Her plants diffuse their sea-green tresses round;
With starry water-breaks, her surface gleams;
And far above, by shadows part embrowned,
Part bathed in golden light of orient beams,
A wilderness of wood looks down upon her streams.
'Here flourishes the thorn-her milk-white bloom
Now changed for summer's garb; light oziers swing,
Dipping their flexile wands; the furze and broom
Vie with their locks, as on the steeps they cling;
And soft the blossom-showers descend, to bring,
Ere long their forest berries glossy red.

From hoary crags, the yew his dark-green wing
Expands untired; and every leaf that fled

From winter's wrath is here again in joyance spread.'

The author of the poem from which these very pretty stanzas have been taken is a Mr. Edwards, who, while drinking out of the Derbyshire Helicon himself, is in the habit of dispensing to others a more vulgar and perhaps more palatable liquid, in a well-ordered gin-shop in Derby. It augurs well for the march of intellect when provincial traders begin to woo the Muses; for though the poet's notes may not be always negotiable, they cannot fail to be admitted as evidence of the diffusion of literary taste.

Mr Edwards is not the only living poet that Derby can boast; a Mr. Noble is the author of some fugitive pieces of great value, and the Dove has inspired a hundred others to sing of its Naiades and its beauties. It was here that honest old Izaak Walton, and his 'affectionate son and servant, Charles Cotton,' used to beguile the time, and cheat the trout, with lines of verse and hair; it was in this sweet spot that they mused and fished; alternately watching their ideas, and their ground-baits; preparing songs for posterity, and food for supper; and he who has read the one, and loves the other, and does not feel more happy, and feed more heartily, after a visit to the Dove, deserves to be lampooned in an epigram, and choked by a fish bone. Fishing, however, is now the recreation of the

ploughman and the smith; and gentlemen are not often seen in such vulgar offices. The genus of your genuine angler is fast becoming extinct; the species are a bastard set; the blood of Walton is contaminated; and, alas! we 'ne'er shall look upon his like again!'

Dove is now a sacred water; a holy stream in which no unhallowed horse-hair may be immersed! Who would not give his ears to fish where father Izaak fished? yet he who ventured, might lose head as well as ears; for boards at each end of the stream assert that these waters are preserved!' Genius of worms and minnows! preserve me from such a taste! The waters of the Dove to be associated with green gooseberries, and raspberry jam, sugared apricots, and currant jelly! and made a preserved fish pond!

The sun had descended towards the west before we could tear ourselves from the attractions of Dove-dale; but we could not quit the neighbourhood of Ashbourn without going on a literary pilgrimage to the little lonely cottage in which Mr. Moore wrote his Lalla Rookh.' It has nothing remarkable about it; but its associations are of a very pleasing kind. A lady pointed out to us the room in which the poet used to write, the window through which he used to look, and the shrubbery in which he used to walk while composing his poems and melodies. He was, it appears, quite a peripatetic, his active spirit denying him repose, whilst his mental faculties were being exercised on some delightful subject of tenderness or friendship.

It was evening when we departed from the cottage; but we did not consider it late: we thought the day had disappeared too soon, and, as the coach drove towards Derby, I could not help casting many a longing, lingering look behind.'

London, Sept. 1829.

M. B.

FORGET ME NOT.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

Appealing language! unto me
How much thy words impart,
Most justly may they claim to be
The motto of the heart.

Those fondest feelings, still the same,
Whate'er its earthly lot,

Prefer alike this touching claim,

And say 'forget me not.'

Barton's Poetic Vigils.

WHEN Flora first begins her genial reign,
And Nature's freed from winter's icy chain,
The ground, refreshed by April's sunny showers,
Repays the loan with twice ten thousand flowers.
When hills are gilded by the setting sun,
And all the business of the day is done,
I love to wander o'er the spacious fields,
And view astonished all that Nature yields :
Where'er I turn, my eyes embrace a scene,
Clad in fair Nature's livery of green;

The flowers' bright tints a thousand sweets exhale,
Which emulate Arabia's spicy gale :

The landscape's beauties, while they please the sight,
Should fill our hearts with wonder and delight,
Raise the rapt soul, with faith's unclouded eye,
To Nature's God, enthroned above the sky,
With awe behold him, and adoring bow
To the Creator of the earth below.

