wbich the blood did seem to start,

And lie in drops between,
“ Let this upon thy finger stay,

“A pledge of love most true;
“May peace from me be far away,

“ When I prove false to you !"
A tear-drop fell on Eda's cheek,

Her heart his words believ'd; “Pray God," she cried," who bears thee speak,

“ I ne'er may be deceiv’d.

'Tis Eda's spirit ; at this hour

She froin her grave doth rise, And seeking Albert's bridal bow'r,

Appals his heart and eyes.

“ For nought from death could Eda save,

“ If thou shouldst from her fly; “ And soon within the grass-bound grave,

“ Heart.broken she would lie." Albert renewid his vows of love,

He kiss'd her tears away; And more, bis heart's firm faith to prove,

Thus fervently did pray : “ If I should break my vow of love,

“ And with another wed, “ God grant ibou may'st my chamber rove,

“ And share my nuptial bed : “ And may this ring with ruby heart,

“ Upon thy finger shine; « May drops of crimson from it start,

“ And stain this baod of mine !" Again he kiss'd, again he swore,

And cbeer'd her doubting mind; Yet not a week had


before All Albert's vows were wiud. Mabel, a rich and haughty dame,

On Albert fix'd her eyes;
And he with joy be held a flame,

Which promis'd such a prize.
The timid beam of Eda's eye,

Like vi'lets bright with dew,
Her coral lip's vermilion dye,

Her bosom's spotless hue :
All were forgot; as Mabel glanc'd

At wealth and large estates;
As she bis senses held entranc'd,

And vow'd to make him great.
No more of Eda now he thought,

His heart was swell'd with pride ;
That faithless beart for gold was bought,

Aud Mabel was his bride:
And Albert from the church came gay;

His friends around him prest;
And he, to grace his wedding day,

Turited many a guest.
All gay the merry bells rang round,

All blithe the taber play'd;
But strait before them, on the ground,

A grave was newly made. “ For who is this, pray?" ask'd the bride;

« Tis Eda's grave," they say; Albert then shudd'ring turo'd aside,

Aud musing went away.
And soon be heard ibe fun'ral bell,

And saw the village move;
« Oh, God!" he cried, “it is tbe knell

" Of her I wore to love."

The bride sat gaily at the feast,

Ja sumpt'ous robes array'd;
But child and sad was Albert's breast,

His conscience sore dismay'd :
And when the midnight bour drew oigb,

When all retir'd to rest,
Mabel, with bright expecting eye,

Her bridal pillow prest:
And Albert, full of thought and woe,

Prepar'd to join his bride,
When through the chamber, pale and slow,

Did Eda's spirit glide.
Her chiily arms did him embrace ;

“ Albert, thou'rt mine!" she cries : “ Dost thou not know thy Eda's face?

“ Come, turn on me thioe eyes. " Albert ! false Albert! thou art mine:

“ Behold this ruby heart; “ Heav'n lets it on my finger shine,

“ Bids blood drops from it start." And Albert's hands were spotted o'er,

The ring drupt blood and blaz'd : He felt the grasp, beheld the gore,

His eyes with horror-glaz'd. “ Just like this ring, ny heart has bled :

“ Keen avguish did it know ; “And now," the spectre bollow said,

“ Thy nights will all be woe: “ For soon as darkness veils the pole,

I from my grave shall glide : “Wheu deep the midnight bell shall toll,

“ Expect thy buried bride. “ Thou ev'ry night in my embrace,

“ Shalt fear and horror feel; “And ev'ry nigbt, upon thy face,

“ The kiss of dealb I'll seal :

“ And thou shalt see the grave-worm draw

“ Across my peck its trail; “ And thou shalt sce the black toad gnaw

"My cbeek so suok aud pale. “ And ev'ry night I'll clasp thee round,

“ Thy ring shall bleed and shine; “ And in thy ear my voice shall sound

« False Albert! ihou art mine.

Sleep ne'er shall ou thy eye-lids bang,

“ Or give thy horrors rest, « Till thou hast suffer'd ev'ry pang

" That tortur'd Eda's breast. “ Albert! false Albert! thou art mine,

“ Kuowst thou not Eda's face? “ Thy ring doth on my finger shine,

“ My arms do tuce embrace."

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And now the morning's trembling ray

Saw Eda's shade depart;
But, sank in anguish, Albert lay,

With sorrow at his heart.
Mabel, who'd nothing heard or seen,

Lay wond'ring till 'twas light;
Aud little did she joy, I wees,

Ju this her wedding-night. She thought, indeed, 'twas more than odd,

Tbat she, a new-made bride,
Sbould have a dull and senseless clod

Lie lumpish by her side.
But ev'ry night 'tis just the same,

For Albert is as dead;
And Mabel, though a wealthy dame,

Wishes she ne'er bad wed.
And sunk is Albert's sparkling eye,

And blanch'd his rosy cheek ;
Cold damps upon his forehead lie,

And fear his looks bespeak. And he who late so gay was seen,

To ev'ry pleasure dead, With measur'd step and mournful mien,

Now beads to earth his bead. And constant still upon the beath,

Wrapp'd in a windiog sbeet, That pale aod icy form of death,

At this lone hour you'll meet. Albert, the wealth that won thy heart,

By strangers shall be spent; Childless from life wilt thou depart,

And none shall thee lament,
While still I be hapless Eda's tomb

With cypress shall be diest;
And maids shall weep her early doon,

And bid her spirit rest.
And many a rose impearld with dew,

By ineek-eye'd evening shed,
Sball tender pity's fingers strew,

Across her turfy bed.,

And niingle with the rich and vain,
Who scorn the daughters of the plain,
Thy unsophisticated heart
May cbange its present ease for smart,

