to be gone through-yes! though the lord of misrule is absent, the hobby horse neglected, and the mummers not to be found, yet has the master of that happy hospitable mansion still his harp in hall.' Listen! Already are its quivering strings pouring out their jocund notes. Every part of the evergreen-covered room is full of life and animation; in the middle, many a couple are floating or dodging through some dance or reel in one corner the tiny slipper is being hunted by some younger branches of the company, and, from the screams and laughter in another, you may tell that some, a little older, are there enjoying all the hair-breadth scapes,' and teasing tricks of blind-man's buff.

Young men and maidens now

At blindman's-buff, or hunt-the-slipper, play,
Replete with glee. Some, haply, cards adopt;
Or, if to forfeits they the sport confine,

The happy folk adjacent to the fire

Their stations take.'

But, alas! 'the best friends must part.' The entrance of Froze January, leader of the year,'

has been duly and fully celebrated-he has received all honour, and been received with every festivity. See now with what pretended unwillingness those giggling girls are drawn towards the door through which they must make their exit, and over which hangs the sacred' misletoe, threatening a kiss for each individual berry it bears. Observe what a hearty smack the young men give the lips of their sisters and cousins, and other female relations, and how gallantly and genteelly they salute their more distant, yet now more welcome, acquaintances of the softer sex. Ay! there is the rub! It was but once that I was allowed to snatch a balmy kiss from the soft delicate lips of Catherine; oh,

Her breath was sweeter than the morning gale,
Stolen from the violet's dewy leaves;'

and when shall I forget the ecstacy I enjoyed as I inhaled that and love together?

For proffer'd worlds I would not lose

A single thought that turns to thee !'

Ah! that sound again!

Are these chimes ringing a

second cheerful round? No, no; 'tis the waits': how beautifully this solemn silence sets off their instruments! Play on,' my good fellows!

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.-
That strain again; it had a dying fall;
Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.'

But I suppose you will be coming to me before the next twelve hours are past for your vails, you rogues! Well, well; you shall have them. I love music-I must love it for ever-it is the language of recollection.'

By what air is the dull ear of night' thus startled?' They're a' noddin'-No; I am not, though I should be; so farewell, ye minstrels! farewell, Catherine! Yes, Catherine, farewell! Believe me, no being under heaven can wish you more sincerely than I doa merry Christmas, and a happy new year!'

P.

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please.

Oн, sweetest grove that ever struck the sight,
Accept the tribute of your poet's lay;

Go dsmith,

How oft, beneath thy shade, at morn and night,
I've ta'en my silent, solitary way,

To muse in silence on the long past day,

When 'neath some well-known oak, the errant knight,
With armour glitt'ring in the morning's ray,
Cheer'd up his tenants, for the coming fight.
Or rushing forth, like light'ning from on high,
Laid waste the yellow, ripen'd corn around;

*This was originally the place of rendezvous for the knights and their vassals, when returning, laden with plunder, from pillaging their neighbours' lands.

VOL. 1. Dec. 1829.

Or rent with two-fold shouts the liquid sky,
As driving onwards o'er the open ground,
No more the farmers' hearts with joy resound,
But chilly winter, cold and keen draws nigh,
On ev'ry cheek the dewy tear is found,
And hungry children round their parents cry.

Such were the days which thou, blest grove, hast seen,
When lawless robbers trod the dreary plain,
Dread their appearance, frightful was their mein,
May ne'er such dreadful times return again,
But may we walk without a blot or stain
In peace, through busy life's tempestuous scene!
Like as a boat, toss'd by the roaring main,
Comes safe to port, from ev'ry storm a screen.
How oft, when Phoebus from his bed arose,

And brightly shone amidst the thick grown trees,
I've woo'd my heart to silence and repose,
And harken'd to the murm'rings of the breeze,
Or to the tuneful throstle perch'd at ease
On yon familiar branch at evening's close;

