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“ Those who have trod the field of war, and stained
Their hands in blood, and steeled their hearts to woe
And stanched compassfon, yet may haply know
That there are moments when the pallid corse
Death has just triumph'd o'er will wake remorse."

Horace Gwynne.
" The foulest stain and scandal of our nature
Became a boast :--- One murder made a Vihain,
Millions a Hero !"


The Foe had fled---the fearful strife had ceased---
And shouts arose of mockery and joy,
As the loud Trumpet's wild exulting voice
Proclaim'd the Victory! With weary tread,
But spirit undepress'd, the Victors passed
On to the neighbouring Citadel, nor deemed,
Nor recked they, in that moment's pride, of aught
But glory won. Or if a transient thought
Recalled the fallen Brave, 'twas like the cloud
That flits o'er Summer's brow---a passing shade!
Yet, on the battle-plain how many lay
In their last dreamless sleep! And there were those
Who vainly struggled in the mighty grasp
of that stern Conqueror---Death. The fitful throes
Of parting lise, at intervals, would wring,
E'en from the proudest heart, the piercing cry
Of mortal agony! In pain I sunk,
Worn and disabled, 'mid the dead and dying.
Night's shadows were around---the sickly Moon,
Dim and discolored, rose, as though she mourned
To gaze upon a scene so fraught with woe !
And there was one who passed me at this hour,
A form familiar to my memory,
From long-departed years. For we had met
In early youth, with feelings unconcealed,
And passions unrepressed. E'en then he seemed
The bane of every joy. His brow grew pale
At boyhood's happy voice and guileless smile,
As though they mocked him. Now he sternly mark'd
My well-remembered face, yet lingered not.
There was a taunt upon his baughty lip,
A fiery language in his scowling eye,
My proud heart ill could brook !
E'en like a vision of the fevered brain,
His image haunted me---and urged to madness---
And when exhausted Nature sunk to rest,
The blood-red sod my couch, the tempest cloud
My canopy, my bed-fellows the dead,
My lullaby the moaning midnight wind---
I had a Dream ---a strange bewildered dream,
And he was with me!
Methought I heard the Messenger of Death
Tell of another world, while awful shrieks
Of wild despair, and agony, and dread,
Shook the dark vault of heaven !---Suddenly
Deep silence came,--- and all the scene was changed !
Insufferable radiance glared around

And mocked the dazzled eye. In robes of light,
High on a gorgeous throne, appeared a Form
Of pure Celestial Glory! In deep awe,
A silent and innumerable throng
Of earth-born Warriors bowed. That Form sublime,
In these benign and memorable words,
Breathed holy consolation-" Ye that owned
Religion for your Leader, and revered
The Family of Man, and toiled and bled
For Liberty and Justice ! Ye have fought
A glorious fight, and gained a glorious meed,---
A bright inheritance of endless joy---
A Home of endless rest!"

Now straight appeared,
With lineaments divinely beautiful,
Fair shapes of bright-wing'd beings, boly guides
To realms of everlasting peace and love!
Alas! how few of that surrounding host
Were led to happier worlds ? That hallowed band
In radiant light departed ! but the Form
That sat upon the Throne, now sternly rose
With clouded brow, and majesty severe,
And this dread judgment gave---(while darkness wrap
The strange and unimaginable scene).--
“ He that can love not Man, loves not his God!
And, lo! his image ye have dared to mar
In hate and exultation, and for this
Shall ceaseless strife, and agonies of death,
Be your eternal doom !”
Now with triumphant howls of mockery,
More horrible than shuddering Fancy hears,
Raising dread echoes in the charnel vault,
Uprose the fiends of Hell ! and urged us on,
Through paths of fearful gloom, till one broad plain,
Of endless space, burst on the startled eye!
In the dim distance glittered shafts of war ;---
Despair's wild cry, and Hate's delirious shout,
The din of strife, and shrieks of agony,
Came on the roaring blast! A mighty voice,
Piercing the dissonance infernal, cried,
“ On to the Hell of Battle, and the war
Coeval with Eternity!" That voice,
Whose sound was thunder, breathed resistless spells,
For, wrought to sudden frenzy, on we rushed
To join the strife of millions.

One alone Amid that countless throng mine eyes controlled. His was the form I loved not in my youth, And cursed in after years. We madly met--A wild thrust reached him.---Then he loudly shrieked, And imprecated Death---alas ! in vain !--To yield the final pang! With unquenched rage He turned again on his eternal foe In fierce despair !---But he was victor now--And in unutterable pain--- I woke ! 'Twas morning.--and the sun's far-levelled rays Gleamed on the ghastly brows and stiffened limbs Of those that slumbered---ne'er to wake again!



