only the touch exerted under the direction of the will.

According to the strength or faintness of the impression that a sensation, or an idea (which is but a sensation operated upon by the cerebral organ,) has produced on the fibres of that organ, will be the liveliness and permanence of the recollection. Thus we may have reminiscence of it, or recall faintly that we have been so affected; or

When a sensation is of short duration, our knowledge of it is so light, that soon there remains no remembrance of it. It is thus, that we do not perceive, every time we wink, we pass from light to darkness, and from darkness to light. If we fix our attention on this sensation, it affects us more permanently. After occupying one's self, for a given time, with a number of things, with but moderate attention to each; after reading, for instance, a novel, full of events, each of which in its turn has interested us, we finish it without being tired of it, and are surprised at the time it has taken up. It is because successive and light impressions have effaced one another, till we have forgotten all but the principal actions. Time ought then to appear to us to have passed rapidly; for, as Locke has well said, in his Essay on the Human Understanding, "We conceive the succession of times only by that of our thoughts."

This faculty of occupying one's self long and exclusively with the same idea, of concentrating all the intellectual faculties on one object, of bestowing on the contemplation of it alone, a lively and well supported attention is found in greater or less strength in different minds and some philosophers appear to have explained, very plausibly, the different capacity of different minds, the various degrees of instruction of which we are capable, by the degree of attention we are able to give to the objects of our studies. Who, more than the man of genius, pauses on the examination of a single idea; considers it with more profound reflection, under more aspects and relations; bestows on it, in short, more entire attention?

Attention is to be considered as an act of the will, which keeps the organ to one sensation, or prepares it for that sensation, so as to receive it more deeply. To look, is to see with attention; to listen is to hear at tentively: the smell, the taste, in the same way, are fixed upon an odour, or a flavour, so as to receive from them the fullest impressions. In all these cases, the sensation may be involuntary; but the attention by which it is heightened, is an act of the will. This distinction has already been well laid down with regard to the feeling, which is

object, with some of its characteristic attributes, as colour, bulk, &c.

Finally, if the brain is easy of excitation, and at the same time faithful in preserving the impressions it has received, it will possess the power of bringing up ideas with all their connected and collateral ideas; of reproducing them, in some sort, by recalling the entire object, whilst memory presents us with a few of its qualities only. This creative faculty is called imagination. If it sometimes produces monsters, it is that the brain, by its power of associating, connecting, combining ideas, reproduces them in an order not according to nature, gathers them under capricious associations, and gives occasion to many erroneous judgments.

The affections of the soul, or the passions, whether they come by the senses, or some disposition of the vital organs favour their birth and growth, may be ranged in two classes, according to their effects on the economy. Some heighten organic activity: such are joy, courage, hope, and love; whilst others slacken the motions of life; as fear, grief, and hatred. And others there are, that produce the two effects alternately or together. So ambition, anger, despair, pity, assuming, like the other passions, an infinite variety of shades, according to the intensity of their causes, individual constitution, sex, age, &c. at times increase, at times abate the vital action, and depress or exalt the power of the organs.

Of all knaves, your fools are the worstbecause they rob you both of your time and temper.

It is not the force of friendship, but the prevalence of vice, that makes the moderns so often exceed that admirable rule of the ancients, usque adaras-Carry not your friendships beyond the altar.'

The ancients' manner of commemorating their gods, heroes, and friends, was by libations, not potations. Would it were the same among the moderns. Wine is often better spilt then drank.

All young animals are merry, and all old ones grave. An old woman is the only animal that ever is frisky.

It is better to do the idlest thing in the world, than to sit idle for half an hour.