Whilst some admire the gay parterre, which glows
With the bright tulip and the fragrant rose,
The works of Nature in her simplest guise
Convey more pleasure to my wond'ring eyes;
See, at the foot of yonder spreading oak,
Which ne'er has felt the sounding axe's stroke,

Low on the ground, with weeds and grass o'erspread,
A modest flow'ret hangs her lowly head;
Concealed from inadvertent eyes, I ween,

For many a flower is born to blush unseen :'

What is thy name, fair flower, that lov'st to dwell
At the oak's foot, in Nature's simplest dell,

Almost concealed, by grass, from human eyes?'
Forget me not,' the modest flower replies.
What's in a name?' the Bard of Avon sung,
Whilst Nature dwelt enraptured on his tongue;
But yet sometimes a name invokes a spell,
Which can subdue or raise the passions' swell;
Thus, simple flower, thy name has power to raise
Mem'ry's fair scenes, the deeds of other days.

Near yon tall vessel, in the port confined,
Whose flowing canvass flutters in the wind,
I see two friends with mutual warmth embraced,
Ere one embarks upon the watery waste,

Tears choke their utterance, whilst they closely clung,
A language too expressive for the tongue.
'Oh! when shall we behold each other's face?'
Says one, still clinging to the last embrace:
The traveller cries- Perhaps we meet no more,
Save in that world where sorrow's tears are o'er.
Then in each distant, unfrequented spot,
Think of thy country and forget me not.'

When the brave soldier, clad in warlike arms,
Embarks to join in raging war's alarms,
His weeping friends in vain entreat his stay,
But honour calls-he dares not disobey.

Bestow,' he cries, whilst seated in your cot,
One thought on me, and oh! forget me not.'

But, oh! can colours paint or words impart
The mournful scene, when youthful lovers part;
The noble courser, whose uplifted head
Disdains the ground on which his footsteps tread,
Snuffs up the wind, impatient of delay,

And chides his master for his lengthened stay,
Whose soul, enraptured with his fair one's charms,
Thinks not of time whilst clasped within her arms;

She plucks a flower from yonder grassy plot,

Keep it,' she cries, 'twill say-forget me not.'

As on the stone which heads our kindred's graves, Their cherished names the chisel's point engraves, That those who loved them may, in future years, Read the rude lines and wet the stone with tears; So would I write, as on a marble tomb,

A faint memorial for the years to come;

When friendship's partial eye these lines shall read,
(Their author numbered with the silent dead,)
They will, whatever be the reader's lot,

Commissioned say: FORGET THE WRITER NOT.'
Halifax, August, 1829.

GULIELMUS.

THE OASIS OF THE DESERT.

A BRIGHT green spot where many blossoming flowers,
The eye with admiration gazes on,

Twine their fair leaves into a thousand bowers;
And crystal fountains, sparkling in the sun,
Combine their varied sweets, and blend their powers
To cheer the traveller in the desert lone;

And, as he roams the barren wilderness,

Give him a glimpse of joy, that makes his troubles less. Such is religion in the gloomy time,

When all we fancied beautiful and bright, We find to be a wilderness of crime,

A desert waste, without a ray of light.

And when the heart by care and woe is riven, Religion gives it rest, and wafts the soul to heaven.

K.

*The writer frankly confesses that he is indebted for the idea of this sonnet to 'The Mirage' of Gulielmus, which appeared in the September Number, and to which the present composition is intended as a companion.

FROM THE PERSIAN.

ON parent's knee a naked, new-born childWeeping thou satt'st, whilst all around thee smiled;

So live that, sinking into death's long sleep,

Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep. HAFIZ.