Lady! If from my young, but clouded, brow,
The light of rapture fade so fitfully-
If the mild lustre of thy sweet blue eye
Awake no lasting joy, -Oh! do not Thou,
Like the gay throng, disdain a child of woe,
Or deem his bosom cold !Should the low sigh
Bring to the voice of bliss unmeet reply-
Oh! bear with one whose darkened path below
The Tempest-fiend hath crossed! The blast of doom
Scatters the ripening bud, the full-blown flower,
Of Hope and Joy, nor leaves one living bloom,
Save Love's wild evergreen, that dares its power,
And clings to this lone heart, young Pleasure's tomb,
Like the fond ivy on the ruined tower !

The winds are hushed, --but yet the dark clouds lower,
And shroud the rising Sun! The distant hill
Lies hid in mist,--the tempest-swollen rill
O’erflows the dreary vale,--this hoary Tower
Austerely frowns above the withered bower,
Where sits the drooping Minah, cold and still.
Yon blasted Tree the gazer's breast doth fill
With fearful dreams of majesty and power
The mighty Spirit of the Midnight Storm
Passed where for ages rose the Green-wood's Pride,
And what availed its glory? Its proud form,
Cast on the groaning earth, but serves to hide
The Serpent's dwelling; and Decay's dull worm
Soon in its mouldering bosom shall abide !

SUN-SET. The summer Sun had set,---the blue mist sailed Along the twilight lake,---no sounds arose, Save such as hallow Nature's sweet repose, And charm the ear of Peace. Young Zephyr hailed The trembling Echo; o'er the lonely grove The Night's melodious Bard, sweet Philomel, Her plaintive music breath’d, ---the soft notes fell Like the low-whispered vows of timid Love! I paused in adoration ---and such dreams As haunt the pensive soul, intensely fraught With silent incommunicable thought, And sympathy profound, with fitful gleams, Caught from the memory of departed years, Flashed on my mind, and woke luxurious tears.

SUN-RISE. How gloriously yon mighty monarch rears His proud resplendent brow-like Fame's first light That breaks oblivion's gloom! His tresses bright Inwreathe the rosy clouds. All Nature wears A bliss-reviving smile.---The glittering tears Shed by the tristful spirits of the night On verdant meadows, vanish from the sight, Like rain-drops on the sea! The warm beam cheers The drowsy herd, and thrills the feather d throngs Of early minstrels, whose melodious songs Are borne upon the breeze. Now mortals send Their orisons above, while shrubs and flowers On whispering winds ambrosial odours blend, To charm and consecrate the morning hours !

We must not omit to mention, that Mr. Jones's “ Diamond Edi« tion of the British Poets" (among which he has been permitted to incorporate Mr. Richardson's volume) does him infinite credit for its beauty and extreme neatness.--Mr. R.'s volume is adorned with a well executed portrait and a delightful vignette.

A System of Popular Geometry; containing, in a few Lessons, so

much of the Elements of Euclid, as is necessary and sufficient for a right Understanding of every Art and Science in its leading Truths and general Principles. By George Darley, A. B. London. Jobn Taylor. 1826.

The title of this work explains its import and utility; its execution bears out its title; we cannot say any thing more expressive of its merits and importance. The author has supplied a generally felt desideratum in the list of elementary treatises; namely, an introduction to geometry, more comprehensive and scientific than Pinnsek, less elaborate and abstruse than the standard versions of Euclid. The diffusion of knowledge, the growing intelligence of our artists and mechanics, and the acknowledged imperfections of the several “ Elements” used in our schools, rendered such a work indispensable; all therefore interested in the sound education of the Public, (and who is not ?) are much indebted to our Author. To the selftaught student, more particularly, whose means and leisure do not admit of a voluminous course of reading, this work is invaluable; and to the intelligent mechanic anxious to extend his knowledge of the geometrical principles of his art, it will be an excellent guide. The merit of the work, however, does not consist merely in its precise and lucid arrangement; the improvements in the doctrine of parallels, and of the circle, bear strong testimony to Mr. Darley's high order of mathematical attainments; and will no doubt be duly appreciated by the scientific reader.



