The gratification which every well-disposed mind derives from the sight of local regularity and symmetry, is so obvious and general, that it scarcely needs illustration. A number of books thrown without order on a table, however common with literary men, is uncomfortable to behold; the same books, ranged in parcels of correspondent position, and especially in directions parallel with the sides of the table, will please the eye: delicious viands placed on a table at random and in disorder, will, even to many an epicure, appear less inviting than inferior dishes ranged in neat and appropriate symmetry. In architecture, above all, order, symmetry, and just proportion, form the primary law of the art, although in this country the law in question is probably doomed to more infractions than in any other: witness so many public and private buildings, in the unfinished state of which we miss a wing, or some essential part, or discover a preposterous addition or some strange incongruity. But as we may have farther occasion to resort to architecture in our enquiry into the principles of the Beautiful in music, we here refrain from farther reference to the former art.

A few observations on rhythm in poetry will lead us straightway to musical rhythm, and illustrate many features of the latter. Both are nearly allied to, and in several respects dependent upon each other. In both, the terms metre, feet, accent, &c. are applied with nearly the same meaning. Without forming any pretensions to poetical talent, or even to the mechanism of poetry, we presume rhythm in poetry to consist in a correct metrical disposition of long or short syllables, and a just proportion and symmetry of successive verses (lines), the whole arranged according to some preconceived order.

We farther venture to presume, that any infringement, in practice, upon metrical symmetry, is a rhythmical blemish, always more or less offensive to the orderly ear, which, when it has once seized the framework of the metrical construction, feels shocked in being obliged to depart from it, or to make accommodating allowances for syllabic intrusions or omissions, for forced and unnatural accent, heterogeneous lines, &c.—it is like riding a horse that changes pace every few yards. These transgressions, like those in architecture above referred to, seem to be more frequent in the works of English poets than in the poems of any other nation: and what is more singular, they appear to be more common, we may say, almost universal, in the present decidedly poetical æra of British literature, than they ever were before. The liberalism of the age, seems to have affected even our bards.

We have heard more than one musical composer utter bitter complaints against these latitudinarian principles in matters of rhythm, of which music is always a sure and severe test. After devising a proper rhythm for one line, the composer finds it will not fit its seeming companion; and when, by dint of cutting or stretching, like Procrustes, he at last gets the bettter of one stanza, he finds to his vexation that the music will not fit the next: various little alterations are necessary, sufficient however to render it requisite to write the music of the second, and perhaps the third stanzas, and to oblige the public to pay for the metrical peccadillos of the poet.

SONGS OF THE CID. NO. 1.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The Cid's Death-bed: a Ballad.

It was an hour of grief and fear,

Within Valencia's walls,

When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,

And steps of hurrying feet,

Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise Along the sunny street.

It was an hour of fear and grief,

On bright Valencia's shore,

For Death was busy with her chief,

The noble Campeador.

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep,

With sounds and signs of war,

But the Cid was passing to his sleep,

In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the halls of state,

No weeper's aspect seen ;

But by the couch Ximena sate,

With pale, yet steadfast mien.

Stillness was round the conqueror's bed,

Warriors stood mournful nigh,

And banner's, o'er his glorious head,

Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the mighty hand,

And cold the valiant breast;

-He had fought the battles of the land,

And his hour was come to rest.

What said the leader of the field?

His voice is faint and low,

The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield, Hath louder accents now.

"Raise ye no cry, and let no moan

Be made when I depart;

The Moor must hear no dirge's tone,

Be ye of dauntless heart!

"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet strain

From your walls ring far and shrill;

And fear ye not, for the Saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.

"And gird my form with mail-array,
And set me on my steed;

So go ye forth on your funeral-way,
And God shall give you speed.

"Go with the dead in the front of war,
All arm'd with sword and helm ;

And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.

Zambra, a Moorish dance.

"And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed my day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth."

-Now wave, ye stately banners, wave!
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by,
And the arms o'er the death-bed of the brave
Send forth a hollow sigh.

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight,

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps;

-The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night;
The Campeador-he sleeps!

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn,
And swell out the trumpet's blast!
Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail,
For the noble Cid hath pass'd.

THE FIRST OF APRIL.

or-Arte perire sua.

8 A. M.-Looked out of bed-room window into Gracechurch-street, and called "Sweep" to a boy with a soot-bag. Saw him stop, look about him at the corner of White Hart-court, and then walk on. Halted him three times in the same way. Tried a fourth, and popped my head out at the wrong moment. Boy, in a great passion, threw a turnip, which broke me a half-crown pane, and woke my wife. Swore I knew nothing about it, and sneaked down to breakfast.

