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ts foaming surface like a whirlpool-gulf,

To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide. Gray birch and espen light she loved, that droop But silent as thy billows used to flow,

Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze And terrible, the hosts of Elam move,

That wantoned with her brown and glossy locks; Vinding their darksome way profound, where man The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank; ere dawn Ve'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from hcaren Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve, Breathed. Oh! ye secret and unfathomed depths, By Glenderamakin's flower empurpled marge, How are ye now a smooth and royal way

Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen. For the army of God's vengeance ! Fellow-slaves Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard, And ministers of the Eternal purpose,

Save of her aged nurse or shepherd maid Vot guided by the treacherous, injured sons

Soothing the child with simple tale or song. Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm,

llence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, Ye come, and spread your baliners, and display Life's sins and sorrows: better known the voice Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white

Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud Bereath the admiring moon. Come on! the gates | Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes Are open-not for banqueters in blood

Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint Like you! I see on either side o’erllow

By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. The living deluge of armed men, and cry,

Nor they of love unconscious, all around Begin, begin! with fire and sword begin

Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet The work of wrath. Upon my shadowy wings Tuned emnulous; her knew all living shapes pause, and float a little while, to see

That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, Mine human instruments fulfil my task

Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouched, Of final ruin. Then I mount, 1 tly,

Courting her fond caress; nor fed her gaze ind sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds,

The brooding dove, but murmured sounds of joy. Chat stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds, hat live along the interininable space,

The Day of Judgment. Cake up Jehovah's everlasting triumph!

Even thus amid thy pride and luxury, [The Pair Recluse.]

Oh earth! shall that last coming burst on thee, [From "Samor, Lord of the Bright City:']

That secret coming of the Son of Man,

When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, funk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven,

Irradiate with his bright advancing sign: Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage,

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, Moved the meek star of eve; the wandering air

Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away; Preached odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man,

Still to the noontide of that nightless day ilept, weary of the garish, babbling day.

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing

Along the busy mart and crowded street, Droops not in slumber; Lilian, thou alone,

The buyer and the seller still shall meet, Vid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove,

And marriage-fea-ts begin their jocund strain: dolatrous of yon majestic moon,

Still to the pouring out the cup of wo; Chat like a crystal-throned queen in heaven,

Till earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, eems with her present deity to hush

And mountains molten by his burning feet, o beauteous adoration all the earth?

And heaven his presence own, all red with furnaco Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops

heat. cand up and worship! the translucent streams Down the hills glittering, cherish the pure light

The hundred-gated cities then, Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung

The towers and temples, named of men It intervals; the lake, so silver-white,

Eternal, and the thrones of kings; jlistens ; all indistinct the snowy gwans

The gilded summer palaces, ask in the radiance cool. Doth Lilian muse

The courtly bowers of love and ease, Co that apparent queen her vesper hymn?

Where still the bird of pleasure sings: Nursling of solitude, her infant couch

Ask ye the destiny of thein ? Vever did mother watch; within the grave

Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem! she slept unwaking: scornful turned aloof

Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, a wallon, of those pure instinctive joys

Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurled, By fathers felt, when playful infant grace,

The skies are shrivelled like a burning scroll, Couched with a feminine softness, round the heart And one vast common doom ensepulchres the world. Winds its light maze of undefined delight,

Oh! who shall then survive? Contemptuous: he with baughty joy beheld

Oh! who shall stand and live ? His boy, fair Malwyn; him in bossy shield

When all that hath been is no more; Rocked proudly, him upbore to mountain steep

When for the round earth hung in air, Pierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest

With all its constellations fair To battle with the eagle's clam'rous brood.

In the sky's azure canopy; But she, the while, from human tenderness

When for the breathing earth, and sparkling sea, Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, l'he cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile,

Heaving along the abyss profound and darkLike a forgotten lute, played on alone

A fiery deluge, and without an ark ! By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild

Lord of all power, when thou art there alone Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew,

On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, A lonely child, by not one hunian heart

| That in its high meridian noon Beloved, and loving none: nor strange if learnt

Needs not the perished sun nor inoon : Her native fond affections to embrace

When thou art there in thy presiding state, Things senseless and inanimate; she loved

Wide-sceptred monarch o'er the realm of doom : All flowrets that with rich embroidery fair

When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest Enamel the green earth-the odorous thyme,

womb, Wild rose, and roring eglantine; nor spared

The dead of all the ages round thee wait:

And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn

Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, Like forest-leaves in the autumn of thine ire:

Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the Blond Faithful and True! thou still wilt save thine own! When mighty torrents from their channels learn The saints shall dwell within the unharming fire, Rushed through the land the baughty multitude, Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm.

