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My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more;
And for the hopes the sun-bright hopes-that blossom'd at thy birth,—
They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherish'd things on earth!

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade,

And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed ere my hopes were wrapt in shade.

Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized-more fondly loved-in sickness and in pain,
And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost,
Ten times more precious to my soul—for all that thou hadst cost!

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee day by day,
Pale, like the second bow of Heaven, as gently waste away;
And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud,
Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud.

It came at length ;-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,—
And an awful shade pass'd o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last;-
In thicker gushes strove thy breath,-we raised thy drooping head,-
A moment more-the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from me,

And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee ;-
She would have chid me that I mourn'd a doom so blest as thine,
Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in sinless rest, and from thine infant brow
Cull'd one soft lock of radiant hair-our only solace now,—
Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers-not more fair and sweet-
Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty of thy cheek-the sunshine of thy brow,
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst,
They may be lovely and beloved, but not-like thee-the first!

THE FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,
Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's delightful spring ;—
Of fervid feelings pass'd away-those early seeds of bliss,
That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this!

My sweet one, my sweet one, my Fairest and my First!

When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;
But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,
And my sighs are hush'd, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!


Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain.
With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth,—
God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my Fairest and my First!

Perhaps the best poem in the volume is by Allan Cunninghame. It is full of real warm human feeling of the best kind, finely tinged too with the spirit of poetry, and written in


language ost Wordsworthian.Cunninghame is far superior to Clare, and we say so, without meaning any disrespect to that most amiable and interesting person. He has all, or near


ly all that is good in Hogg-not a twentieth part of the Shepherd's atrocities-and much merit peculiarly his own, which, according to our notion of poetry, is beyond the reach of the Ettrick bard. Yet Cunninghame has never written, and probably never will write, anything so fortunate as the Queen's Wake.


By Allan Cunninghame.

Oh! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,-
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,—
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee!

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Ardbiglan tree,
We stay'd and wooed, and thought the


Set on the sea an hour too scon;
Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and eare, and birth-time woes,
Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy


To thee and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews un-
sough t

With gleams of deap enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from

O, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold; 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower!

At times there come, as come there ought Grave moments of sedater thought,When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night

One gleam of her inconstant light; And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,

'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my JEAN,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

Shines like the rainbow through the shower;

O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can

I think the wedded wife of mine,
The best of all that's not divine!

We cannot help thinking, that poetry like this for poetry assuredly it is-awakens a much deeper feeling than that sort of poetry, which, dealing in troubled and sinful passions, might be supposed to have been groaned out to the Muse in auricular confession. There is something sickening in your assiduous poetical sinner, who sees nothing grand but guilt-thinks life dull unless it be devilish, and is oppressed with ennui, if forced for a season to have recourse to some honest employment. The truth is, that sane, sound, and simple nature, is the only nature in which the real poet long finds delight; and if sometimes he meddles with the morbid anatomy of the soul, it is that he may shew forth, in nobler proportions and diviner beauty, the unimpaired structure of our moral being. On this subject we shall not now dilate; but content ourselves with remarking, that nothing is easier than to write in this diseased and drunken style-and that nothing is more difficult than adequately-to speak of "the sound healthy children of the God of Heaven."

North has just sent a devil to say, month, so that we may make our arthat he is to have no small print this ticle a page or two longer than per order. The easiest way of doing this is by extracts. So, fair reader, here is a poem by Mr T. K. Hervey. He is a young gentleman of very considerable promise, and the Convict-Ship will adorn even a page of Maga. We have a small volume of poems lately published by Mr Hervey, called "Australia," &c. which are much above mediocrity, and have attracted, as they deserved, considerable notice. No man in the world likes so well as we do to soe clever youths coming for

ward-and we at all times have shewn ing hand. Our friend Hervey has ourselves ready to lend them a help- feeling and fancy.


By T. K. Hervey, Esq.

Morn on the waters!—and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along ;
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away and away!

Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?

Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain,
Who as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty—could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who-as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?

'Tis thus with our life: while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,

Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs :-
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

As it has been objected to us, that we are too chary in general of poetical effusions, (in answer to this charge, see our pyramidical barda,) weshall quote another little composition from the

Souvenir; and at the same time beg leave to propose a toast-"The health of the Reverend E. W. Barnard." Mr Barnard, we learned t'other day, from our friend Martin M'Dermot the Un

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Ripening every plant of worth,
Till it bud and blossom forth;

Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! 1st Angel. Flowers that hand of poet


May from heaven's pasture sever;
Richer theirs than rose's hue!
Sweeter they than violet blue !

