The birds were hov'ring o'er their
young;
Around the doe her light fawn sprung;
Love thro' the whole creation glow'd,
And Blanch's bosom overflow'd:
Her breast with its rich fulness strove,

"I, only I, have naught to love!"' p. 85.

The following lines, too, are good, though, perhaps, too diffuse :

Yes! To the heart by woe subdued,

An unmix'd joy is solitude!

'Tis bliss to 'scape the asking eye
Of vacant curiosity;

The scornful sneer; the pity loud;
The comfort of the babbling crowd;
Th'officious forward, vain, caress;
From such to 'scape is happiness!
But, ah, beware! ye soft-soul'd train,
Who feel at length the woes you feign,
Beware, nor seek the lonely plain!
The beardless youth, whose gentle lay
Steals many a damsel's soul away;
The misanthrope, whose gloomy breast
The world in darker colours, drest;
Neglected wife; or love-sick maid;
Or she, who, erring and betray'd,
Implores in vain the false one's aid;
By fancy, or by misery led,
Oft from the weary world have fled,
And sought in hermitage, or cell,

In tranquil solitude to dwell.

'Twas peacefulness they sought, and rest:

What found they? The still aching breast.' pp. 127, 128.

This is somewhat in the manner of Scott: so are the following light and lively lines.

He told, that morn a stranger pair,

A priest, a page, their city sought;
Age silver'd o'er the old man's hair,

And his mild cheek was pale with thought:
But for the graceful page,-in truth,
That boy was the most lovely youth,
That ever, in the Christian land,
Gave goblet to a lady's hand!
And prostrate at the Alhambra gate,
Fatigued, and faint, and sad, they sate.
"Till, as I pass'd, the gentle boy
Hung to my robe with fearful joy
And begg'd me of the King to tell,
And the lone drooping Isabel:
And that fair boy upon his knee,
Almanzor's self implor'd to see ;

Again,

And he a name, and token sent,
As pledges of his fair intent.

One beam of that mild-piercing glance,
Where the pure spirit seem'd to dance
In its own azure Heaven;

One tone of that soft, silver voice,
Whose sound might bid despair rejoice,

Sufficient pledge had given !

One only glance, one only tone,

Like those, my sovereign, have I known!" pp. 165, 166.

'Granada stretch'd beneath their feet,

With palace, mosque, and cheerful street;
And dark-ey'd Moors were cluster'd there;
And veiled dames with graceful air;

Mirth rul'd the hour, and toil was staid.
Th' Alhambra grove around them lay,
With lofty elm and cypress spray,
And oleander shade.

Remada's mountain hung above them,

With corn-fields sloping down the side,
And cots where cherub children hide,
And Blanch's heart sprang forth to love them;
Whilst dale and village, cot and hill,
Woke in her breast the social thrill.
"I talk not, Blanch, of thrones; for there
Sit doubt and watchfulness and care.
But here is not one blessed spot

So fair, but thou couldst mend its lot!

Here is not one so curst, but thou

Couldst chase despair from every brow!

Canst thou such angel joys resign?

My love, my Blanch, be wholly mine!" pp. 184, 185.

Once more,

"Tis she, proud Murcia's loveliest branch,

The long-thought dead, the exile Blanch!

The nobles, awe-struck and amaz❜d,

With strange and sudden wonder, gaz’d.
Unearthly was the maiden's look;

The changeful blood her cheeks forsook;
But still the tender smile was there,

The

sunny eye, the form of air;

Almost they deem'd, before their eyes,

To heaven th' enfranchis'd soul would rise.' p. 245.

The Rival Sisters' is a tale to illustrate sisterly affection; though, like the former, it is more about love than any thing else. For the flimsy plot,' says Miss M. and hurried catastrophe of the Rival Sisters, it seems scarcely necessary to apologise "Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

6

Now this is either true, or it is not: if it be not, it is miserable affectation; if it be, why does Miss M. insult the public with a poem of which she is herself ashamed?

This tale, however, we have no hesitation in preferring to the former; it is more interesting, and contains more poetry. It is in the stanza of Spenser-a stanza that has become very fashionable of late, probably from its great difficulty. The opening of the poem is very pretty, though we cannot say much for the two similes.

Happiness is like virgin snows,

As soft, as smooth, as gay:

The leveret's step on its surface shows,

And the rustling pine-leaf the linnet throws;
While the beam in whose ruddy light it glows,
For ever melts its charms away.

• Content is like the meadow's breast
Blooming with herbs and flowers:

No hillock betrays the skylark's nest;

No track remains where the arm'd hoof press'd;
And when the scythe shall its beauty wrest
'Twill spring inore fair in vernal hours.

The song has ceas'd. If song indeed it were,
That in one cheerful sweet monotony,
Sooth'd with its warblings faint the morning air,
Like the wild music of the summer bee,
Or wintery robin's dearer melody.

