'Tis eve! 't is fading eve! how fair the scene,
Tinged with the soft hues of the glowing west!
Dim hills afar, and happy vales between,

With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest!
More near, the sea by eve's mild gale caressed,
And groves of living green that fringe its tide,
White sails that gleam on ocean's bounding breast,
And the light fisher-barks, that homeward glide
To seek Clovelly's shores of beauty and of pride!

And hark! the mingling sounds of earth and sea!
The pastoral music of the bleating flock,
Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody;
The waves' deep murmur to the' unheeding rock;
And ever and anon the' impatient shock

Of some rude billow on the echoing shore.

And hark! the rower's deep and well-known stroke! Glad hearts are there, and joyous hands once more Weary the whitening wave with their returning oar!

But turn where art with graceful hand hath twined
The living wreath for Nature's placid brow,—
Where the glad wanderer's joyous footsteps wind
Mid rock, and glancing stream, and waving bough,-
Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow
The lingering sunbeam in their shade to dwell:
There might the Naiad breathe her softest vow,
Or the grim Triton sound his wreathed shell,

Lured from their azure home by scenes they love so well!

A softer beauty floats along the sky,

And moonlight dwells upon the heaving wave:
Far off the night-winds fade away and die,
Or, murmuring, slumber in their ocean cave.
Tall oaks, whose limbs the giant-storm might brave,
Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea;
Nor can the mountain-ash forbear to lave
Her blushing clusters, where the waters free
Murmur around her feet such soothing melody!

Lovely Clovelly! in thy shades of rest, -
When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped,
Or Summer pours, from her redundant breast,
Her fruits and flowers along the vale's deep bed;
But most when Autumn's golden glories spread,
And half forgot rude Winter's withering rage-
What fairer path could woo the wanderer's tread,
Soothe wearied hope, or worn regret assuage?
Lo! for firm youth a bower! a home for lapsing age!
Oxford Literary Gazette.

BEN NEVIS.

BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.

Wɛ climb, we pant, we pause; again we climb:
Frown not, stern mountain! nor around thee throw
Thy mist and storm, but look with cloudless brow
O'er all thy giant progeny sublime;

While toiling up the' immeasurable height,

We climb, we pant, we pause: the thickening gloom
Hath palled us in the darkness of the tomb;
And on the hard-won summit, sound nor sight
Salutes us, save the snow and chilling blast,
And all the guardian fiends of Winter's throne.
Such too is life-ten thousand perils past,
Our fame is vapour, and our mirth a groan.
But patience; till the veil be rent away,
And on our vision flash celestial day.

NOTES.

1.-Page 24.

Death on the Pale Horse.

A fine imitation of the Terzetta Rima of Dante, from the pen of a young writer of the name of Wade. I am not acquainted with any other of his poems; but should his future productions realise the promise here held out, he can hardly fail of becoming favourably known to the public.

2.-Page 31.

Lines suggested by the death of Ismael Fitzadam.

These exquisitely beautiful lines, as honourable to the heart as to the genius of the accomplished writer, originated in the death of Mr. John Macken, of Enniskillen, the high-minded but ill-fated author of the "Harp of the Desert," "Lays on Land," and several poems, in this and the former volume of the Poetical Album, under the signature of Ismael Fitzadam. The following is an extract from a letter addressed by Mr. Macken to the Editor, a short time before his death: and most pathetically does it depict the miseries to which persons of genius and keen sensibility are not unfrequently exposed in their voyage through life.

"With respect of my nom de guerre, or nom de mer," says he, "I have no wish to be known by any other name. It was assumed

under the pressure of evil, as indicative of the destiny of a wandering and desolate man, and I have since found no reason to abandon it.

"The history of the earlier years of my life, and previous to my debut as a rhymester, furnishes but little that could interest the sympathies of even a heart like yours. It may be sufficient to remark, that my taste for poetical composition displayed itself at a very early age, and was tenacious enough to maintain its ascendency over my mind, in defiance of opposition, in despite of circumstances, and in the midst of avocations every way unpropitious to its devolopement. Mine has been, indeed, no scholastic life, passed in the cloistered shade of academic bowers.' My literary opportunities were casual and infrequent, and snatched at hasty intervals. After various attempts in the periodical publications of the day, I at length ventured on a volume of verses, entitled, 'Stolen Moments.' They were the productions of boyhood, and died upon their birth-day. My taste for poetry had early associated itself with themes of national glory, and I longed to select some such subject as 'Talavera,' or 'Trafalgar.' I had projected a Nelsoniad,' intended to comprise the achievements and death of that great man. Before I could mature my plan, retarded as I was by a variety of accidental circumstances, the expedition against Algiers afforded me a subject of more recent interest, and one more commensurate with my leisure, experience, and capacity. This, therefore, I prosecuted with much diligence and good will; inspired by an ambitious desire to celebrate, in some way, the naval renown of old England. With my manuscript, which I was not long in completing, and a few pounds in my pocket, I started for London, dreaming of patronage all the way. Wholly a novice in literary matters, and a total stranger in the metropolis, I soon found that I had entered upon speculations, and had been indulging in prospects, more uncertain and fugitive than even the winds and waves. Mr. Murray's situation, as bookseller to the Admiralty, directed me, in the first instance, to him; and I proposed, if he required it, to pay him in advance for the printing. After a good deal of delay, and a little of the hauteur of prosperous trade, he declined my proposition, informing me that his hands were just then too full.' My chagrin evaporated in an epigram. I afterwards stumbled upon another bookseller, and having advanced him such a sum as reconciled him to the risk of printing

a small volume, consisting of about 130 pages, my object was effected. Thus my national tribute saw the light, unaided by a fashionable publisher, without a patron, and almost without a single announcement or advertisement. No sooner was it published, than I sent a copy, with a dutiful letter, to Lord Exmouth, who, I suppose, never opened either the one or the other, as he was never so far influenced, either by his taste or humanity, as to condescend to make the slightest inquiry after his volunteer Laureate. Depressed by this, and a thousand cankering disappointments, I grew every day more and more indifferent to the fate of my unfortunate volume, until all hope of acquiring either fame or profit as a poet, died within me. The disappointment of an author's first hopes has something of bitterness about it; and although, like Junius, I was the sole depository of my own secret, I felt mortified by the neglect of the critical press, and more especially of that portion of it for whose patronage of a national poem I conceived I had some right to look. From one party, my line of politics and religion led me to expect no favour; but from the liberality of the other, I confess I did anticipate something, because I shall not disguise that I felt that some. thing was due to me. An acquaintance, under this impression, wrote to Mr. Croker, with the view of interesting him so far in my book, as to induce him to make some allusion to it in the Quarterly Review. From this gentleman's official connexion with the navy, and from the circumstance of his having written a poem on a similar subject himself, I conceived I had a double right to claim kindred there, and have my claims allowed.' The only notice, however, which this application procured for me, was a mutilated insertion of the title of my book in the ensuing number of the Quarterly; omitting just that part of it which had reference to the peculiar character of the poem.

“Thus baffled on all points, I went to Paris to economize and forget. After spending a few months there, I was induced to return to London, on an invitation to arrange, and superintend the publication of a work, which promised large remuneration; but which, in the sequel, ended as all my other undertakings had terminated, in disappointment and vexation. But for this proposal I should, most probably, have forgotten myself amidst the amiable follies of the French metropolis, until I had