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“ Stranger! ambition has not marr'd my peace,

Nor anxious genius prompted thoughts of fame; Content I've walk'd the woods, nor wish increase

Of worldly store,---my wealth an honest name. “ And those who smil'd on me ten springs ago,

Smile on me still, unchang'd thro' circling years ; No faithless friend has caus'd one hour of woe,

Nor slighted love callid forth my secret tears. “ Whilst she, the sharer of my fortunes here,

Thrills cheerfully with me her antaught lay,
And thinks the trees, and flowers, bloom brightest where

She sees her bosom's lord contented stray." “Sing on, glad forester,---oh would that I

With tbce had sojourn'd, 'neath the mountain side, Then had been spar'd me many a galling sigh,

Wrong from my heart by sense of wounded pride.”

B. C.

Beside a stream, and 'neath a shade repos'd,

A form accoutred in a vestment rare,
High curv'd his arching brow, bis eyes were clos'd

In sleep, which seem'd unruftled with a care;
Ah! who could gaze upon his features tben,
And deem them his--the Outlaw of the glen,

He of the blood-stain'd band, unknown to spare---
But that his fire arms, and his belted blade,
And cold dank bed, confess'd his ruthless trade.
He slept, he dream'd, for in repose he smil'd,

Fancy seem'd ranging 'midst the scenes of youth,
Ere he for crime was from his home exil'd,

(That dear abode of innocence and truth) Or sought by lawless enterprise to live, Happy with all his humble home could give,

His heart embued with tenderness and truth;
Thus fancy ranging back with boundless scope,
Tinted his cheek with the bright hues of bope.
Alas! that youth should from such happy sleep,

To scenes of rapine, and to bloodshed wake;
Long did the night breeze low-ton'd breathings keep,

Nor did the slightest branch of willow shake;
But a change came---dark clouds pass’d o'er the moon
With hurrying sweep, and a wild blast rose soon ;---

And chilld, the dreaming youth did sleep forsake,
And suddenly arous'd, gaz'd wildly round
For scenes of bliss---alas ! no longer found.
Those scenes were fled, yet left a record strong

Upon his mind, of years so fair, so bland,
That he in waking, could not think of wrong,

And smiling, gaz'd upon his blood-stain'd hand,
Unconscious how 'twas red,---till the loud clang
Of pistol shots, from the deep ravine rang,

And thrice the bugle sounded a command :
He faulteringly obey'd---bis heart was still
Amidst far dearer views of mountain, grove, and hill.

B. C.


EARLY GENIUS. The following lines are extracted from “ The Sunday Monitor," in which they were said to be the production of a young lady scarcely thirteen years old.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. “ Love is like the shadow seen,

“ Where the sun first lights the skies“ Stretching then all o'er the green,

" But dwindling as each moment flies.
“ Friendship is the shadow thrown

" When the day its noon has past
“ Increasing as life's sun goes down,
“ Even till he looks his last.”.

E. H.
" Wake, oh baby sweet! awake-
" It is thy mother's voice ;

Ope, ope, thy cherub eye, and make
“Her throbbing heart rejoice.'
“ For ne'er may shine a gem so bright,
“ To charm affection's longing sight.
“ ( sweet is that fond smile, my boy,

“ That with thy lid expands ;
“ And dear is that quick - touch of joy,'

“ That lifts thy pretty hands ;-
“ Then clasp them round thy mother's breast,
“ And bid her heart be truly blest."

E. H. We do not want to frighten the friends or parents of this young lady, but we never look upon precocious talent without a feeling of melancholy. One of two fates is sure to wait on youthful genius---early death, or the outliving of their celebrity. The latter has been exemplified in many recent and notorious instances. An illustration of the former, has been lately exemplified in the case of the young Luder, son of a teacher of music at Gottingen, whom destiny spared from the misery of surviving his reputation. In his seventh year he was able to play the most difficult sonatas of Hummel; in his eighth, he composed variations and trifling pieces; and in his tenth---he died !

