And lovely plants, in vases, there
Wore colours caught in other skies;
Sweet prisoners, such-because so fair,
Made captives for their radiant eyes.
And in the centre of that room

A fountain, like an April shower,
Brought light-and bore away perfume
To many a pale and drooping flower,
That, wearied with the sultry noon,
Languished at that sweet water's tune."

The isolation of sovereign state is also well expressed in the following lines.

"Alas, the steps of that young queen

Upon life's rudest path have been.

An orphan! ah, despair is heard
In but the echo of that word!
Left in her infancy, alone,

On that worst solitude-a throne."

Yet we know no one who is more queenly in the constitution of her mind than our poet; had she but a throne, chivalry would once more start into the lists, honour become no more an idle pretence to evade a debt, or to palm off a falsehood, and pageantry would become gracious, since it would be informed with benevolence, and directed with exquisite taste. The throne would be no solitude to her-nor would she suffer a solitude near her-gladly would we become one of her lieges, provided that she were despotic, and her kingdom situated in fairy realms. Since, at present, the lady has only a disputed sovereignty in the realms of poetry, as yet, we can only offer her a divided allegiance.

Miss Landon's poetical distinction between the morning and evening dews, is written with a delicate perception of the beautiful.

The following

of it very good.

"The morning! 'tis a glorious time,
Recalling to the world again

The Eden of its earlier prime,
Ere grief, or care, began their reign.
When every bough is wet with dews,
Their pure pale lit with crimson hues;
Not wan, as those of evening are,
But pearls unbraided from the hair
Of some young bride who leaves the glow
Of her warm cheek upon their snow.
The lark is with triumphant song
Singing the rose-touched clouds among :
'Tis there that lighted song has birth,
What bath such hymn to do with earth?
Each day doth life again begin,

And morning breaks the heart within,
Rolling away its clouds of night,
Renewing glad the inward light."

couplet is, to us, original, and we think the first line
Miss Landon is speaking of an honest modesty.

Though we must own there seems a discrepancy in the last line, as here, the blushing lady is personified, and it seems droll that she should disallow her own existence.

We must, for the delight of all admirers of spirit-stirring verse, show how our inspired author describes the evening of a victory. There breathes about it a spirit of philanthropy, as delightful as is its elevated vein of poetry.

"And is this all?-the flush and glow

When war's wild waves at morning flow?
Ah, no! night cometh, and she flings
The weight and darkness of her wings.
The tide has ebbed-the beach is left,
Of its bright panoply bereft;

The glittering waves that caught the sun-
Their light is past, their course is done :
The field is fought-who walketh there?---
The shadow victory casts-Despair!

"For the proud chief, in shining mail,
Comes the young orphan mute and pale;
For the red banner's radiant fold,
Some maiden rends her locks of gold;
For the war steed, with bit of foam,
The image of a desolate home.
While wandering o'er the ghastly plain,
Some mother seeks her child in vain.

Ah, War! if bright thy morning's rise,
Dark is thine evening sacrifice."

With many of the elegant poems at the end of the volume an admiring public is already well acquainted. The piece, entitled "The Lover's Rock," will never grow old in interest. "The Village Tale," and "The Two Sisters," can never pall upon a repeated perusal. There is a singularly stern moral, that cannot be too often conned, in the lines entitled, "Follow Me." Of the other poems, if we do not speak, it is merely because their merits are so well known, that to speak would be superfluous.

In taking our leave of this delightful publication, we are bound to assert, that Miss Landon has done as much to revive a taste for poetry, (and that a pure one too,) as any author at present living; if we had said that she had done more, we perhaps should have met with but few impugners of the correctness of our declaration. These poems should be generally read by the young. They will warm their hearts into a passionate love of the beauteous, and the beauteous, if rightly considered, and considered in the light in which Miss Landon displays it, is always the virtuous. True it is, that she makes the torch of love throw its tender light over most of her productions; but with her it is a torch lighted, at a chaste, a holy, and a religious altar; such a flame, the light of which can never either fire to vice, or shed its rays upon the paths of dissipation.

Perhaps, next to Lord Byron, no author ever betrayed more individuality in her writings, than does L. E. L. This manifestation of character, and especially of such a character, is always a great charm. Long may she continue to delight the world with her literary productions, for she may depend upon it, that she is still far from the

zenith of either her poetical capabilities or her fame. We will conclude with her own character, faintly sketched by herself.

"For the love-dream that haunts the young poet,

Is coloured too much by her mind

A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For she lives but in beauty-her visions
Inspire with their passion her strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain."

We must, however, be permitted to amend the last line to make the verse applicable to herself, and entreat that it may be read thus:

:

"In her, was meant long to retain."

THE FRIENDLESS MARINER!

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAILOR POET," ISMAEL FITZADAM.*

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

My home is on the boundless deep,
My friends among the brave,
And brighter laurels none can reap,
Than on the silver wave.

Green earth, thou hast no spell for me,-
No hearth or hearts that glow,
To win me from the blue, blue sea;
Then onward let me go!

Full bravely rides my gallant bark,
And lightly play the sails;
The sea-boy blithe as matin lark,
Sings shrilly to the gales;
The hills are hid in mantle grey,
The stars above me glow,
There is no voice to bid me stay,-
Then onward let me go!

To pace the deck, and gaze above-
(My nightly task) is sweet;
Oh! there dwell spirits full of love,
My spirit longs to meet:

My home is on the boundless wave,

But, oh! 'tis bliss to know

God will take back the soul he gave ;

Then onward let me go!