POETRY.

ven

The clouds are rushing on their wild, wet wings:

And no breath,

Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave!
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot;
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave
Shall lift its point to save,

Or show the place where strong Despair hath died!
While a brief truce

Is made with Death, who shall forbear
The little remnant of the past creation,

To generate new nations for his use:
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime,
When the hot sua hath baked the reeking soil
Into a world, shall give again to Time
New beings-years-diseases-sorrow-crime
With all companionship of hate and toil.
Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain,
Till earth wax hoary:

War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain,
Until the clouds look gory

With the blood reeking from each battle plain;
New times, new climes, new arts, new men; but still
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill.
Shall be amongst your race in different forms;
But the same moral storms

Shall oversweep the future, as the waves
In a few hours the glorious Giant's graves.
Hark! hark! already we can hear the voice
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell;

The winds. too, plume their piercing wings! The clouds have nearly filled their springs; The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, And heaven set wide her windows; while mankind View, unacknowledged, each tremendous tokenStill, as they were from the beginning, blind. We hear the sound they cannot hear,

The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere;
Yet a few hours their coming is delayed;
Their flashing banners, folded still on high,
Yet undisplay'd,

Save to the Spirits' all-pervading e ye.
Howl! howl! oh earth!

Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth:

In dazzling circles round the mountain springs; The groaning forest in the whirlwind swings, Strewing the marble cliffs with branches boar:

And when the sullen sounds of earth are o'er,
With cries of startled wolves the valley rings;
Ocean lifts up his voice and thunders on the shore.

Now close the portal!-'Tis the hour of hours!
And the snow thickens on our leafless bowers,
Though ancient Winter lords it o'er the sky,
For now the few we love on earth are nigh.
Ianthe! shall the livelong eve pass by
Without one song from that red lip of thine?

Come, fill the bowls, and beap the faggots high! To birds and flowers let Summer's'morning shine, To nobler man alone the Winter eve's divine.

CROLT.

BALLAD OF CRESCENTIUS.

I look'd upon his brow,-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,

He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er Despair

He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,

He raised them haughtily,
And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now,
Around he looked with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh:

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many dint that told

Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,

The headsman by his side,
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sigh or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than did his now、

AMERICAN POETRY.

Leisure Hours at Sea. By a Midshipman of the U. S. Navy.

There is not a more estimable set of men perhaps in the world, than the officers of our navy. A high sense of honour, a liberal and manly spirit, and a demeanour alike modest and gentlemanly, characterize a great majority of them; and those whom we have had the pleasure of knowing personally, we have, with scarcely an exception, found intelligent and well-informed. The author of this volume shows, in several of his pieces, a poetical spirit, and a depth and delicacy of feeling that candid criticism cannot pass over without praise; while at the same time, there are inaccuracies and faults of style, and occasional marks of neglect and carelessness in suiting the ideas to the theme, which taste must condemn. There is considerable inequality in the pieces—some bear the marks of having been written before the author had had much practice in composition, and are distinguished by the faults of a young writer; there are some which might better have been omitted altogether, and there are others that are fine specimens of poetry. The following verses are well sustained from first to last, and are fraught with true poetical feeling; the 10th stanza is particularly fine.

LINES

Written on the Island of Elba. The heart that feels as I have felt,

When forced from kindred hearts to sever, The idol-home where youth has dwelt,

To leave-and leave, perchance, for ever;
Although no sigh may tell its wo,
Will throb with sorrow's deepest throe.
A father's burning hand I wrung;

I kiss'd a mother's pallid cheek;
But not a word escaped my tongue-
I felt too much-too much to speak!
That parting hour, that sad adieu,
Worlds would not tempt me to renew.
My foot is on a foreign strand-

But let me wander where I will,
I can't forget my native land;-

My heart is with my kindred still:

My dreams by night, my thoughts by day,
Are of the lov'd ones far away.
When Vesper lights her evening star,

And sighing zephyrs curl the waves,
Memory recalls the scene afar,

Where erst I follow'd to their graves,
With bursting heart, and burning eye,
Two sisters, early doom'd to die!
I think of years too idly wasted,

When Learning call'd me to her bowers; But ah, the circean cup I tasted

Madden'd my brain, enerv'd my powers; And Learning's call was disobey'd I sought for pleasure, found-a shade. I think of her whose heart of truth Is crumbling now to kindred clay; Eliza, torn in sinless youth

From me, and from the world away;
Upon those lips, my lips have prest,
The festering worm is coil'd to rest.
The eye that beam'd whene'er we met, [ken,
The cheek that blush'd when love was spo-
The voice that bade me not forget-

Forget thee! no! my heart is broken;
But mid the ruins of that heart,
While yet it throbs-there, there thou art!
Thine eye is quench'd thy cheek is cold,
And in a far, far grave thou'rt sleeping;
Yet oft, in fancy, I behold,

And o'er that timeless grave lie weeping:
In vain I strive this grief to hush-
The burning tears but faster gush.
I've left my land-I've left thy grave;
All that I love in life or death:
Why am I o'er the heaving wave?