The song has ceas'd. But still the humming sound
Of rustic wheel that join'd the harmony,
Tells where the busy songstress may be found,

And guides the wanderer's steps along the turfy ground.
And one there was, who, from the shady wood,
Survey'd, with quick delight, the pleasant scene;
Deep in a verdant lawn a cottage stood

Circled by antique groves-save that between
One narrow arch, the distance smil'd serene :
Its spires, and hills, and towns, and sparkling streams
Contrasting with the darkly-fring'd ravine,

Or flowery path, where the tall forest gleams,
And rears its stately head, and brightens in the beams.
• Nor yet alone upon the crested oak,

Fell with its lustre sheen that orient ray:
Sweetly it kiss'd the light and curling smoke,

That from the cottage chimney wreath'd its way;
Sweetly on the white walls it seem'd to play,
Seen but by snatches through the clustering vine;
And on the quick-hedg'd garden trimly gay;
And on the lowly porch, where jasmines twine
With honeysuckle pale and modest eglantine.

Long on the songstress maid intent to pore,
And turn'd to go, yet came to gaze once more;
Charm'd, and much wondering what the charm could be
That fix'd, with magic power unfelt before,
Him who had hung on woman's dangerous glee,
And yet more dangerous sigh-and boasted, "I am free!"
It was not beauty: for, in very truth,
No symmetry of features deck'd the maid.
Was it the vivid blush of early youth;

The Hebe lip where changeful dimples play'd;
The flaxen locks whose crisped ringlets stray'd
O'er the blue dove-like eyes serene and mild;

The rose-tipp'd fingers that her toil betray'd;
The rounded form, luxuriantly wild,

Of woman's graces full ;-the face so like a child?
'Or was it the expression, calm and even,
Which tells of blest inhabitants within;
A look as tranquil as the summer Heaven;
A smile that cannot light the face of sin;
A sweetness so compos'd that passion's din
Its fair unruffled brow has never mov'd;

Beauty, not of the features nor the skin,
But of the soul;—and loveliness best prov'd
By one unerring test-No sooner seen than lov'd?

P.

263.

By and bye another female issues from the cot, dazzlingly beautiful. From the dumb show in which the two sisters engage, the eaves-dropping stranger judges the first (Mary) to be every thing that is amiable, and the other (Grace) not a little the contrary. We need not add that he is from this moment desperately in love with Mary. The next we hear of him is when under a birch, beside a stream, listening to old Rattle, the nurse of Mary. From her he and the reader learn, that the father of the two girls was the curate of the village; that he died while they were children,

And left a lovely wife to cheerless widowhood.

Two cherub children liv'd to soothe her care,
And beautiful it was to see young Grace

Hide in her elder sister's bosom fair,

From each admiring eye, her blushing face;
And beautiful it was to see them chace,

Like bounding fawns, the woodland paths along,

Till flush'd and breathless with the merry race,

The sportive babes, lull'd by the woodlark's song,

Slept in each other's arms the forest shades among.' pp. 291,292.

Grace, however, was taken away, and spoiled by an old

aunt. In the mean time Mary leads a charmingly innocent rural life, and, having been wooed by many a youth, is at length about to be married to Sir Walter Mowbray. The day is fixed, and Grace is called home to the nuptials.

"Canst thou not guess that which I hate to tell?
Grace Neville's beauty might a world ensnare;
And lur'd from Mary by her witching spell,
Mowbray beheld and lov'd the worthless fair.-
She rose to breathe with him the morning air;
She echo'd every strain that Mowbray sang;

If the cool grove he trod, he found her there;
She in the evening dance to meet him sprang;
And in the moonlight walk their mutual carols rang.
• Successful were her arts.-Nor Mary strove
To win again the heart she once had fir'd:
She gain❜d her mother's blessing to their love,
With difficulty gain'd-and then retir'd,

(E'en by the changeful youth rever'd, admir'd,)
To cheerful toils, contentment, and repose.
Whilst, not by love but vanity inspir'd,
To-morrow's bridals Grace's empire close,

And from her native plains, the Lady Mowbray goes." p. 303. In the evening young Frederic returns to the watch, and the sisters and Mowbray leave the cot.' Grace refuses to accompany Mary to the old nurse's, and Mary goes alone. Frederic meets her, and the reader will anticipate the rest. By the way, we should not omit to mention that Frederic turns out to be an earl.

And needless 'twere to tell that Mary's life

In virtue pass'd, and bliss that cannot cloy :

Whilst Grace with Mowbray wag'd incessant strife,

And found in every blessing some alloy.' p. 330.

• Should the success of these specimens encourage the author to complete the series, it will be comprised in three volumes. The next will contain a tale on Filial Affection, in the heroic couplet of Pope and Dryden, and a shorter and lighter poem on the subject of Love.' ix.

Art. VI. A Congratulatory Letter to the Rev. Herbert Marsh, D.D. F. R. S. Margaret Professor of Divinity in the University of Cambridge, on his judicious Inquiry into the consequences of neglecting to give the Prayer-Book with the Bible; together with A Sermon, on the Inadequacy of the Bible to be an exclusive Rule of Faith, inscribed to the same. By the Rev. Peter Gandolphy, Priest of the Catholic Church, 8vo. pp. 70. Keating, &c. 1812.

Art. VII. A Letter to the Rev. Peter Gandolphy, in Confutation of the Opinion, that the vital Principle of the Reformation has been lately conceded to the Church of Rome, with a Postscript, containing Remarks