Ismael Fitzadam, author of "The Harp of the Desert," and Battle of Algiers," was an able seaman on board a king's frigate. It is ever to be lamented that this nautical, but genuine child of song," should have pined in want and obscurity, when from the highly poetic character of his beautiful and elegant lays, he might have risen to fame and independence. Had any of the great men, "whose exploits he so gloriously sung," thought it worth their while to interest themselves about this self-educated sailor, and inspired but friendless poet, he might, perhaps, have been living now.

DIARY OF A BLASÉ.1

CHAPTER XVIII.

Spa, June 10th.

HERE we are, and for a time at rest. Rest! no, the wheels of the carriage may rest, even the body for a time may rest, but the mind will not. We carry our restlessness with us wherever we go. Like a steam-engine, the mind works, and works, and works, sometimes, indeed, with less rapidity of motion, but still it goes on, goes on in its ever continued labour; waking or sleeping, no repose; until the body, which is the mechanical part of the engine, is worn out by constant friction, or the steam of the mind is exhausted. And people tell you, and believe that there is rest in the grave. How can that be? The soul is immortal, and cannot exist without consciousness. If not conscious, it does not exist, and if conscious, it must work on, even beyond the grave, and for ever. To assert that there is rest in the grave, is denying the immortality of the soul. And what a contemptible, base slave the body is to the soul! I was going to say, that he could not call his soul his own, but that would be a Catachresis, and I hate and abominate a cat, and every thing which begins with cat. It is singular that they are all unpleasant, or unlucky, or unsafe; for instance

Cat-acombs remind you of death, funerals, and mummies.

sale of effects, some poor devil done up. a boil poulticed.

sore eyes, Sam Patch, and devastation. head stuffed, running of the glands. equally unpleasant in youth and marriage. argument, which is detestable.

beasts who foul nature.

horrid variety of love.

street music, hurdy-gurdy.
a calm, with a prize in sight.

As for a cat itself, I cannot say too much against it; and it is singular, that the other meanings of the single word are equally disagreeable, as to cat the anchor, is a sign of going to sea, and the cat at the gangway is the worst of all.

Five o'clock in the morning,-the sun has not yet appeared above the hills, but the mist is rising gradually. The bell of the church in front of my window is tolling-it ceases, and the pealing of the organ, with the chanting of the priests, comes distinct and clear upon my ear, as the notes of the bugle over the still water, from some dashing frigate in the Sound, beating off at sunset. How solemn and how beautiful is this early prayer! The sun is rising, the mists of the night are rolling off, and the voices and music resound at the same time to heaven. The church is full, and many remain outside, un

'Concluded from p. 286.

covered, and kneeling in humility. But who comes here, thought I, as a man in a shabby coat walked to within a few yards of the church door, and laid down his burthen, consisting of a drum, a fiddle, a roll of canvass, a chair, and a long pole. This is a curious stock in trade, methinks; how in the name of all the saints do you gain your livelihood? This was soon ascertained. A minute before the mass was over he fixed his pole upright in the ground, hung his canvass on it, and unrolled it, displaying a picture divided in six compartments. He then hung his fiddle to his button, took his drum, and putting his chair close to his pole, stood upon it, giving a long, but not loud roll of his drum, which he repeated at intervals, to attract attention. He had taken his station with judgment, and as the people came out of church, he had soon a crowd about him, when he commenced with crossing himself, and then continued to explain the legend which was attached to his pictures on the canvass. I could not hear all, but still I could understand enough to fill up the rest. It was the wonderful cure performed by a certain saint; and as he told the story, he pointed to the different compartments with his fiddle-stick, for he had laid aside his drum as soon as he had collected an audience. Now and then he crossed himself devoutly, and at last told that he had the very prayer, and the very remedy which had been prescribed. He then played his fiddle, singing the prayer in a solemn chaunt; and then he pulled out of his pocket a packet of little books and little boxes. They are only one halfpenny each, and all that is necessary is, that they should touch the figure of the saint on the canvass, to be imbued with the necessary virtue. He sells them rapidly; each time that he puts them to the canvass crossing himself, and insisting that the party who purchases shall do the same. He takes his fiddle again, and sings the history of the saint, pointing with his fiddle-stick to the compartments of the picture as he goes on and now he pulls out more little books and more boxes; and how fast they purchase them! The stock in trade in his own possession is certainly of little value, but he possesses a fruitful mine in the superstition of others. Ah, well! the priests inside the church have set him the example of mixing up religion with quackery.

Spa is beautifully situated, between abrupt hills covered with verdure; the walks cut in these hills are very beautiful, and much pains have been taken to render the place agreeable--no wonder, when we recollect how many crowned heads have visited the place; but the sun of Spa has set, probably never to rise again, for whatever may be the property of its waters, it requires that a watering-place should be fashionable. There are many causes for its desertion. One is, the effects of the Belgian revolution. During the time that Belgium was attached to the Netherlands, the king, and the prince and the princess of Orange, came here almost every year, bringing with them, of course, a great number of the nobility; but now the nobility have deserted the court, and when Leopold came here, no one followed. He was disgusted, and remained but a few days. The Prussians used also to resort very much to Spa, but the king of Prussia finding that so many young men were ruined at the gaming-tables, and so much distress occasioned by it, with a most fatherly despotism, has refused all the