LITERARY AND POLITICAL CHIT-CHAT. The Death of the Duke of York bas occasioned during the present month a sus. pension of all conversation and interest upon ordinary topics, and must necessarily here occupy the first of our attention ; but with a simple expression of our sympathy with the regret which all England seems to have felt on this occasion, we shall remain satisfied. In another part of our pages we have given two interesting notices of the Duke, one by Sir W. Scott, the other by Dr. Southey, and to these little can be added in the way of deserved panegyric, and in the way of censure we have no desire to say a word. We trust the example of his popularity will uot be lost in bis two successors, the Heir-Apparent to the Crown, and the Commander-in-Chief; but may stimulate them to imitate a little of that amenity of manners and kindness of disposition, which, in spite of grievous errors, made the Duke of York one of the most beloved of princes during his life, and most lamented after his death.

PORTUGAL.—The news from Portugal is vague, contradictory, and altogether unsatisfactory. We wish it were, indeed, the Spaniards with whom the English had

to contend, even if Ferdinand had the assistance of all the Holy Alliance ; bat there is too much reason to fear that it is against the majority of the Portuguese theinselves, that their aid will be requested.

Some time ago we charged the Editor of the Literary Gazette with the occasional want of common honesty in reviewing, and we had little expectation that he would so soon afford a proof of the truth of our cha In taking notice of “ The Letter on the “ Affairs of Portugal, from a Dog," the Editor, for the sake of a miserable joke, (he is the witty Mr. J.), accuses the author of being an advocate of the Inquisition, and Despotism. The following quotation will at once show the misrepresentation of the Reviewer! (proh pudor !) and explain the object of “ The Dog," with whom we ourselves differ as to the propriety of interference :--

" It is possible that Don Miguel and his adherents may be averse to the liberal principles of English Government; which, in the advanced state of civilization, are proper “ to this country; but, though we may be perfectly convinced of the advantages of our

own Constitution, and may naturally wish that all the world shouid participate in the “ benefits of similar institutions ; although a nation, whose happiness it is to live under " wise laws, should, on occasion, make it a point of duty to communicate them; and

we may properly feel obliged to promote, as far as lies in our power, the perfection " of others; we are not entitled forcibly to intrude our good offices upon them. The “'opinion that one nation could possess such a right over another, would open a door " . to all the ravages of enthusiasm and fanaticism. Mahomet and his successors deso"• lated and subdued Asia, on no other principle.' (Vattel, b. ii. ch. 1. $$ 6 and 7.)"

In the press, and speedily .will be published, Tales or Welsh Society and SCENERY, comprising descriptions of several National and Characteristic Customs, hitherto unembodied in narrative. They will consist of 2 vols. post 8vo. and will be published by Messrs. Longman and Co.

The following paragraph has gone through the newspapers :

“ The late Mr. Gifford left one work behind him, which will, probably, be most " acceptable either to his Executor, Dr. Ireland, or to Mr. Heber, viz.---his copy of The Quarterly Review, with the names of the authors, and the price paid for each article, in " the margin.”

We could name many gentlemen to whom this copy would be most acceptable, among others the Editor of the Inspector. If the Executors will so dispose of it

, we will accept it, and give in return a work still more valuable, viz. a copy of the Inspector, with the names of the Authors, and the price paid to each Author, in the margin. There can be no doubt among reasonable men as to the advantages in generosity on our side.

In the course of February will be published, Vagaries, in quest of the Wild and the Whimsical. We have seen some of the contents of this work, which, the poetical ones in particular, are very excellent. There is an elegance of versification, and a variety and novelty of imagery in the poetry, which are scarcely, if at all, inferior to those of the Irish Melodies. Can we say more?

The length of our extracts and review of the second volume of Dr. Southey's History, has prevented our noticing in the proper place many works of amusement, interest, and importance. One of the most useful works which has been lately published, is “A View of the World," &c. with “ An Art of Memory, on an entirely new System,” which is by far the best that we have ever seen. We shall certainly recur to the subject at a future opportunity, as one of no inconsiderable importance in education ; and many a person, who now complains of a bad memory, might have been spared his cause of complaint by having met earlier with a work so useful as that which we have above alluded to.

It is reported among other literary on dits, that a Satire, very extensive in its range, and caustic in its execution, is on the eve of publication. There never were times when the appearance of a Modern Juvenal would be more desirable. If the author, “ ardet, instat, and aperte jugulat," only the enemies of virtue, freedom, literature, and true religion, we shall hail his appearance.

* Printed for Goodluck, 80, Cornhill.

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