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a What streams of rapturè flow !” " But Beauty's laws how vague and a picturesque image. *“ Thy warm undefined! caress bids Man's cold reason yield.Taste ever varying, Custom ever blind : We are not so sure of the meaning What pleases one offends another eye, of that. To what had he been object What this thinks grace that deems deing? Not surely to give her a kiss ? formity; Man's coldest reason could never

In Grecian Isles doth Beauty's standard have found fault with that-nor in

shine? deed allowed the lady to put herself Spain answers-No! whilst England to the trouble of a

cries—'Tis mine! warm caress.' But the fact is, that reason is not The swarthy Negro and the white-haired cold. Reason is of a warm-we had

Swede, almost said-an amorous tempera

Tall Patagonian, pigmy Samoyede ; ment. Thus, as it is universally ad- Each clasps his own dear image in his mitted, that there is a reason in the And thinks the sun beholds no heavenroasting of eggs," so is there reason

lier charms." in marrying rather than in burning ; but reason in neither case yields, but We see nothing strange in all this in both“ rules the roast." Yet, ma- nothing that requires Old Nick king all due allowance for these, and to solve it. “ Custom ever blind” a few other imperfections, the pas- is a mysterious line. Does it mean sage is pretty, and meets with our that a man gets so accustomed to most unqualified approbation-with ugliness that he thinks it beauty, and the farther exception of " Hail, wo

vice versa ? But we must not be man! bane and blessing,” which is hypercritical;—and here is a passage not gallant. No gentleman, however that may safely bid criticism dephilosophically disposed, ought on fiance. We recommend it to the any account whatever to use such especial admiration of Tom Cringle, language to a lady. Woman never is Captain Marryatt, and Captain Cha“bane here below"--and if we had mier. It beats their best hits holher “ here above,” we should tell low. her so, and prove it, in spite of Old « On love's wild wave, no compass and Nick.

no chart, Anger, Self-love, Ambition, thirst of When long hath tost the vessel of the Praise,

heart; Perturb Man's soul and darken half his By Hope's fair gale now swiftly onward days;

borne, Envy and Slander, Jealousy and Pride,

Now lock'd within the ice of fancied On Woman wait, foul spectres by her side;

Scorn; Yet these, Oh Virtues ! bid you beam While oft black Doubt hangs clouds along

more bright, As stars shine fairest on the darkest And flash thy lightnings, withering jeanight."

lousy! Whew! whew! whew! That is silly

How sweet, each trial o'er, each peril about the stars. The simile is of the To enter Wedlock's tranquil port at last."

past, kind Canning exemplified in the following lines—

“ In wedlock's tranquil port, we

find “Hymen's Bower," inhabited, “ As Sampson lost his strength by cutting some say — but falsely — by the off his hair,

serpent discord.” Nicholas then So I regain my strength-by breathing brings forward a convent maid," Hampstead air.”

to prove, by her confession of the On beauty Nicholas writes well, woes of single blessedness, that informing us, that

there is no blessing in this life like

a husband. “ Beauty of love's fair fabric forms the base."

« • Alas !' she sighs, on me must never Now “ love's fair fabric” is woman. Affection smile, or these cold eyes adore. Her base, therefore, is beauty-and No cherub babe will e'er my fondness much is the bustle made about it in claim, these days. Beauty has laws, but Smile in my arms, and lisp a mother's no certain code.

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bliss;

But here in barren sorrow must I dwell, all the wisdom and wit in this My couch cold stone, my world a dreary Essay on Woman.” The subject cell.'”

would scarcely seem to be exhausted; What a contrast to this other pic- and we think we shall try our own ture!

hand on it one of these days—imme“ Girt by a silent Hymeneal band, diately after the adjournment, or Before the altar Clare and Ivor stand ; prorogation, or dissolution of ParHe looks to heav'n, and now, in joy and

liament. pride,

But here is a sonnet on WinderSurveys the dazzling beauties of his

mere, bride. Her eyes, like violets, droop in timid “ Thy calm, romantic beauty who can see, grace,

The woods of green that slope to kiss Her modest thoughts send crimson to

thy tide, her face ;

Thy bowery isles that smile in verdure's How softly-sweet she breathes her vows pride, of love!

Nor grow enamoured, lovely lake, of Angels might stoop and listen from

thee? above;

At dewy dawn to roam the mountains He scarce can hear or feel, so lost in

o'er,

That gird thee 'round like gloomy senBut now her hand of snow reclines in

tinels, his

Whilst far beneath thy purple bosom The rites conclude midst smiles and rap

swells : turous tears!

