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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 siglis 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 of earth,
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 vo language almost Wordsworthian.lune is by Allan Cunninghame. It is Cunninghame is far superior to Clare, full of real warm human feeling of and we say so, without meaning any the best kind, finely tinged too with disrespect to that most amiable and the spirit of poetry, and written in interesting person. He has all, or nearVol. XVII.


ly all that is good in Hogg-not a At times there come, as come there ought twentieth part of the Shepherd's atro Grave moments of sedater thought, cities—and much merit peculiarly his When Fortune frowns, nor lends our own, which, according to our potion night of poetry, is beyond the reach of the One gleam of her inconstant light; Ettrick bard. Yet Cunninghame has And hope, that decks the peasant's never written, and probably never will Lower, write, anything so fortunate as the

Shines like the rainbow through the Queen's Wake.

O then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. And proud resolve, and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can By Allan Cunninghame.

speak :

I think the wedded wife of mine, Oh! my love's like the steadfast sun, The best of all that's not divine ! Or streams that deepen as they run; We cannot help thinking, that poeNor hoary hairs, nor forty years,

try like this—for poetry assuredly it Nor moments between sighs and tears,

is-awakens a much deeper feeling Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,

than that sort of poetry, which, dealNor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows

ing in troubled and sinful passions, To sober joys and soften woes,

might be supposed to have been groan

ed out to the Muse in auricular conCan make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee! fession. There is something sickening

in your assiduous poetical sinner, who Even while I muse, I see thee sit

sees nothing grand but guilt-thinks In maiden bloom and matron wit

life dull unless it be devilish, and is Fair, gentle as when first I sued,

oppressed with ennui, if forced for a Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

season to have recourse to some honest Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee employment. The truth is, that sane, As when, beneath Ardbiglan tree, sound, and simple nature, is the only We stay'd and wooed, and thought the nature in which the real poet long

finds delight; and if sometimes he Set on the sea an hour too soon;

medules with the morbid anatomy of Or linger'd ʼmid the falling dew,

the soul, it is that he may shew forth, When looks were fond and words were in nobler proportions and diviner beaufew.

ty, the uniinpaired structure of our

moral being. On this subject we shall Though I see smiling at thy feet

not now dilate ; but content ourselves Fire sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; with remarking, that nothing is easier And time, and eare, and birth-time woes, than to write in this diseased and drunHave dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy ken style—and that nothing is more rose;

difficult than adequately—to speak of To thee and thoughts of thee belong

“ the sound healthy children of the All that charms me of tale or song;

God of Heaven.” When words come down like dews un.

North has just sent a devil to say, sough t With gleams of deap enthusiast thought, month, so that we may make our ar

that he is to have no small print this And Fancy in her heaven flies freeThey come, my love, they come from

ticle a page or two longer than per orthee.

der. The easiest way of doing this is

by extracts. So, fair reader, here is O, when more thought we gave of old

a poem by Mr T. K. Hervey. He is To silver than some give to gold;

a young gentleman of very considera'Tivas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

ble promise, and the Convict-Ship What things should deck our humble

will adorn even a page of Maga. We bower!

have a small volume of poems lately 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, published by Mr Hervey, called “AusThe golden fruit from Fortune's tree;

tralia,” &c. which are much above And sweeter still to choose and twine mediocrity, and have attracted, as they A garland for these locks of thine deserved, considerable notice. No A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, man in the world likes so well as we While rivers flow and woods are green. 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,
Whomas 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 wbich 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 Souvenir; and at the same time beg are too chary in general of poetical ef- leave to propose a toast—" The health fusions, (in answer to this charge, see of the Reverend E. W. Barnard.” Mr our pyramidical bard A,) weshall

quote Barnard, we learned t’other day, from another little composition from the our friend Martin M‘Dermot the UA




merciful, is son-in-law to Arch-deacon Ripening every plant of worth, Wrangham. We were happy to hear Till it bud and blossom forth; it, on both their accounts. Mr Wrang Chorus. —Strew about, strew about ! ham is one of the best scholars in Eng 1st Angel. Flowers that hand of poet land ; and that Mr Barnard has an exceedingly elegant mind, needs no May from heaven's pasture sever; better proof than

Richer theirs than rose's hue !

Sweeter they than violet blue !

Chorus.--Strew about, strew about !
By the Rev. E. W. Barnard

2d Angel. Gems that in profusion gay, Fearing nothing of decay,

Over heart and over brow, Come with a poet's eye, and parent's Ever bloom as fresh as snow; heart,

Chorus. Screw about, strew about ! And bless your bounteous Maker !

1st Angel. Gladsome health to fire the There they sit,

eye, Beneath yon towering elms-a goodly And paint the cheek of infancy; boy

Doubtless zeal, and guileless love, And gentle girl—their little arms around Manhood's rugged heart to move; Each other's necks entwining, as if loath Chorus. --Strew about, strev about! To play at worldly games, and minding 2d Angel. Lowly thought, and holy only

fear, Love, ceaseless love, the business of hea Studious peace, and conscience clear,

And grace divine, to make them be Glows not thine heart within thee at the Meet for angels' company. sight?

