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.

THE BRIDAL NIGHT.

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 shed sickly gleams.

Oh! 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 heath

Glides slow as if ou air?
God! 'tis as pale as ashy death,
And seems a shroud to wear.

'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;
That ev'ry day he lov'd her more ;
To her his faith did plight.

He vow'd, if Heaven would spare his life,
That he with her would wed,

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,
From which the blood did seem to start,

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,
And cheer'd her doubting mind;
Yet not a week had gone, before

All Albert's vows were wiud.
Mabel, a rich and haughty dame,
On Albert fix'd her eyes;
And he with joy bèheld 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 heart 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,
Invited many a guest.

All gay the merry bells rang round,

All blithe the tabor 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 turn'd aside,

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;
But chill and sad was Albert's breast,
His conscience sore dismay'd:

And when the midnight bour drew nigb,
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 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:
"Keen anguish 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:
"When deep the midnight bell shall toll,
66 Expect thy buried bride.
"Thou ev'ry night in my embrace,

"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,
"Thy ring shall bleed and shine;
"And in thy ear my voice shall sound-
"False Albert! thou art mine.

"Sleep ne'er shall ou thy eye-lids hang,

"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 thee embrace."

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 ween,

In this her wedding-night.

She thought, indeed, 'twas more than odd,
That she, a new-made bride,
Should 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 had 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 bends to earth his head.

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 maids shall weep her early doom,
And bid her spirit rest.

And many a rose impearl'd with dew,
By meek-eye'd evening shed,
Shall tender pity's fingers strew,
Across her turfy bed.

TO MARY.

From the same.

AH, simple maid, that gentle breast,
The pillow now of peace and rest,

May heave with woe, may swell with care,
May prove the pangs 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,

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,
My sweet, my artless Mary.

Then let not pride's fallacious ray
Seduce thee from the humble way;
Ambition dazzles to destroy,

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 ensnare!
Sell not content for empty glare;
Here health is found in ev'ry gale,*
Fair virtue loves the quiet vale;
She flies the senseless, 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
But to another soil convey'd,
Its sweets decay, its beauties fade,

My sweet, my artless Mary.

Take now the 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 bright,
And the long dark and weary night,
Thou'dst glow with rage, wouldst chill with
fears,

Thy lustrous eye be dimm'd with tears;
Shunn'd by the good, thy hours 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 poverty, with squalid face,
Would chill thy heart in ev'ry place;
No tears would pitying fall for thee,
Except the tears 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 affection could not save,

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
Our tongue,-here Chaucer finds a tomb:
Here gentle Spencer; foulest stain

Of his own Gloriana's reign!

And he who mock'd at Arts control,
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakespeare, our Shakespeare! by his side,
The man who pour'd his mighty tide:
The brightest union Genius wrought,
Was Garrick's voice and Shakespeare's thought.
Here Milton's heav'n strung lyre reposes;
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes;
Here Newton lies-and with him lie
The thousand glories ofur sky:
Stars, numerous as the host of Heaven,
And radiant as the flashing levin!
Lo, Chatham! the immortal name
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame!
Here, bis long course of honours run,
The mighty Father's mighty Son;
And here-Ah, wipe that falling tear!
Last, best, and greatest-Fox lies here!
Here sleep they all: on the wide earth
There dwell not men of mortal birth,
Would dare contest Fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little space.

Oh! could some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live!
It were a sight to charm dull age,
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the deaf man cure,
The widow from her tears allure,
And moping idiots tell the story,

Of England's bliss, and England's glory!

And they do live! our Shakespeare's strains
Die not while English tongue remains;
Whilst light and colours spread and fly,
Live's Newton's deathless memory:
Whilst freedom warms one English breast,
There Fox's honour'd name shall rest:
Yes, they do live! they live to inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire;
Like sparks from heav'n, they wake the
blaze,

The living light of genius' rays;

Bid English glories flash across the gloom, And catch her heroes' spirit from their tomb!