What seek I here?-Fame's fleeting breath!
Oh! what is glory but a name !
This Isle might teach how poor is Fame-
The prison-isle of him whose glance

Sent awe throughout the world around; Who o'er the brow of fallen France

A sun-bright wreath of glory bound, A coronal of crowns-each gem Some conquer'd nation's diadem! Come hither, peasant! tell me, where Is he who dwelt in yonder vale? "Signor, I neither know nor care; "He came-he's gone: though short the ""Tis all I have to tell"-He cameHe's gone! oh yes! this, this is fame!

[tale,

Why should we give to sadness

The moments as they fly? I deem it worse than madnessLet's drain the goblet dry! Hold!-can you then no anguish In ruby wine descry? In pain how many languish, Who drain the goblet dry! Think of life's closing hour, Think how you'll bear to die; Then, if you have the power,

Let's drain the goblet dry!

New-York Literary Gazette.

SIR,

ANOTHER HIT AT THE NOSE.

ere it has ceased to remember.

THE MEETING.

We met, and only met,
Ere doom'd by fate to sever;

But ah! I can forget
That meeting with thee never!
Thy locks of auburn hue,
On wanton zephyrs straying;
Thine eyes of liquid blue,
Where light of soul was playing;
Thy voice, whose dulcet thrill,
Awak'd such sweet emotion,

I seem to hear it still,
Though far upon the ocean;
'Twas these that charm'd me then,
When first and last I met thee;
We may not meet again,
But ne'er can I forget thee.

'Twas evening when we met,
By Arno's rippling billow-

(In dreams I see thee yet
Whene'er I press my pillow ;)
It was a lovely night,
The balmy breeze was sighing,
And heaven's sweetest light
On tower and stream was lying:
When in some thicket's shade
His vows the lover's telling,

Like breast of listening maid,
The playful waves were swelling-
We met and only met
Ere doom'd by fate to sever;
But ah! I can forget

That meeting with thee-never! With these we must conclude, by welcoming the author to the republic of letters. From the specimens which we have given, it will be evident to our readers, that our praise has not been injudiciously bestowed: we could go on and find faults, and show where amendments might be made, but we are not in the fault-finding humour; we are pleased with the writer, and wish him success in his literary career. His style wants pruning and finishing, but experience will enable him to do both.

A definition of what are generally styled bargains, is, the buying a bad commodity that you don't want, because you can get it cheaper than a good one when you do.

never sneezed me out of a lady's affections, but it has led me into divers scrapes and quarrels, and has been the primal cause of a tendency to misanthropy in my disposition.

You must know, sir, that my nose has always had an inveterate tendency to curl its nostrils at presumption, vanity, self-importance, and folly. Physiognomists have long since decided that this curl of the nostril is, as Sir Geoffry Hudson says of Sir Geoffry Peveril's Psha!" an expression of slight esteem, nay, of contempt"-and contempt is more piercing than a north-easterly wind. Not to dwell on the minor troubles in which my ungovernable nose has involved me, I will pass immediately to that which has most severely injured my comfort and happiness. I was once in company with a conceited coxcomb, who was inflicting the Egyptian plague of his nonsense, upon a circle of ladies, who, to do them justice, bore it with exemplary patience. Although my organs of speech said nothing, my fastidious nose said Psha-the coxcomb, unfortunately for me, understood its language, and the next morning, I was waited upon by a gentleman, who, with all imaginable courteSy, required of me an apology for the insult I had offered his friend, Philip Furnival, Esq. the coxcomb aforesaid. I have a peculiar, although perhaps not a rare notion, that in whatever I may say or do, I am never in

the wrong. With much politeness I stated my regret that I could not comply with so reasonable a request, and the friend of Philip Furnival, Esq. desired me to name my friend with whom he might make the necessary arrangements for a meeting. In due time we met, and by a most unlucky chance the fellow's bullet, instead of hitting the offending member, astonished my ribs by the abrupt and unceremonious manner in which it took lodgings amongst them, without so