every part strictly in character. Here we con template a high law officer; we see the Magistrate, yet not passing judgement, nor even on the bench, but merely leading his little girl by the hand from one chamber to another. He seems either going to the Court of Justice, or returning from it; but we see clearly, says the Parisian critic, that he is not there; in short, ards this hypercritic, who seems inclined to give life to resemblance, "I rather think that he is going there, and that he is just in the act of giving up the little girl to its nurse be fore he goes out, for all his costume is in exact order; his ruff is not at all deranged; he has the air and complexion of one who had just enjoyed a good night's rest; and be seems not yet to have taken the air." How unlucky that Van Dyk did not introduce the good loquacious old nurse! With what accuracy, what ease of developement, what quickness of idea would this accurate critic have told us what the old woman said, and what she meant to say; we should then have known whether she too had enjoyed a good night's rest, and whether she had taken the air, or any thing else she liked better! Well might he then have exclaimed, as he does, "See here the wisdom, the knowledge of composition! for that is the fit expression, the motto of this chef d'œuvre." The figure, he observes, is stuffed; even loaded with drapery, like a painter's layman; made up, in short, into a bundle; yet art has shewn its power of drawing it out from its massy envelope, and of marking its outline; and after all, it must be owned to be decently dressed, and having nothing even bordering upon the ridiculous. The visage, adds this savant, cannot but be a good resemblance; for it is stamped with a seal of truth which would be much more difficult to invent than to copy. The child too has quite the family air, both in dress and address, for it is nearly swaddled in its accoutrements, but apparently justly dressed, and neat as a pin (range) as the old nurse, no doubt, would have said. This child's head was often taken as a model by Van Dyk's scholars, because, says this man of taste, it enables them to dispense with copying after nature, and we may add, that if his pupils copy his criticisms, they may in ke manner be said to "dispense with nature," and to adopt a mode of art too refined to be intelligible. FUGITIVE POETRY. THE BRIDAL NIGHT. From "Poetic Trifles," by Ann of Swansea. HARK! 'tis the raven hoarsely croaks, The white owl shrilly screams; Oh! would that morning's beams gave light, What form is that which on the heath Glides slow as if ou air? 'Tis Eda's spirit; at this hour She from her grave doth rise, And seeking Albert's bridal bow'r, Appals his heart and eyes. Albert to Eda often swore He lov'd her more than light; He vow'd, if Heaven would spare his life, That she alone should be his wife, She only share his bed. A ring he gave, a ruby heart, Pierc'd with an arrow keen, And lie in dreps 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 hears thee speak, "I ne'er may be deceiv'd. "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 renew'd his vows of love, He kiss'd her tears away; And more, his heart's firm faith to prove, Thus fervently did pray : "If I should break my vow of love, "And with another wed, "God grant thou 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 hand of mine!" Again he kiss'd, again he swore, All Albert's vows were wiud. Her bosom's spotless hue : All were forgot; as Mabel glanc'd No more of Eda now he thought, His heart was swell'd with pride; And Albert from the church came gay; All gay the merry bells rang round, All blithe the tabor play'd; But strait before them, on the ground, "For who is this, pray?" ask'd the bride; And musing went away. And soon he heard the fun'ral bell, And saw the village move; "Oh, God!" he cried, "it is the knell "Of her I swore to love." The bride sat gaily at the feast, In sumpt'ous robes array'd; And when the midnight bour drew nigb, Mabel, with bright expecting eye, And Albert, full of thought and woe, Her chilly arms did him embrace; "Albert, thou'rt mine!" she cries: "Dost thou not know thy Eda's face? "Come, turn on me thine 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 dropt blood and blaz'd : He felt the grasp, beheld the gore, His eyes with horror-glaz’d. "Just like this ring, my heart has bled: "For soon as darkness veils the pole, "Shalt fear and horror feel; "And ev'ry night, upon thy face, "The kiss of death I'll seal: “And thou shalt see the grave-worm draw "Across my neck its trail; "And thou shalt see the black toad gnaw "My cheek so sunk and pale. "And ev'ry night I'll clasp thee round, "Sleep ne'er shall ou thy eye-lids hang, "Or give thy horrors rest, "Albert! false Albert! thou art mine, And now the morning's trembling ray Saw Eda's shade depart; Mabel, who'd nothing heard or seen, Lay wond'ring till 'twas light; Aud little did she joy, I ween, In this her wedding-night. She thought, indeed, 'twas more than odd, Lie lumpish by her side. But ev'ry night 'tis just the same, And fear his looks bespeak. And he who late so gay was seen, And constant still upon the heath, Wrapp'd in a winding sheet, That pale and 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 the hapless Eda's tomb With cypress shall be drest; And many a rose impearl'd with dew, TO MARY. From the same. AH, simple maid, that gentle breast, May heave with woe, may swell with care, An entrance to thy spotless mind, My sweet, my artless Mary. For shouldst thou quit the mountain side, Where tranquil now thy moments glide, And mingle with the rich and vain, Who scorn the daughters of the plain, Thy unsophisticated heart 319 May change its present ease for smart, Then let not pride's fallacious ray And wealth but seldom leads to joy; My sweet, my artless Mary. Ah, let not gaudy toys ensnare! My sweet, my artless Mary. My sweet, my artless Mary. Take now the moral of the lay, Then leave with scorn their hapless prey, Then through the day, no longer bright, Thy lustrous eye be dimm'd with tears; My sweet, my artless Mary. Thy alter'd form and hectic cheek, 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: Would sink with thee into the grave, My sweet, my artless Mary. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. FROM MISS M. R. MITFORD'S POEMS. WHERE all that strikes th' admiring eye Breathes beauty and sublimity; Where the cool air and tranquil light The world-worn heart to peace invite; Whence comes this sadness, pure and holy, This calm, resistless melancholy? This hallow'd fear, this awe-struck feeling; Comes it from yonder organ pealing? From low chaunt, stealing up the aisle? From clos'd gate, echoing through the pile? From storied windows glancing high? From bannerets of chivalry? Or from yon holy chapel, seen Dimly athwart the Gothic screen? No; 'tis the stranger's solemn tread, Resounding o'er the mighty dead! He came to see thy wondrous state, The wise, the beautiful the great; Thy glory, Empress of the wave, He came to see-and found a grave: But such a grave, as never yet To statesman paid a people's debt! In battle-strife, the hero's sigh Is b.eath'd for thee, or victory! And bards immortal find in thee A second immortality. He who first rais'd from Gothic gloom Of his own Gloriana's reign! And he who mock'd at Arts control, Oh! could some wizard spell revive Of England's bliss, and England's glory! And they do live! our Shakespeare's strains The living light of genius' rays; Bid English glories flash across the gloom, And catch her heroes' spirit from their tomb! |