Chorus.-Strew about, strew about!
2d Angel. Gems that in profusion gay,
Fearing nothing of decay,
Over heart and over brow,

Ever bloom as fresh as snow;

Chorus. Strew about, strew about! 1st Angel. Gladsome health to fire the eye,

And paint the cheek of infancy;
Doubtless zeal, and guileless love,
Manhood's rugged heart to move;

Chorus.-Strew about, strew about? 2d Angel. Lowly thought, and holy fear,

Studious peace, and conscience clear, And grace divine, to make them be Meet for angels' company.

Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! With these very beautiful verses, we intended to have closed our article. But on correcting the slip, we perceive that a few additional sentences are necessary for the "upmaking," since nothing looks so well at the top of a page, as the title of an article-and we perceive that the title of the next is a taking one. What then shall we say? why, that all our good Poets, yes, one and all of them, should contribute to the next volume of the Literary Souvenir. What difficulty is there in writing a beautiful poem of fifty lines, long or short metre, any summer morning before breakfast? Consider how early the sun rises all the summer through, from about the beginning of May, well on to the end of September. Suppose you breakfast at nineor half past nine. Well then, up with you at five-and before the bell rings, there is your poem. Lay it aside for sunshining morning into the form of a week-correct it over your egg any a letter with it-and off she goes to the tune of Alaric A. Watts, Esq. Leeds. Nothing can be more easy and simple than this process, and by and by down comes, or up goes to you your beautiful large paper copy of the Souvenir, with the worthy Editor's kind regards, and a pleasantly indited letter. Therefore, Wordsworth, god of the woods, "sole king of rocky Cumberland," a lyrical ballad, if you please, or a small portion, a very small portion, of the Excursion.-Southey, with

wit and wisdom at will, dispatch a few pages of Omniana.-Coleridge, thou dear delightful dreamer, whose genius is ever sailing "up a great river, great as any sea," at thy bidding, let a flock of fair phantoms flit down to Leeds, on the ready railroad of thy inventive imagination. O, thou English Opium-Eater, "perhaps the most singular literary character now alive!" who, from that little box of enchantment, dost devour divinest fancies, remember not to forget the Literary Souvenir.-Christopher North, thou terror of evil-doers, and praise of such as do well, fling to your friend Alaric a chip or two of the old block, and he will prize them as parings from olive tree in the sacred grove of Athens.-Barry Cornwall, my pretty man, take off your new natty yellow glove, and taking care not to ink your snow-white finger, indite an ode to the chaste Dian, or Boy Endymion, or him the hapless Hylas, Nestor, Hyacinthus, Sappho, or Jupiter Ammon. But we have said enough-the British Poets know what we mean, and we insist on our wishes being attended to in all proper quarters. The truth is, and we may as well out with it, that we long to have a hit at some poet or other. We cannot think of attacking their former works that would seem spiteful-but we should like hugely to fall foul of an occasional poem from the pen of any one of our most highly and justly esteemed living poets.

yet we much fear, after all, that we have said nothing very characteristic of the Souvenir. The truth is, that we have too much genius to write a good review. Howsomever, we beg leave to inform the public, pro bono publico, that the volume contains precísely 394 printed pages, written by popular authors-ten (ni fallor) exquisite engravings by the first artists-and three plates of autographs of the principal Living Poets. Besides the poetry, of which we have quoted some average specimens, there are some half-a-score of prose tales, picturesque or pathetic. The prose tales are in general goodexcellent; but we have a certain odd notion that we could write a better one

than any of them; and we hereby promise to make this threat good before October. Shall we send it direct to Messrs Hurst, Robinson, and Co., or to yourself, Mr Watts, at Leeds? As we shall probably be in town before publication of the next Souvenir for 1826, we can hand it over the counter to Mr Mann, who, by the way, is an extremely pleasant man, indeed, and an excellent traveller.

O vain race of mortals! how and by what means have any of you ever brought yourselves to think ill of Blackwood's Magazine? What Editor in England would admit into his periodical this same blessed article? Not one. And why? Is it deficient in wit, fancy, understanding, or knowledge? Most certainly not. On the contrary, it possesses all those qualities, to a truly extraordinary degree. Why then would no editor but Chris topher rejoice in this my article? BECAUSE NO OTHER EDITOR HAS A HEART,

Here have we been dallying away our time, pen in hand, for a couple of hours, like an absolute Dr Drake, and

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