At sultry noon to seek thy cavern'd Prosperous their lot, and happy be their shore, years !”

There woo the freshness of the perfumed Old Nick—we offer to bet a pound

gale,

List the wild cascade murmuring is like Old Kit—a Benedick. He

down thy rocks, knows nothing of the feelings of a The hum of bees and bleat of sportive Bridegroom on his wedding day.

flocks : He scarce can hear or feel, so lost in At eve to skim thy wave with noiseless bliss.”

sail, We maintain that he can hear the And watch Day's dying radiance fire thy slightest whisper. We maintain that

breast : he hears every syllable of the mar

Thus, thus to live, were surely to be riage service—and at some parts can

blest.” scarcely hold down the beating in We think we should know Winbis breast. The Bride hears too- dermere well, having lived on its his and her own heart knocking-or banks weeks together, on visits to if that be too strong an expression, the Professor at Elleray. In spite going pit-a-pat. We have often been again of Old Nick, we deny that « lost in bliss,” and as often been Windermere is girded round with found again, without having been mountains; we deny, that at dewy advertised in the Hue and Cry; but dawn, the mountains are gloomy never so as scarce to feel.We sentinels;" we deny, that there are shrewdly suspect that the feeling is

as many as one cavern in her “ the marrow of the bliss-and that vern'd shore;" we deny that so many to be lost in bliss without feeling it, as one cascade murmurs down her seems incompatible with the laws of rocks; and we affirm, that Old Nick, our constitution.

when there, must, like the brideWe perceive that one of the prin- groom he describes at the halter, cipal pleasures of a married man is have been so “ lost in bliss," as to sit of an evening in a woodbine scarce to hear or feel,” or see; bower with his wife, and play the though we daresay that, nevertheflute. A simpleton never looks so less, after “skimming at even the silly and so sweet, as when puffing wave with noiseless sail,” he played away on that instrument-more es- such a knife and fork as had seldom, pecially when double-tonguing in if ever, been seen in that village, to the florid style. And now, we be- the astonishment even of the Bowlieve, we have extracted for our own ness Bass-kites. instruction and delight in the Moor, But Old Nick, like Old Kitt, loves

ca

the desert; and here is his picture subjects from them, but looking with of one,

his own eyes over external being,

and into the“ moods of his own mind," “Give me the Desert, limitless and lone,

he selects the same or similar things Eternity outfigured to the eye;

and thoughts as theirs; and this it Where Grandeur rears her undivided

is, rationally speaking, to belong to throne, And silence listens to the eagle's cry;

the same school as theirs—he being Where the vast hills seem pillars of the

a docile, apt, and loving pupil, they sky,

being learned, wise, and bumane Shrine of sublimity! no bounds control,

masters. Nor is Cornelius the less Meet for the worship of the Deity,

original, because he is taught of such When their loud hymn the solemn thun.

teachers. They, too, had theirsders roll,

Milton, and Sbakspeare, and Spenser, And lightnings speak His power, and lift and the other illustrious sons of imin the awe-struck soul.”.

mortal song. And these had also We defy a desert to outfigure theirs—for high and low all belong

to one school—the school of nature eternity. Space is not time—as the poet knew when he cried,

-a Sabbath as well as week-day

school-and the Teachers are the “ Ye gods! annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy."

gracious Muses.

We shall be happy when we have Having asked for a desert "limit- built it to see Mr Webbe at Tor Cotless,” you should not add, “no

tage-should he visit Scot!and before bounds control;" for nature abhors then, at Buchanan Lodge. We bea vacuum in the heads of her tauto- lieve he lives in “ city or suburban," logical children. Why has grandeur and we bave been rather uncivilly a “ throne,” and sublimity only a told, that some dozen years ago we “ shrine ?” It will puzzle Old Nick called him Cockney. We have no to give " the reason why.” Is a recollection of that most grievous ofdesert, in thunder and lightning, fence; but this we know, though it more “meet for the worship of the may appear both paradoxical and Deity,” than in calm ? No; and what heterodox, that among Cockneys are soul, when “awe-struck," was ever many thousands of excellent men, “ lifted” by what laid it prostrate ? women, and children.