Billow on endless billow; on through wood, Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side,

O’er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, So shall the church, thy bright and mystic bride, The death-devoted moved, to clangour rude Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm.

Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs,

Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale. O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines;

Again they reached thee, Borodino! still We hail, we bless the corenant of its beam,

Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, Almighty to avenge, almightiest to redeem!

The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill,

Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to day; REV. GEORGE CROLY.

In vain the startled legions burst away;

The land was all one naked sepulchre; The Rev. GEORGE CROLY, rector of St Stephen's,

The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, Walbrook, London, is, like Mr Milman, a correct Still did the hoof and wheel their passage test, and eloquent poet, but deficient in interest, and con- | Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mocloer sequently little read. His poetical works are, Paris

ing drear, in 1815; The Angel of the World; Gems from the Antique, &c. Mr Croly has published several works

The field was as they left it; fosse and fort in prose: Salathiel, a romance founded on the old Steaming with slaughter still, but desolate; legend of the Wandering Jew; a Life of Burke, in The cannon flung dismantled by its port; two volumes; and a work on the Apocalypse of St

Each knew the mound, the black rarine sboxe struit John. This gentleman is a native of Ireland, and Was won and lost, and thronged with dead, till fix was educated at Trinity college, Dublin,

Had fixed upon the victor-half undone.
There was the hill, from which their eyes elate

Had seen the burst of Moscow's golden zone;
Pericles and Aspasia.

But death was at their heels; they shuddered and
This was the ruler of the land,

rushed on.
When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,

The hour of vengeance strikes. Hark to the gale!

As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds When each was like a living flame;

That from the north in sullen grandeur sail The centre of earth's noblest ring,

Like floating Alps. Advancing darkness broods
Of more than men, the more than king.

Upon the wild horizon, and the woods,
Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,

Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill,
His sovereignty was held or won :

As the gust sweeps them, and those upper flords
Feared-but alone as freemen fear;

Shoot on their leafless boughs the sleet-drops chilly Loved-but as freemen love alone;

That on the hurrying crowds in freezing showers distal
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind

They reach the wilderness! The majesty
By nature's first great title-mind!

Of solitude is spread before their gaze,
Resistless words were on his tongue,

Stern nakedness-dark earth and wrathful sky.
Then Eloquence first flashed below;

If ruins were there, they long had ceased w blaze; Full armed to life the portent sprung,

If blood was shed, the ground no more betrays
Minerva from the Thunderer's brow !

Even by a skeleton, the crime of man;
And his the sole, the sacred hand,

Behind them rolls the deep and drenching bare,
That shook her Ægis o'er the land.

Wrapping their rear in night ; before their rág

The struggling daylight shows the unmeasured deset
And throned immortal by his side,

A woman sits with eye sublime,
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;

Still on they sweep, as if their hurrying march
But, if their solemn love were crime,

Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel Pity the beauty and the sage,

Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Hearen's clear Their crime was in their darkened age.


At once is covered with a livid reil;
He perished, but his wreath was won;

In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel;
He perished in his height of fame:

Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun,
Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun,

In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel;
Yet still she conquered in his name.

The snows wheel down through twilight, thick
Filled with his soul, she could not die;

dun; Her conquest was Posterity!

Now tremble, men of blood, the judgraent has begui! [The French Army in Russia.]

The trumpet of the northern winds has bloed,

And it is answered by the dying roar [From • Paris in 1815.']

Of armies on that boundless field o'erthrow: Magnificence of ruin! what has time

Now in the awful gusts the desert hoar In all it ever gazed upon of war,

Is tempested, a sea without a shore, Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime,

Lifting its feathery waves. The legions ily; Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare !

Volley on rolley down the hailstones pour; How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar!

Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die, Like pampered lions from the spoil they came;

And dying, hear the storm but wilder thunder by. The land before them silence and despair,

Such is the hand of Heaven! A human blow The land behind them massacre and flame;

Had crushed them in the fight, or flung the chazo Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now! Round them where Moscow's stately towers were A name.

And all bestilled. But Thou! thy battle-plain

Was a whole empire ; that devoted train

susceptible, and romantic, she early commenced Must war from day to day with storm and gloom writing poetry. The friendship of Mr Jerdan, of the (Man following, like the wolves, to rend the slain), Literary Gazette, facilitated her introduction to the

Must lie from night to night as in a tomb,
Must fly, toil, bleed for home ; yet never see that home.