MASSILLON AND HIS CRITIC. The Petit Caréme of Massillon was always thought too favorable to the rights of the people. A remark which has been made on his panegyric of Lewis XIV. will, we think, make our readers smile. When the funeral service for Lewis xiv. was performed, the church was hung in black, a magnificent mausoléum was raised over the bier, the edifice was filled with trophies and other memorials of the monarch's past glories; day-light was excluded, but innumerable tapers supplied its place, and the ceremony was attended by the most illustrious personages of the realm. Massillon ascended the pulpit, contemplated in silence, during some time, the scene in view, then raised his arms to heaven, looked down, and slowly said in a solemn and subdued tone, · Mes freres! Dieu seul est grand.' God only is great !--- With one impulse, all the auditory rose from their seats, and reverently bowed to the altar.---On these words of Massillon, a French critic, with an exuberance of loyalty, thus indignantly observes,--.' Comme si les Bourbons n'etaient pas grands! As if the Bourbons too were not great!'


“ Patris dictum sapiens temeritas filii comprobavit,---is a sentence produced by Ciceros tu shew the great effect of a skilful arrangement of words. On one occasion, Cardinal de Retz shewed, in a very extraordinary manner, the happy effect of such an arrangement. A debate took place in the parliament of Paris, upon a point which the Cardinal was very

desirous of having instantly decided : to prolong the debate, and, if possible, to procure an adjournment of it, was the object of his adversaries; with this view, they introduced a personal charge against him. To justify himself was not easy; it evidently would have required a long and unpleasant debate, and thus would, even although he succeeded, have occasioned the delay which he dreaded. In these straights, the genius of the Cardinal did not desert him. As one, confident of success, he rose from his seat ---and thus addressed the auditory :--. In the present state of affairs, I neither can nor ought to · answer this calummy in any other manner, than by rendering the same testimony to 'myself, which, in similar circumstances, the Roman orator rendered to himself, in these

words :---' In difficilimis reipublicæ temporibus, urbem numquam deserui; in prosperis, nihil de publico delibari; in desperatis, nihil timui.' . In the most difficult times of the republic, I never deserted the state ; in her most prosperous fortune, I never tasted of • her sweets; in her most desperate circumstances, I knew not fear."' It is the Cardinal's own observation, that this sentence has in the original a charm, which no translation can impart. It produced such an effect on the assembly, as permitted him, with their full acquiescence, to step over the accusation, and to fix the attention of his hearers on the point to which he wished it confined. He succeeded beyond his hopes: he appeared another Scipio, leading the admiring multitude from the tribunes, to the capitol. The quotation was in the mouth of every one :--but in what part of Cicero's works was it to be found ?---It was in vain to search for it: the Cardinal himself had invented it, on the moment."


" It has not, I think, been mentioned by any of his biographers; but the fact certainly is, that Mr. Sheridan was very superstitious, a believer in dreams and omens. One sentiment of true religion the Reminiscent has often heard him express, with evident satisfaction ; that in all his writings, and even in his freest moments, a single irreligious opinion or word had never escaped him.

“ Frequently, he instantaneously disarmed those who approached him with the extreme of savageness, and a determined resolution to insult him. He had purchased an estate, at Surrey, of Sir William Geary, and neglected to pay for it. Sir William mentioned this circumstance to the Reminiscent; and the English language has not an expression of abuse or opprobrium, which Sir William did not apply to Sheridan. He then marched off, in a passion ; but had not walked ten paces, before he met Mr. Sheridan. The Reminiscent expected as furious an onset as 'if two planets should rush to combat*' but nothing like this took place. In ten minutes Sir William returned, exclaiming, Mr. * Sheridan is the finest fellow I ever met with ; I will teaze him no more for money."

On a pillar in an open field near Stralsund, to the memory of Major Schill.

" Who rests this nameless mound beneath,
Thus rudely pil'd upon the heath?
Naked to winds, and waters sweep,
Does here some gloomy outcast sleep?
Yet many a footstep freshly round
Marks it as lov'd, as holiest, ground.
“Stranger! this mound is all the grave
Of one who liv'd as liv'd the brave;
Nor ever heart's devoted tide
More nobly pour'd than when he died.
Stranger ! no stone might dare to tell
His name who on this red spot fell.
“ These steps are steps of German men,
Who, when the tyrant's in his den,
Come crowding round, with midnight tread,
To vow their vengeance o'er the dead-
Dead !--no! that spirit's lightening still
Stranger, thou seest the grave of Schill."

