on earth, beautiful, airy, and evanescent, as her own immortal Psyche?

North.-She was.

Tickler. And what the devil then would you be at with your great bawling He-Poets from the Lakes, who go round and round about, strutting upon nothing, like so many turkey-cocks gobbling with a long red pendant at their noses, and frightening away the fair and lovely swans as they glide down the waters of immor. tality?

Wordsworth is a poet-but unluckily is a weak man. His imagination shows him fine sights, but his intellect knows not how to deal with them, so that they evanish in glittering and gorgeous evaporation.

North.-Just so, Tickler-and then how ludicrously he overrates his own powers. This we all do, but Wordsworth's pride is like that of a straw-crowned king in Bedlam. For example, he indited some silly lines to a hedge-sparrow's nest with five eggs, and, years afterwards, in a fit of exultation, told the world, in another poem equally childish, that the Address to the Sparrow, was "one strain that will not die!" Ha! ha!. ha! Can that be a great man?

Tickler. Had that man in youth become the member of any profession, (which all poor men are bound to do,) he would soon have learned in the tussle to rate his powers more truly. How such a man as Jeffrey, with his endless volubility of ingenious argumentation, would have squabashed him before a jury! Suppose him Attorney-general in the Queen's trial, stammering before Brougham, who kept lowering upon him with that cadaverous and cruel countenance, on a sudden instinct with a hellish scorn! Or opposed in Parliament to the rapier of Canning, that even while glancing brightly before the eye, has already inflicted twenty disabling wounds! Or editor of a Poetical, Philosophical, and Politieal Journal, and under the influence of a malignant star, opposed, vi et armis, to Christopher North, the Victor in a Thousand Fields!

North.-Ay, ay, Tickler-my dear Tickler-He would have found his level then-but his excessive vanity

Tickler. Contrasted with the unassuming, and indeed retiring modesty I might say bashfulness-of your mind and manners, sir, the arrogance of the stamp-master

North.-Hush-no illiberal allusion to a man's trade.

Tickler. I ask pardon. No person more illiberal on this very point than our lyrical ballad-monger. His whole writings, in verse and prose, are full of sneers at almost every profession but his own -and that being the case

North.-Scott's poetry puzzles me-it is often very bad.
Tickler.-Very.

North.-Except when his martial soul is up, he is but a tame nd feeble writer. His versification in general flows on easily

smoothly-almost sonorously-but seldom or never with impetuosity or grandeur. There is no strength, no felicity in his diction -and the substance of his poetry is neither rich nor rare.

Tickler. But then when his martial soul is up, and up it is at sight of a spear-point or pennon, then indeed you hear the true poet of chivalry. What care I, Kit, for all his previous drivelling—if drivelling it be and God forbid I should deny drivelling to any poet, ancient or modern-for now he makes my very soul to burn within me, and, coward and civilian though I be,-yes, a most intense and insuperable coward, prizing life and limb beyond all other earthly possessions, and loath to shed one single drop of blood either for my King or country,-yet such is the trumpetpower of the song of that son of genius, that I start from my old elbow chair, up with the poker, tongs, or shovel, no matter which, and flourishing it round my head, cry,

'Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" and then, dropping my voice, and returning to my padded bottom, whisper,

"Were the last words of Marmion!"

North.-Bravo-bravo-bravo!

Tickler.-I care not one single curse for all the criticism that ever was canted, or decanted, or recanted. Neither does the world. The world takes a poet as it finds him, and seats him accordingly above or below the salt. The world is as obstinate as a million mules, and will not turn its head on one side or another for all the shouting of the critical population that ever was shouted. It is very possible that the world is a bad judge. Well then-appeal to posterity, and be hanged to you-and posterity will affirm the judgment, with costs.

Therefore I say that Scott is a Homer of a poet, and so let him doze when he has a mind to it; for no man I know is better entitled to an occasional half-canto of slumber.

North. Did you ever meet any of the Lake-Poets in private society?