To the Memory of a Lady.
• Thou thy worldly task hast done.'—Shakspeare.
High peace to the soul of the dead,

From the dream of the world she has gone! On the stars in her glory to tread,

To be bright in the blaze of the throne. In youth she was lovely ; and Time,

When her rose with the cypress be twined, Left the heart all the warmth of its prime,

Left her eye all the light of her mind. The summons came forth-and she died !

Yet her parting was gentle, for those Whom she loved mingled tears at her side

Her death was the mourner's repose.
Our weakness may weep o'er her bier,

But her spirit has gone on the wing
To triumph for agony here,
To rejoice in the joy of its King.

This lady, generally known as ‘L. E. L.,' in con-
sequence of having first published with her initials
only, has attained an eminent place among the
female poets of our age. Her earliest compositions

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Birthplace of Miss Landon. world of letters, but it also gave rise to some reports injurious to her character, which caused her the most exquisite pain. Her father died, and she not only maintained herself, but assisted her relations by her literary labours, which she never relaxed for a moment. In 1838 she was married to Mr George Maclean, governor of Cape-Coast castle, and shortly afterwards sailed for Cape-Coast with her husband. She landed there in August, and was resuming her literary engagements in her solitary African home, when one morning, after writing the previous night some cheerful and affectionate letters to her friends in England, she was (October 16) found dead in her room, lying close to the door, having in her hand a bottle which had contained prussic acid, a portion of which she had taken. From the investigation which took place into the circumstances of this melancholy event, it was conjectured that she had undesigningly taken an over-dose of the fatal medicine, as a relief from spasms in the stomach. Having surmounted her early difficulties, and achieved an easy competence and a daily-extending reputation, much might have been expected from the genius of L. E. L., had not her life been prematurely termi. nated. Her latter works are more free, natural, and forcible than those by which she first attracted

notice. were Poetical Sketches, which appeared in the Literary Gazette: afterwards (1824) she published the Improvisatrice, which was followed by two more

I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,

For the departing colour of thy flowers volumes of poetry. She also contributed largely to

The green leaves early falling from thy boughsmagazines and annuals, and was the authoress of a Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs, novel entitled Romance and Reality. From a publi Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers; cation of her Life and Literary Remains, edited by

But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost, Mr L. Blanchard, it appears that her history was in

To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs

To former beauty; and the desolate the main a painful one, and yet it is also asserted Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls that the melancholy of her verses was a complete It was not always desolate. contrast to the vivacity and playfulness of her man- | When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear now, ners in private life. She was born at Hans Place, When care shall have shadowed that beautiful brow; Chelsea, in 1802, the daughter of Mr Landon, a When thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead, partner in the house of Adairs, army agents. Lively, And thy heart turns back pining to days that are fled


E, Landon


Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass
Like th: noonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass;

The Grasp of the Dead.
Oh! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee, 'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
How rose-touched the page of thy future must be! Looked down on the dead and dying;
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a vail,
But blossoms that flourish, but hopes that are fair; Where the young and brave were lying.
And what is thy present ! a southern sky's spring.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the wing. And the hostile dead around him,
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave;

| And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour; A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower. Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking.
The charnied light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone, | Careless he stept, where friend and foe
And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on.

Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was fled, | Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the dead! The soldier paused beside it:
Oh! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow, | Ile wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lov'st now;! But the grasp of the dead defied it.
When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their | He loosed his hold, and his English heart

Took part with the dead before him ; Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more dark: And he honoured the brave who died sword in hand, When thy feelingy lie fettered like waters in frost, As with softened brow he leant o'er him. Or, scattered too freely, are wasted and lost:

• A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, For aye cometh sorrow, when youth hath passed by A soldier's grare won by it: Ah! what saith the proverb? its memory's a sigh. Before I would take that sword from thine hand,

My own life's blood should dye it.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
I looked upon his brow--no sign

Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Of guilt or fear was there;

Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
He stood as proud by that death-shrine

Who in life had trenabled before thee.'
As even o'er despair
He had a power; in his eye

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,

Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare

And he laid him there in horour and rest,

With his sword in his own brave keeping!
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand,

[From "The Improrisatrice.']
He raised them baughtily;

I loved him as young Genius loves, And had that grasp been on the brand,

When its own wild and radiant bearen It could not wave on high

Of starry thought burns with the light, With freer pride than it wared now;

The love, the life, by passion given.
Around he looked with changeless brow

I loved him, too, as woman loves
On many a torture nigh;

Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn :
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,

Life had no evil destiny And, worst of all, his own red steel.