Chorus. -Strew about, strew about ! Ha! nobler visions come and hark! the voice

With these very beautiful verses, we Of more than earthly music! angel forms, intended to have closed our article. Twin spirits, hovering o'er that infant But on correcting the slip, we perceive pair,

that a few additional sentences are Illume, like sunshine, the departing skies, necessary for the “upmaking,” since So bright, so fond their smile!

–And nothing looks so well at the top of a higher still,

page, as the title of an article-and we (Such social charity prevails in heaven,) perceive that the title of the next is Cherub and seraph troop around to hear a taking one. What then shall we The guardians sing their gracious benison. say? why, that all our good Poets, yes, These, hand in hand, poised on their one and all of them, should contribute snow-white wings,

to the next volume of the Literary Alternate sing, and at each choral pause Souvenir. What difficulty is there Lift up to One Unseen their waving in writing a beautiful poem of fifty palms,

lines, long or short metre, any sumAnd draw down blessings. O'er their

mer morning before breakfast? Coninnocent charge

sider how early the sun rises all the sumIn plenteous showers the ready blessings

mer through, from about the beginning fall,

of May, well on to the end of SeptemTo mortal vision like ethereal dews,

ber. Suppose you breakfast at nine Odours, or rarest flowers, or costly gems,

or half past nine. Well then, up with Or stars of mildest lustre :—Beautiful, And passing speech, in plenteous shower you at five-and before the bell rings, they fall,

there is your poem. Lay it aside for And ever and anon the ministering spirits, sunshining morning-into the form of

a week-correct it over your egg any With looks that shew unutterable love, Bend o'er the infants, and resume their

a letter with it and off she goes to

the tune of Alaric A. Watts, Esq. Leeds, song.

Nothing can be more easy and simple Chorus. -Strew about, strew about! than this process,-and' by and by 1s. Angel. Dews from an immortal down comes, or up goes to you your wing,

beautiful large paper copy of the SouLittle bosoms nourishing;

venir, with the worthy Editor's kind Smiles of an immortal glow,

regards, and a pleasantly indited letMaking goodly seed to grow;

ter. Therefore, Wordsworth, god of Chorus. -Strew about, strew about! the woods, “sole king of rocky Cum2d Angel. Drops of radiance, glittering berland,"alyrical ballad, if you please, bright,

or a small portion, a very small porFrom the face of orient light,

tion, of the Excursion.--Southey, with


wit and wisdom at will, dispatch & yet we much fear, after all, that we have few pages of Omniana.—Coleridge, said nothing very characteristic of the thou dear delightful dreamer, whose Souvenir. The truth is, that we have genius is ever sailing “up & great too much genius to write a good review. river, great as any sea," at thy bid Howsomever, we beg leave to inform ding, let a flock of fair phantoms the public, pro bono publico, that the fit down to Leeds, on the ready rail volume contains precisely 394 printed road of thy inventive imagination. pages, written by popular authorsten 0, thou English Opium-Eater, “per (ni fallor) exquisite engravings by haps the most singular literary cha the first artists-and three plates of racter now alive!" who, from that lit- autographs of the principal Living tle box of enchantment, dost devour Poets. Besides the poetry, of which divinest fancies, remember not to for we have quoted some average speciget the Literary Souvenir.-Christo- mens, there are some half-a-score of pher North, thou terror of evil-doers, prose tales, picturesque or pathetic. and praise of such as do well, Aling to The prose tales are in general goodyour friend Alaric a chip or two of the excellent; but we have a certain odd old block, and he will prize them as notion that we could write a better one parings from olive tree in the sacred than any of them; and we hereby progrove of Athens.-Barry Cornwall, my mise to make this threat good before pretty man, take off your new natty October. Shall we send it direct to yellow glove, and taking care not to Messrs Hurst, Robinson, and Co., or ink your snow-white finger, indite an to yourself, Mr Watts, at Leeds ? As ode to the chaste Dian, or Boy En we shall probably be in town before dymion, or him the hapless Hylas, publication of the next Souvenir for Nestor, Hyacinthus, Sappho, or Ju 1826, we can hand it over the counter piter Ammon. But we have said to Mr Mann, who, by the way, is an enough-the British Poets know what extremely pleasant man, indeed, and we mean, and we insist on our wishes an excellent traveller. being attended to in all proper quar O vain race of mortals ! how and by ters. The truth is, and we may as what means have any of you ever well out with it, that we long to have brought yourselves to think ill of Black a hit at some poet or other. We can wood's Magazine ? What Editor in not think of attacking their former England would admit into his periworks—that would seem spiteful—but odical this same blessed article? Not we should like hugely to fall foul of an one. And why? Is it deficient in occasional poem from the pen of any wit, fancy, understanding, or knowone of our most highly and justly es- ledge? Most certainly not. On the teemed living poets.

contrary, it possesses all those qualiHere have we been dallying away ties, to a truly extraordinary degree. our time, pen in hand, for a couple of Why then would no editor but Chris. hours, like an absolute Dr Drake, and topher rejoice in this my article ?


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