Tickler. Five or six times. Wordsworth has a grave, solemn, pedantic, awkward, out-of-the-worldish look about him, that rather puzzles you as to his probable profession, till he begins to speakand then, to be sure, you set him down at once for a methodist preacher.

North. I have seen Chantry's bust.

Tickler.-The bust flatters his head, which is not intellectual. The forehead is narrow, and the skull altogether too scanty. Yet the baldness, the gravity, and the composure, are impressive, and, on the whole, not unpoetical. The eyes are dim and thoughtful, and a certain sweetness of smile occasionally lightens up the strong lines of his countenance with an expression of courteousness and philanthropy.

North. Is he not extremely eloquent?

Tickler. Far from it. He labours like a whale spouting-his voice is wearisomely monotonous-he does not know when to have done with a subject-oracularly announces perpetual truismsnever hits the nail on the head—and leaves you amazed with all that needless pother, which the simple bard opines to be eloquence, and which passes for such with his Cockney idolators, and his catechumens at Ambleside and Keswick. [Blackwood's Mag:

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

From the "Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem, by Mrs. Hemans.

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair
(Famed were its tresses in Provençal song),
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A Child's light hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
-Yet that bright Lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a Mother's!-on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
-These may be dreams!-but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame?-that radiant creature fell!
That Mother left that Child!-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a sigh-
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no! it could not thus have been,
For she pass'd on !-forsook her home and hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a King!

Her Lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his mail for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of glory; grief and shame
/Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his Halls

Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls,
The Warder's horn hung mute: meantime the Child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth, for well, too well, she knew
Her Mother's tale!-Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Froze on her lip the stream of song, which fain

Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain

If met by sudden glance, and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Even to the Spring's glad voice!-Her own was low.
As drooping bird's-there lie such depths of wo

In a young blighted spirit!-Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and Age hath done with tears,

But Youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its young days;
And thus it was with her!-A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair,—
Not with her Mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom; but tender still, and meek,
Still that fond Child's!-and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love

To gaze upon in silence!-but she felt

That love was not for her-though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence, mutely given,
Went with her, and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven
To bless the young Isaure.

One laughing morn,

With alms before her Castle-gate she stood,

'Midst peasant groups; when breathless and o'erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,

A stranger through them broke: the orphan maid,
With her soft voice and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers, a gaze that all her spirit shook,
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years

From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's quick flush, sobbed out, "Oh undefiled!
I am thy Mother!-spurn me not, my Child!"

-Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days;
But never breath'd in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame!
-What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances-the alter'd guise,

Awhile o'erpower'd her?-from the weeper's touch
She shrank 'twas but a moment-yet too much

For that all humbled one!—its mortal stroke

Came down like lightning's,-and her full heart broke
At once, in silence!-heavily and prone

She sank, while o'er her Castle's threshold-stone
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore

Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more-
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll❜d,

And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold!

Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late-
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard—
-How didst thou fall, oh! bright-hair'd Ermengarde!

F. H.

[New Monthly Mag

VOL. VII. No. 41.-Museum.

3 M

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of Childhood's sleep
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound,

As of soft showers on water: dark and deep

Lay the oak-shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seem'd but pictured glooms!-a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of emerald light, as by the glow-worm shed,

Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of Royal Chivalry and old Renown:

A tale of Palestine!-Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.-

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain'd soul!-'twas not the leaves I heard-
-A Syrian breeze the lion-banner stirr'd

Through its proud floating folds!-'twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its glassy glen—
-A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen

Peal'd from the Desert's lonely heart, and shook

The burning air!-Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees!-Then the shout
Of merry England's joy rang freely out,

Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue;
And harps were there-I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echoed to the mirth of Kings!

-The bright masque vanish'd!-unto life's worn track
What call'd me from its world of glory back?
-A voice of happy Childhood!-and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast!
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,

My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone! F. H.

[New Monthly Mag

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

STILL PROUDLY TRILLS THY WITCHING VOICE.

STILL proudly trills thy witching voice,

The sweetest of the sweet;

And still the ivory notes rejoice

Thy fairer hand to greet.