With this extract we leave our readers to digest Mr. Maton's statements, which he may do much better than, it appears, he would be able to do with much of the bread manufactured by the honest fraternity of bakers.

MIRZALA.

A FRAGMENT FROM THE ARABIC.

She shone as the bright bosom'd Houries, that soften
The dreams of the poet, and sit o'er his bed;
Those spirits, whose visitings soothe him so often
When sleep's downy pinions are waved round his head.

More graceful was her's than the antelope's motion,
Such charms both her beauty and bashfulness gave;
And fairer her skin than that bird of the ocean,

Whose breast stems the billows of Tranguestan's wave

Her ringlets of gold o'er her shoulders when streaming,
Those shoulders so snowy-transparent of hue,
Like the sun on a pure alabaster rock beaming,
Such, such did they seem to a lover's fond view.

And Mirzala's eyes peered as stars, that are peeping
From the blue depths of waters untroubled and calm ;
O'er her cheek the vermilion so vividly creeping,

Exhaled, as the peach-blossoms perfume and balm.

That delicate bosom for ever was heaving,

Like a tremulous lake, when the storms cease to beat;
But her heart-oh! its chords although sorrow leaving
His strains still behind, were eternally sweet!

On the shores of Kathay as the melody lingers,*
Or wooed by the zephyrs, or waked by the wind:
Thus in harmony-touch'd by delight's fairy fingers,
Or grief's heavy hand-was young Mirzala's mind.

As if all the shores,

Like those of Kathay, utter'd music, and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of the wave.-Lalla Rookh.

How bright the Anenome blooms in the morning,
Yet doom'd, like the day dreams of fancy, to fade;
So lovely-so frail-was the daughter adorning
Ben Azra's proud palace :-thus wither'd the maid.
In the Emir's dark halls desolation is dwelling;
And Israfil's echoes no longer are there :
No more is the lute or the ziraleet+ swelling,
But-hark to the death-song,-the dirge of despair!

With blood has Ben Azra's red threshold been reeking,
The blood of the prophet who favor'd our vow;
In his heart the sharp ataghan‡ vengeance was seeking-
On the hill is his turban-stone moss-cover'd now.

Oh! Spirit of Love! like the cool gushing fountains,
'Mid desart sands springing, to SOME is thy breath;
But to SOME-the Simoom sweeping over the mountains,
In his blighting career, is less sure to bring death!
Cork.

THE REJECTED.

Give me my sword again,

Give me my gallant steed,
And I'll away to the battle plain,
Where a thousand heroes bleed.
Though tenderness hath strove,
'Tis conquer'd by my pride,
And glory now shall be my love,
And victory my bride.

There's honor for the brave,

That shines in life and death;
And weaves above their bloody grave,
A green undying wreath :

Oh! who would sigh away

A noble heart for thee,

When glory shows so fair a ray,

To lead to fame the free?

Israfil, the angel of sweet sounds the spirit of music. +Ziraleet, a song of rejoicing.

A Turkish dagger.

And I will school my soul,
And teach it to forget

That e'er I bow'd to love's control,
Aye, even that we met:

And when thou hear'st my name
Link'd with the brave and great,
Thou'lt shed a burning tear of shame,
For him thou canst not hate.
And never deem that I

Will e'er more tender be;
Or breathe a sad regretting sigh,
For one so cold as thee:
My sword is on my thigh,
My black steed snuffs the wind,
He shall bear me on to victory,
And leave my love behind."

CHRISTOPHER.

* REMARKS ON CYMBELINE.

BY WILLIAM HAZLITT.

Cymbeline is one of the most delightful of Shakspeare's hisorical plays. It may be considered as a dramatic romance, in which the most striking parts of the story are thrown into the form of a dialogue, and the intermediate circunstances are explained by the different speakers, as occasion renders it necessary. The action is less concentrated in consequence; but the interest becomes more aerial and refined from the principal of perspective introduced into the subject by the ima ginary changes of scene, as well as by the length of time it occupies. The reading of this play is like going a journey, with some uncertain object at the end of it, and in which the suspense is kept up and heightened by the long intervals between each action. Though the events are scattered over such an extent of surface, and relate to such a variety of characters, yet the links which bind the different interests of the story together are never entirely broken. The most straggling and

The accompanying plate illustrates Act III. Scene 4, in which Iachimo describes Imogen's chamber to Posthumous,