That, with him, I could not have borne! I saw him once before ; he rode

I had been nursed in palaces;
Upon a coal-black steed,

Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
And tens of thousands thronged the road,

That I should not have thought a home And bade their warrior speed.

In Paradise, had he been near! His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,

How sweet it would have been to dwell, And graved with many dint, that told

Apart from all, in some green dell
Of many a soldier's deed ;

Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,

And nestling birds to sing the hours ! And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

Our home, beneath some chestnut's sbade, But now he stood chained and alone,

But of the woven branches made:

Our vesper hymn, the low wone wail
The headsman by his side,

The rose hears from the nightingale;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;

And waked at morning by the call
The sword, which had defied

Of music from a waterfall.
The mightiest, lay broken near;

But not alone in dreams like this,
And yet no sign or sound of fear

Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
Came from that lip of pride ;

I loved: my love had been the same
And never king or conqueror's brow

In hushed despair, in open shame. Wore higher look than did his now.

I would have rather been a slave,
He bent beneath the headsinan's stroke

In tears, in bondage by his side,
With an uncovered eye;

Than shared in all, if wanting him,
A wild shout from the numbers broke

This world had power to give beside! Who thronged to see him die.

My heart was withered--and my heart It was a people's loud acclaim,

Had ever been the world to me: The voice of anger and of shame,

And love had been the first fond dream, A nation's funeral cry,

Whose life was in reality Rome's wail above her only son,

I had sprung from my solitude, Her patriot and her latest one.

Like a young bird upon the wing,


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To meet the arrow; so I met
My poisoned shaft of suffering.

And as that bird, with drooping crest

Besides her dramatic writings, to be noticed in And broken wing, will seek his nest,

another section, Miss BAILLIE has presented to the But seek in vain : so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought.

There was one spell upon my brain,
Upon my pencil, on my strain;
But one face to my colours came;
My chords replied to but one name-

world at different times a sufficient quantity of misLorenzo !-all seemed vowed to thee,

cellaneous poetry, including songs, to constitute a To passion, and to misery !

single volume, which was published in 1841. The

pieces of the latter class are distinguished by a pecu[Last Verses of L. E. L.]

liar softness of diction, which makes then fall melt(Alluding to the Pole Star, which, in her voyage to Africa, ingly on the ear; yet few of them have become she hand nightly watched till it sunk below the horizon.] | favourites with vocalists or in the drawing-room.

A star has left the kindling sky

A lovely northern light;
How many planets are on high,

But that has left the night.
I miss its bright familiar face,

It was a friend to me; Associate with my native place,

And those beyond the sea.
It rose upon our English sky,

Shone o'er our English land,*
And brought back many a loving eye,

And many a gentle hand.
It seemed to answer to my thought,

It called the past to mind,
And with its welcome presence brought

All I had left behind.
The voyage it lights no longer, ends

Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends

That I may see no more ?
Fresh from the pain it was to part-

How could I bear the pain ?
Yet strong the omen in my heart

That says—We meet again.
Meet with a deeper, dearer love;

For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove,

Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes

Still turned the first on thee, Till I have felt a sad surprise, That none looked up with me.

Miss Baillie's House, Hampstead. But thou hast sunk upon the wave,

Her poem entitled The Kitten, which appeared in an Thy radiant place unknown ;

early volume of the Edinburgh Annual Register, I seem to stand beside a grave,

has a truth to nature which ranks it among the best And stand by it alone.

pieces of the kind in our language. Farewell ! ah, would to me were given

The Kitten.
A power upon thy light!
What words upon our English heaven

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Thy loving rays should write !

che rustic's closing day,

When drawn the evening fire about,
Kind messages of love and hope

Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
Upon thy rays should be ;

And child upon his three-foot stool,
Thy shining orbit should have scope

Waiting till his supper cool;
Scarcely enough for me.

And maid, whose check outblooms the rose, Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,

As bright the blazing fagot glows.
And little needed too;

Who, bending to the friendly light,
My friends! I need not look beyond

Plies her task with busy sleight;
My heart to look for you.

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces. These expressions, it is almost unnecessary to say, are not

Backward coiled, and crouching low, brao to natural facts, as the Pole Star has not a quotidian With glaring eyeballs watch thy sve, haing anywhere, and it shines on the whole northern hemi The housewife's spindle whirling round, sphere in common with England. -Ed.

Or thread, or straw, that on the ground

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Beguiles the rustic's cinc Sre about,

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