Milton's Paradise Lost, vi, 310.


The Gondola. Lupton Relfe. This work bears, upon the whole, a favorable testimony to the talent and taste of its author; though some of its pages may witness to his occasional neglect of these advantages. He has enriched his volume with some touches of nature, and a great many poetical prettinesses of thought and diction; but he has too frequently condescended to employ the flimsy and well-worn materials, which booksellers are in the habit of working into substitutes for genuine sentiment and delineation of real character. We remark, also, a tendency to the introduction of gloomy and horrible pictures, which we greatly disapprove in a work like the present. Terror and pity cannot be beneficially called into action, during a tale of only thirteen or fourteen pages. There is not time to produce an irresistible or permanent impression. The bare relation of a fearful or distressing incident, is no more an improving study for the mind, than a stumble from an accidental obstruction in the middle of an even road, is a salutary exercise for the body. The shock is disagreeable for one moment; in another, we recover our equanimity and our equilibrium, without being obliged to turn for relief to soothing and elevating considerations, in the former instance; and, in the latter, without feeling stimulated to additional exertion or greater weariness in our future progress. We particularly object to the incident which occurs near the conclusion of the book: a blemish considered only with respect to composition; for it is quite out of keeping with the other parts of the narrative to which it belongs. Moreover, the very newspapers do not record a suicide without stigmatising it as a rash act;" and, though we do not pretend to outrageous morality, even this slight and accustomed censure acquires value and veneration, in our eyes, when opposed to the singular sang froid with which this writer, in relating a story of self-destruction, has abstained from all condemnation of the act itself. Self-destruction, too, arising from a cause the most frivolous and inadequate; a disappointment in love. But we will not afford our author an excuse for emulating his hero, in the unmitigated severity of our criticism. We like his fancy and vivacity well enough to be desirous of parting from him with pleasantness. We beg, therefore, to express much approbation of the first journey of Karl, and his horse Nicolaus. We remember to have met, and been amused, with it before. The following Stanzas, though liable, in a trifling degree, to some of our previously-stated objections, appear to us very touching and pretty.

" A vision cross'd me as I slept,

A vision unallied to pain ;
And, in my day-dreams, it has kept

Possession of my heart and brain.
It is a portion of my soul,

And, if the soul may never die,
That vision, now, is past control,

And shares its immortality,

It took a form that time may change

In others' eyes, but not in mine, For coldness-hate-cannot estrange

My still unshaken heart from thine. I saw thee, then, as I have seen

The cherish'd one of earlier years : Ere pale suspicion came between

Our hearts, and poison’d both with fears. I heard thee speak, and felt the tone

Of welcome o'er my spirit steal ; As if our souls had never known

What those who part in coldness feel. Thy band, to mine, in fondness clung,

And when I met its shrilling press, I almost deem'd it had a tongue,

That whispered love and happiness. 'Tis said, that dreams may herald truth ;

But dreams like these are worse than rain ; For what can bring back vanish'd youth,

Or love's unshaded hours again? They do but mock us-giving scope

To joys, from which we wake and part ; And then are lost the hues of hope,

The rainbow of the clouded heart. They are the spirits of the past,

That haunt the chambers of the mind; Recalling thoughts too sweet to last,

And leaving blank despair behind. They are like trees from stranger bow'rs,

Transplanted trees, that take not root ; Young buds that never come to flow'rs;

Frail blossoms, that ne'er turn to fruit. They are like wily fiends, who bring

The nectar we might joy to sip, And yell in triumph as they ling

The goblet from our fervid lip. They are like ocean's faithless calm,

That with a breath is rous'd to strife, Or hollow friendship's proffer'd balm,

Polluting all the springs of life. I thought we met at silent night,

And roam'd, as we were wont to roam, And pictur’d, with a fond delight,

The pleasure of our future home: That home, our hearts may never share,

'Tis lost to both for ever now;
The tree of hope lies wither'd—bare,

Without a blossom, leaf, or bough.
To words—vain words—no pow'r is giv'n,

The torments of my soul to tell ;
I slept, and had a dream of heav'n-

I woke-and felt the pangs of hell. Yet, I would not forget thee-No!

Though thou hast wither'd hope in meNor for a world of joys forego

The one sweet joy of loving thee."

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