world of breathing poetry. Wordsworth bent with reverence over the vase, and declared that the waters he had obtained should be the refreshment of his soul;-he then raised his countenance,which had become illumined from the wave over which he had bowed, and retired with a calm dignity.

The sounds of stirring wings now ceased,-the air became less bright, and the flowers died away upon the banks. No other poet remained to obtain water from the Castalian stream, but still it sparkled and played along, with a soul-like and melodious sound. On a sudden I heard a confusion of tongues behind me;-on turning round, I found that it arose from a mistaken set of gentlemen who were chattering and bustling and dipping at a little brook, which they deemed was the true Castalian;-their splashing and vociferation and bustle, can only be imagined by those who have seen a flock of geese wash themselves in a pond with gabbling importance. There was SPENSER, with a goblet, lent to him by a lady of quality,--and HAYLEY simpering, and bowing, and reaching with a tea-cup at the water,--and WILSON with a child's papspoon, and BowLES laboriously engaged in filling fourteen nutshells, and LEWIS slowly and mysteriously plunging an old skull into the brook-while poor COTTLE fumed and angered, but scarcely reached the stream at last. There were no encouraging signs in the elements, no delightful sounds of attendant spirits,no springing up of flowers to cheer these worthies in their pursuits: they seemed perfectly satisfied with their own greatness, and were flattered into industry by their own vanity and loudness. After some time, the perpetual activity of tongues fatigued my ear, and I turned myself from the noisy crowd, towards the silent heavens; There, to my astonished and delighted eyes, appeared SHAKSPEARE, Surrounded with excessive light, with SPENSER on one hand, and MILTON on the other, and with the best of our early bards thronging about him. One glance of his eye scared the silly multitude from the brook;--then, amidst unearthly music, he calmly ascended, and was lost in the splendours of the sky. At this moment I awoke,-and musing on the wonders of my dream, slowly bent my way homewards.

FROM MADAME DE STAEL.

Divine Wisdom intending to detain us some time on earth, has done well to cover with a veil the prospect of life to come, for if our sight could clearly distinguish the opposite bank, who would remain on this tempestuous coast?

263*

POETRY.

LINES SUNG AT THE ANNIVERSARY COMMEMORATION OF MR FOX'S BIRTH-DAY IN SCOTLAND

There was no trial by jury in civil cases, in Scotland, till Mr. Fox introdu

ced this much desired reform in our courts.

[FROM MOORE'S SACRED SONGS,]

THIS world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash and Reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way-
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

[From the same]

I.

On! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee.

The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes are flown;
And he, who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of wo.

II.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And ev❜n the Hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!

Oh! who would bear Life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then, Sorrow, touch'd by thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As Darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

[From the same]

I.

WEEP not for those, whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies,

Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,
"Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps, till the sunshine of Heav'n has unchain'd it
To water that Eden, where first was its source!
Weep not for those, whom the veil of the tomb

In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes,
Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.

II.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now;

Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow;

Oh! then was her moment, dear Spirit, for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknownAnd the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own!

Weep not for her-in her spring-time she flew

To that land, where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd,
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world,

But which take with me, could I take but one?
Shakspeare-as long as I was unoppress'd

With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser;

But did I wish, out of the common sun,

To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest,

And dream of things far off and healing-Spenser.

PETITION OF THE POETS TO THE BRITISH REGENT.

BY DR. WOLCOTT,

SINCE your highness makes knights

As plenteous as mites,

With neglect why so cruelly pass us?

Pray take the old sword,

By ambition ador'd,

And dub a few knights of Parnassus.

We, sir, reverence your name,
We add wings to your fame,
And thunder your deeds in full chorus;
Pray be quick as you can,

AS JACK KETCH and his man

Are in hopes to be knighted before us.

"Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much.”—St. LUKI, ii. 47.