Tho' baffled seers cannot impart

The secret of its labouring heart,

Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from East to West.

Spirit that lurks each form within

Beckons to spirit of its kin;

Self-kindled every atom glows,

And hints the future which it owes."

The descriptions in the Essay on "Nature" are enchanting, but our space prevents our giving more than a glance at them.

"Nature is the circumstance which dwarfs every other circumstance." "There are days, &c. * * when everything that has life gives signs

*

of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts."

"Cities give not the human senses room enough."

"Man is fallen: nature is erect and serves as a differential thermometer detecting the presence or absence of the divine sentiment in man."

"We are encamped in nature, not domesticated."

"Our music, our poetry, our language itself are not satisfactions, but suggestions."

"Are we fools of nature? One look at the face of heaven and earth lays all petulance at rest, and soothes us to wiser convictions."

"The knowledge that we traverse the whole scale of being, from the centre to the poles of nature, and have some stake in every possibility, lends that sublime lustre to death."

We must conclude, and cannot do so with better words than those used by the old editors of the great poet of Nature-"Reade him, therefore; and againe, and againe: And if then you doe not like him, surely you are in some manifest danger, not to understand him."

ANGELS' VISITS. Poems by MISS ANNA SAVAGE.-Longman and Co. THIS is, in every respect, a dainty book." The covers are of a snowy whiteness, impressed with angels resplendent in silver; and he must be more than a stoic who can turn over the gold-edged pages with any other feeling than that of a desire to be pleased. Fortunately, for the critic's virtue, there is nothing within to make him regret his prepossession; for it scarcely can be considered a defect, that the tone of the charming volume is in perfect keeping with its elegant exterior, and perhaps, therefore, more acceptable in the boudoir than the study. In spite, however, of the conventionalities, which will betray the reader of modern poetry, "Angels' Visits," although bearing evident influence of other minds, has an individuality of its own. The present is evidently a maiden effort; and young poets labour under the common difficulty of novices, in having more to unlearn than to acquire. Miss Savage, in her next angelic flight, must trust more to the strength

of her own pinions, and try and forget all that she has read before, and write as her impulses prompt; and she will approach nearer to the seventh heaven of true inspiration. We may now assure her that she has produced a volume rich in promise, and of more than average performance.

A poem, with the somewhat unpropitious title of "The Boy Pygmalion," is a favourable specimen of the author's powers. "The Sculptor-Stripling," as the speaker designates himself, is recalling the object of

"The love that beam'd upon him in his boyhood's happier days."

He tells us, with equal grace as sweetness, that—
"Years pass'd on-our happy childhood glided all too lightly by,
Years that knew no harsh distinction, blindly formed by destiny;
Thou went'st forth in Beauty's triumph, happy in its heartless glare,
I amid the world's wild struggles, to forget thine image there.

Thou hast wealth, more dearly valued than thy birds and flowers now,
What to thee thy guileless girlhood-what thy long-forgotten vow?

For I loved thee, how I loved thee! e'en thy lightest accents came
Like sweet music heard in slumber, flushing my pale brow with flame;
Yes, I loved thee e'en in boyhood, for my mind was old in thought,
And with that mind's matured expansion thou did'st grow with genius fraught.

Sharing with me in each study, in each gift of heavenly art,
Till the child became the woman in the fated dreamer's heart;
Thus I sunned me in thy beauty, gazing on thy face alone,
Calling forth thy matchless beauty prisoned in the Parian stone.
Thus the marble 'neath my fingers grew to forms of beauty rare,
For my spirit felt thy presence floating round me everywhere ;
By my pulse, in rapture beating, 'neath thy dark eye's magic ray;
By the death-like chill that smote me, when thy step had died away.

By the sad and dreary vigils, that my lonely heart had kept,
Thought still hovering round thy pillow, while the gay and happy slept;
By the joy that thrilled my being, to each mirthful mood of mine,
Or responded to thy sorrows, for thy sorrows then were thine.”

DOUGLAS JERROLD'S

SHILLING MAGAZINE.

THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. *
BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER V.

SHORT was the distance from Covent Garden Theatre to Covent Garden watch-house; and therefore in a few minutes was young St. Giles arraigned before the night-constable. Cesar Gum had followed the offender as an important witness against him; whilst Bright Jem and his wife certainly attended as sorrowing friends of the prisoner. Kitty Muggs was of the party; and her indignation at the wrong committed" on so blessed a baby "-we mean of course St. James-would have burst forth in loudest utterance had she not been controlled by the moral influence of Bright Jem. Hence, she had only the small satisfaction of declaring, in a low voice to her sister, "that the little wretch would be sure to be hanged-for he had the gibbet, every bit of it, in his countenance. With this consolation, she suffered herself to be somewhat tranquillised. "The Lord help him!" cried Mrs. Aniseed. "Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to say such a thing!" whispered Kitty Muggs. Bright Jem was sad and silent. As Cesar, with unusual glibness, narrated the capture of the prisoner with the stolen property upon him, poor Jem, shading his eyes with his hand, looked mournfully at the pigmy culprit. Not a word did Jem utter; but the heart-ache spokein his face.

"And what have you got to say to this?" asked the night-conContinued from page 115.