Almost all But what is this hard in our other people wax Cockneyish as they get breeches'-pocket ? " Lyric Leaves, old, and we freely confess here, by Cornelius Webbe.” The little where there are none to overbear us volume opens of its own accord, at but these Tors, and they will be Summer Morning. Ho! ho! we see mum, that we are conscious of a at a glance that he is a very differ, creeping Cockneyfication over our ent person; that he has feeling and character. Yes, Christopher North fancy-an eye and a heart for nature. -hear it, ye Heavens ! and give ear, It is pleasant, here in this lone high thou Earth! is a Cockney! We shall rude moor, to peruse poetry breath- return Mr Webbe's visit ; and hope ing the spirit of the lonely cultivated it will be at the house-warming of lowlands, as they are sleeping in the “ Fancy's Home.” At present it is unlabouring and leisureful hour of

a very pretty poem. noon. It sinks “like music on our heart.”

“ FANCY'S HOME. Mr Webbe has studied Cowper and “ My cot should stand in some lone dale ; Wordsworth. And he not only un- Its windows, brightening with the East, derstands their spirit, but bas learn- Should hear the wakeful Nightingale ed, in his worship, to make it his Wben every song but her's bas ceased. own, and on it to look at the same And there should be, to hear it too, nature that gave them their inspira

A heart all tenderness and truth, tion. He borrows no words from And eyes that shine like morning-dew, them-yet his language is coloured

And lips of love, and looks of youth. by the breath of theirs; he borrows “ My cot should have a garden bower, no images from them, yet his descrip- With fruit and flowers, for bud and bee, tions are interfused with the same To balm and freshen evening's bour, feelings as theirs; he borrows no And fill the air with fragrancy ;-

And there my Mary's barp should ring birds that seem not to hate nor to Sweet tones that make the pulses thrill, be unhappy in confinement, but hangThe heart unconsciously to sing,

ing by beak or claws, to be often And as unconsciously to still.

playing with the glittering wires

-to be amusing themselves, so it “ A little lake, nor loud nor deep,

seems, with drawing up, by small Should from my door to distance spread, enginery, their food and drink, which Where we might hear the light fish leap,

soon sickens, however, on their Or see them nestle in their bed ;

stomachs, till, with ruffled plumage, And it should sleep between two hills,

they are often found in the morning Shut from the sweeping storm's career,

lying on their backs, with clenched Calm as the heart when laughter stills,

feet, and neck bent as if twisted, on the And bright as joy's delicious tear.

scribbled sand, stone-dead. There “And there my little white-sailed boat,

you saw pale youths, boys almost Should lie in golden-sanded cove,

like girls, so delicate looked they in Or on the silver waters float,

that hot infected air, which, ventilate Freighted by Beauty and glad Love,

it as you will, is never felt to breathe And thus might we laugh, sing, and play,

on the face like the fresh air of liAnd let the months like minutes wing;

berty,-once bold and bright midAI life be all a summer's day,

shipmen in frigate or first-rater, and And death a dark, but dreadless thing !" saved by being picked up by the

boats of the ship that had sunk her by What has become—we wonder- one double-shotted broadside, or sent of Dartmoor Prison ? During that her in one explosion splintering into long war its huge and hideous bulk the sky,and splashing into the sea, in was filled with Frenchmen-aye- less than a minute the thunder silent, “ Men of all climes-attached to none- and the fiery shower over and gone, were there;"

—there you saw such lads as these, -a desperate race-robbers and who used almost to weep if they got reavers, and ruffians and rapers, not duly the dear-desired letter from and pirates and murderers — min- sister or sweetheart, and when they gled with the heroes who, fired by did duly get it, opened it with tremfreedom, had fought for the land bling fingers, and even then let drop of lilies, with its vine-vales and some natural tears—there, we say, “hills of sweet myrtle”-doomed to you saw them leaping and dancing die in captivity, immured in that with gross gesticulations and horrid doleful mansion on this sullen moor. oaths obscene, with grim outcasts There thousands pined and wore from nature, whose moustachio'd away and wasted, when at last“hope, mouths were rank with sin and polthat comes to all," came not to them lution-monsters for whom hell was —and when not another groan re. yawning—their mortal mire already mained within the bones of their possessed with a demon. There, breasts, they gave up the ghost. Young wretched, woe-begone, and wearied heroes prematurely old in baffled outwith recklessness and desperation, passions-life's best and strongest many wooed Chance and Fortune, passions that scorned to go to sleep who they hoped might yet listen to out in the sleep of death. These their prayers --and kept rattling the died in their golden prime. With dice-damning them that gave the them went down into unpitied and indulgence-even in their cells of unhonoured graves—for pity and punishment for disobedience or muhonour dwell not in houses so haunt- tiny. There you saw some, who, in ed-veterans in their iron age-some the crowded courts, “sat apart reself-smitten with ghastly wounds tired,” — bringing the practised skill that let life finally bubble out of si- that once supported, or the native newy neck or shaggy bosom-or the genius that once adorned life, to bear poison-bowl convulsed their giant on beautiful contrivances and fanlimbs into unquivering rest. Yet cies elaborately executed with there you saw a wild strange tumult meanest instruments, till they riof troubled happiness—which, as valled or outdid the work of art asyou looked into its heart, was trans- sisted by all the ministries of science. figured into misery. There volatile And thus won they a poor pittance spirits fluttered in their cage, like wherewithal to purchase some little comfort or luxury, or ornament to