My sweet, my ar:less Mary.
Then let not pride's fallacious ray
Seduce thee from the humble way ;
Ambition dazzles to desiroy,
And wealth but seldom leads to joy;
The gold and gems that shine so fair,
Too often hide a heart of care,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
Ah, let not gaudy toys enspare !
Sell not content for empty glare;
Here health is found in ev'ry gale,
Fair virtue loves the quiet vale ;
She flies tbe sepseless, giddy throng,
To dwell the sylvan groves amoug,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
Safe in the shade, the fragile flow'r
Enjoys the sun, imbibes the show'r,
Expands its silken bosom fair,
And with its fragrance loads the air e
But to another soil convey'd,
Its sweets decay, its beauties fade,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
Take now tbe moral of the lay,
Ab! never discontented stray
From that safe path where peace presides,
To flaunt where empty pomp resides;
For men will flatter to betray;
Then leave with scorn their hapless prey,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
Then through the day, no longer brigbt,
And the long dark and weary night,
Thou'dst glow with rage, wouldst cbill with

Thy lustrous eye be dimm'd with tears ;
Sbunn'd by the good, thy liours would be
Devoted all to misery,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
Thy alter'd form and hectic cheek,
Consumption's rapid strides would speak;
Gaunt porerty, witb squalid face,
Would chill thy heart in ev'ry place ;
No tears would pityiog fall for thee,
Except the lears that fell from me,

My sweet, my artless Mary.
For I, whatever ills befall,
Would love thee, though despis'd by all,
Would mourn the fate that bade thee roam,
Would try to lure thee to thy home :
And if affretion could not sare,
Would sink with Thee into the grave,

My sweet, my artless Mary.


From the same. AH, simple maid, that gentle breast, The pillow now of peace and rest, May beave with woe, may swell with care, May prove the paigs of fell despair; Then let no vagrant wishes find An entrance to thy spotless mind,

My sweet, my artless Mary. For shouldst thou quit the mountain side, Where tranquil now thy moments glide,



Oh! could some wizard spell rerire FROM MISS MR. MITFORD'S POEMS. The buried dead, and bid them live! Where all that strikes th' admiring eye

It were a sight to charm dull age,

The infant's roving eye engage, Breathes beauty and sublimity;

The wounded heal, the deaf mao cure, Where the cool air and tranquil light

The widow from her tears allure,
The world-worn heart to peace iuvite;

And moping idiots tell the story,
Whence comes this sadness, pare and holy,
This calm, resistless melancholy?

Of England's bliss, and England's glory! This hallow'd fear, this awe-struck feeling; And they do live! our Shakespeare's straias Comes it from yonder organ pealing?

Die not while English tongue remains; From low chaunt, stealing up the aisle ? Whilst light and colours spread and Ay, From clos'd gate, echving through the pile? Live's Newton's deathless memory: From storied windows plancing high?

Wbilst freedom warms one English breast, From bannerets of cbivalry?

There Fox's bonour'd name shall rest : Or from yon holy chapel, seen

Yes, they do live! they live to inspire Dimly athwart the Gotbic screen?

Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire; No; 'tis the stranger's solemn tread,

Like sparks from beav'u, they wake the Resounding o'er the mighty dead! He came to see thy wondrous stale,

The living light of genius' rays; The wise, the beautiful the great;

Bid' English glories fiash across the gloom, Thy gliry, Empress of the wave,

And catch ber heroes' spirit from their tomb!
He came to see and found a grave:
But such a grave, as never yet
To statesman paid a people's debt!
In batile-strife, the hero's sigla

Is b.eath'd for thee, or victory!
And bards immortal find in thee

WHENCE comes this keen, this cutting smart! A seco: d immortality.

Why doth the tear unbidden start? He who first rais'd from Golbic gloom

Why beats my sad, my sinking heart

Thus heavily? Our tungue,-here Chaucer finds a tomb:

Eliza, 'tis because I part,
Here gentle Spencer; foulest stain

My life! from thee.
Of his owu Gloriaga's reign !
And be who mock'd at Arts controal,

Tost on tbe rude and foaming wave,
The mighty master of the soul,

O'er wbich the howling tempests rare,
Shakespeare, our Sbakespeare ! by his side, In distaut climes I go to breve
The man who pur'd his mighty tide:

The furious sea;
The brightest union Genius wrought,

My doom, perhaps, a wat'ry grave,
WasGarrick's voice and Shakespeare's thought. Far, far, from thee!
Here Miltou's bear'u strung lyre reposes;

Ob ! say, thep all on earth I prize!
Here Dryden's meteor briliance closes;

Wilt thou my absence mourn wiib sighs, Here Newlon lies and with bim lie

And Heav'n invoke, with uplift eyes, The thousand glories of ur sky:

To speed my way? Siar:, numerous as the host of Heaven,

Wilt thou? but see, the sigual A.es! And radiant as the flashing-leviu!

I must not stay! Lo, Chatbam! the immortal name

By storms that sweep the deep abyff Graven in the patriot's beart of fame!

By plighted vows-by all oor bliss Here, bis long course of honours run,

By this embrace and this and thism The mighty Father's mighty Son;

Dear girl! be trueAnd here--Ah, wipe that falling tear!

Remember Love's last parting kiss!
Last, best, and greatest-Fox lies here!

Adieu! Adieu !
Here sleep iliey all: on the wide eartb
There dwell not men of mortal birth,

Would dare contest Faine's glorious race
Witb those wko bll this little space.

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