9 A. M.-Went to table-drawer and slily pocketed three little lumps of alabaster. Returned and took my seat at breakfast-table, as if nothing had happened. Put alabaster at top of blue sugar-bason, and, to my great delight, saw Kitty put one into each of the children's cups. Children hammered and pushed and wondered sugar would not melt. Thought I should have died: three of my best silver tea-spoons bent as crooked as rams' horns. Very demure when Mrs. Gander came down to breakfast. Never attack wife;-(harpooners have some reason for not meddling with a certain species of whale, as being too fierce.) So says Guthrie's Grammar.

Sam

10 A. M.-Went behind counter to serve. Asked Jack Mitten, my foreman, if any body had blacked his face. Jack answered," Not to my knowledge," and went to looking-glass. I replied, "Nor to mine either." Laughed very much, but Jack did not see much in it. Snaffle, the driver of the Clapham, looked in to know what places were booked. Told him one inside, a lady, to take up at Seam's manufactory this side the Elephant Saw him set off, one short, and thought I should have died. Took pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a letter as if from Dobb's the druggist to Lawyer Lynx, telling him to arrest Shuffle the shoemaker for 231. 10s. goods sold and delivered. Gave it to ticket-porter, and told him Lynx would pay the porterage. 11 A. M.- -Went back into the shop to serve. Sold a white cotton night-cap to an exciseman, and told him it was the fellow to six

See the Spanish Ballad, "Banderas antiquas, tristes, &c."

others which I had parted with to half a dozen other gentlemen who were to set off on a journey from the Old Bailey to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. He did not seem to see much in it, but I laughed amazingly. Saw Jack Mitten serving a lady with a red elastic purse, at the other counter. Took up a newspaper and read loud enough for her to hear, "Dreadful depravity! an Irish fruit-woman in Dyot-street, St. Giles's scraped her child to death with an oyster-shell." Lady screamed and went into hysterics. Gave her a glass of water, and told her "it was a shame that oyster-shells were suffered to lie about the streets." Thought I should never have done laughing.

12.-Sent Molly to Spa-fields to see a live radical. Told her to buy me a straight hook in her way home, at Peter Pull-gill's in Crooked-lane. Told her I should also want a glass ink-horn; and that a male mermaid was expected to swim down Fish-street-hill at two. Wife overheard, and called me an old fool. Did not see much in it, but Molly laughed. 1 P. M.-Asked Jack Mitten who was the father of the sons of Noah; where Moses was when the candle was blown out; and which was most, half-a-dozen dozen, or six dozen dozen. The poor fellow could not answer one of them. Took the steps, climbed up slily to the clock, and pushed the hands two hours forwarder. Heard wife, who caught a glance of it, rail at the cook for not putting down the leg of mutton, telling her it only wanted an hour of dinner-time. Clock struck a hundred and one found I had done mischief, and stole away to Elicot to get him to repair it.

2 P. M.-Took a turh upon 'Change. Told Rothschild I hoped he liked Columbian bonds. Did not much like his looks, so stole away and entered the rotunda of the Bank. Buzz, the Broker, asked me to hold his umbrella, while he went to sell two thousand, at 734. Dropt two handfuls of saw-dust into his umbrella. On his return, walked out with him into Bartholomew-lane. Luckily rained hard: Buzz flirted open his umbrella over his head, and covered himself with saw-dust. This made me laugh till I cried. Buzz threw back a handful of sawdust into my left eye: this made me cry till I laughed.

3 P. M.-Looked in at Batson's. Talked with Bluefist, the broker, about indigo, sassafras, gum, oakum, and elephants' teeth. Called for pen, ink, and paper: wrote a letter from Jolter inviting Scraggs to dine off a fine hare and sweet sauce: ditto, vice versa, Scraggs to Jolter to dine off real turtle. Gave waiter a shilling to take both letters and be sure not to tell. Took a walk over London-bridge to Horsemongerlane sessions. Looked over sessions-paper, and saw indictment, The King against O'Bludgeon, about thirty off. Went into front yard, and bawled out," the King against O'Bludgeon is just called on." Such a rush of barristers, bar-keepers, and witnesses into court! Two applebarrows upset, and a barrister's wig trampled under foot. Roared out "April fools." Dodged off through Guy's Hospital, and walked homeward chuckling. Halted on London-bridge. Tide running up. Looked through balustrades towards Custom-house clasped my hands in agony, exclaimed, "They 'll every one of them be drowned," and ran across to look through balustrades on opposite side. Mob in a fever: all traffic at a stand-still: hundred of necks craned out to peep at the sufferers. Bawled out " April fools," and dodged round one of Meux's drays. Butcher's boy saw me, and gave the view halloo. Scudded off