Too well remembered ? Exile! think no their persons; for vanity had not for

more, saken some in their rusty squalor, and There's madness in the cup that memory

holds they sought to please her their mistress or their bride. There you saw To thy inebriate lip! accomplished men conjuring before

Yet rise they will, their eyes, on the paper or the can

Dear visions of thy home! The birds will

sing, vass, to feed the longings of their

The streams will flow, the grass will wave, souls, the lights and the shadows of

the flowers the dear days that far awaywere beau

Will bloom, and through the leafage of the tifying some sacred spot of " la belle

wood France”—perhaps some festal scene,

The blue smoke curl; thy cot is there, for love in sorrow is still true to re

thy cot, membered joy, where once with Poor Exile! and the secret mighty power, youths and maidens,

The Local Love, that o'er the wideThey led the dance beside the mur

spread earth

Binds man to one dear, cherished, sacred muring Loire."

spot, There you heard--and hushed then His home, is with thy spirit, and will oft was all the hubbub--some clear sil- Throw round its dear enchantments, and ver voice, sweet almost as woman's,

awake, yet full of manhood in its depths. For distant scenes beloved the deep.felt singing to the gay guitar, touch

sigh, ed, though the musician was of the

And prompt th’unbidden tear. best and noblest blood of France,

Oh! wbo that drags with a master's hand, “ La belle

Ga: A captive's chain, would feel his soul rebrielle!” And there might be seen

fresh'd, in the solitude of their own abstrac- Though scenes like those of Eden should

arise tions, men with minds that had sound. Around his hated cage! But here green ed the profounds of science, and

youth seemingly undisturbed by all that cla- Lost' all its freshness, manhood all its mour, pursuing the mysteries of lines

prime, and numbers-conversing with the And age sank to the tomb, ere Peace her harmonious and lofty stars of heaven,

trump deaf to all the discord and despair of Exulting blew; and still upon the eye, earth. Orreligious still ever more than In dead monotony, at morn, noon, eve, they, for those were mental, these Arose the Moor, the Moor! spiritual, you beheld there men, But now terrific rumours reach'd his ear whose heads before their time were Of fierce commotions, insurrections, feuds becoming grey, meditating on their Intestine, making home Aceldama. own souls, and in holy hope and

Men became humble trust in their Redeemer, Brutal, infuriate ; from the scaffold thrill'd if not yet prepared, perpetually pre- The female sbriek, and (0 eternal shame paring themselves for the world to To France !) within the deep and gulfy come!

Here is a lament for young Au- They sank, all wildly mix’d, the son, the gustin.

sire,

The mother, and the gentle virgin, all “ Farewell, France ! In one dark watery grave! The captive sigh'd, as for the gentle

And she was one, breeze

The hapless Genevieve, on whom the Of balmy Provence, loudly round him

surge howl'd

Had thus untimely closed ! Her lover The chill, moist gale of Dartmoor. Where heard,

Silently, sternly, heard the blasting tale, The blushing bowers, the groves with And wept not; never more refreshing

fruitage hung Voluptuous, the music of the bough Moisten'd his eyelids, and with desperate From birds that love bright climes, the zeal perfumed morn,

Hé nourish'd his despair, till on his heart The golden day, the visionary eve, The vulture of consumption gnaw'd! The walk, the interchange of soul, too

He sleeps well,

Beneath yon hillock; not a stone records

wave

are now

tears

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