Whose cheerful notes his lovely mate release
From heavy sorrow, grief, and painful throes.
How oft, I've pluck'd the honeysuckle sweet,
The yellow primrose, and the vi'let pale;
And watch'd the streamlet gurgling at my feet,
O'er which the stock-dove coos her mournful tale,
How she was robb'd in yonder pleasant vale,
Ere summer came with its meridian heat;

But spring-like odours fill'd the passing gale,
And thou, blest grove, was made a calm retreat.
How oft, when winter reign'd tremendous round,
And from the North broke forth the piping wind,
When desolation wrapt the open ground,

And flaky snow fell thickly from behind,
In raptures I've beneath some bush reclin'd,
And hearken'd to the hollow mournful sound;
Revolving in my ever changing mind
God's mercies, and my own transgressions own'd.
Elland.

JOHANNES S.

THE PERSONS OF THE POETS.

'Mighty Men.'-Gen. vi. 4.

HOMER was blind, and Ovid had a long nose! These were remarkable features, and have, therefore, heen preserved; but we are no further informed, either by history or tradition, respecting their persons. Were they tall or stout? Was Ovid no higher than Tom Moore, or was Homer as big as Allan Cunningham? These are tantalizing questions, and cannot be answered: it is painful to think so; for, by a natural association of ideas, we refer at once from those works which give us pleasure to those who created them: we desire to be acquainted with their whole history, and to see their persons. Hence the charms of biography and portraits. The ancients, like ourselves, were influenced by these feelings they wrote memoirs, and the arts were encouraged because they multiplied 'images' of gods and heroes. Statues were placed in public thoroughfares, and every great man had his head impressed upon a medal. It was a happy thought; marble yields to the barbarian's hammer, and the canvass and the colours are alike destroyed by time; but the medal is imperishable; avarice carries it into every quarter of the world, and the cunning of the workmanship secures it from being defaced: the images on it render it of more value than its intrinsic worth, and, therefore, it has survived every other record, and perpetuated features which we are still desirous of seeing.

are,

But portraits, whether impressed on metal or paper, after all, unsatisfactory: they call up, it is true, the features of those they represent, but they do nothing more; they give no idea of their persons, unless an erroneous one, for no mental precaution can guard against the flattery of the artist; he is a true philanthropist-a real friend of humanity; for it is his constant custom to make people look much better than they really do. Something, therefore, beside painting, sculpture, and engraving, is wanting; these are either

frail or imperfect, and we must, therefore, have re course to description. A pen and-ink sketch, after all, is most intelligible. The ancients did very little this way, and the moderns not much. The French excel us in this species of portrait painting, and have recently given the world some striking specimens of their art: Mr. Hazlitt, in this country, is almost the only one who has cultivated the science, but he colours too highly.

A modern critic, remarkable for his intellectual acuteness, has laid it down, as an unquestionable fact, that poetry is the fungus of a diseased constitution, and that sickliness and rhyming are inseparable. The natural sensitiveness of human nature, according to this theory, must be increased by a debility which, in diminishing the vigour of the nerves, adds to their acuteness, giving to every organ of perception an adscititious power, and to the intellect itself a comprehension and a grasp which facilitates the growth of the various faculties. The mind, like some of the insect tribe, acquires strength from the decay of the shell which imprisons it; and being closely allied to the soul, like that spirit walks abroad, in primeval strength, when uncontrolled by the members of the body.

Is not this a startling paradox? Let us try it by the test of living evidence:

Byron is still before us, and whatever light has been emitted from his mind, and it was all brilliancy,--his person indicated nothing of the mental vigour which amazed and delighted a wondering world. His youth was not healthy, and his early dissolution proves that his constitution was naturally feeble. His features were regular, but loweringly; ' sicklied over with a pale cast of thought,' and bespeaking a mind but ill at ease; his eyebrows were rather heavy, and the clasped lips indicated a heaviness of the heart which provoked thoughts neither social nor delightful. We have seen him in some of his gayest moods, and, though the natural urbanity of his disposition at such times seemed to justify the illustration of Moore-'a beautiful bust lighted