Aunt Hannah heard the window break, Well, after many a sad reproach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind; The tails of both hung down behind; Their shoes were on their feet. The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: 1 wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, So what does he, but takes and drags And leaves me where I am. My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As these that now I see. A Tale of Drury What a large floor! 'tis like a town! At first I caught hold of the wing, 'You've only got to curtsey, whisp- And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats not quite Thirteen got fifty pounds a night, Then why not Nancy Lake ?' But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where' mamma? Lane.-By W. S. [Scott.] As Chaos which, by heavenly doom, And twice ten hundred voices spoke, And lo where Catherine Street extends, To every window-pane : A bright ensanguined drain; Where patent shot they sell; Nor these alone, but far and wide To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise; It seemed that nations did conspire, But first his worsted hosen plied, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The engines thundered through the street, For fear the roof should fall. An awful pause succeeds the stroke, At length the mist awhile was cleared, 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, And poured the hissing tide: He tottered, sunk, and died! Where Muggins broke before, But sulphury stench and boiling drench Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, What are they feared on? fools-'od rot Were the last words of Higginbottom. Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition.-By Horace Smith. And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, Still silent, incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prithee tell us something of thyself; Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have. above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, Why should this worthless tegument endure, JOHN WILSON. PROFESSOR WILSON, long the distinguished occupant of the chair of moral philosopy in the university of Edinburgh, earned his first laurels by his poetry. He was born on the 18th of May, 1785, in the town of Paisley, where his father had carried on business, and attained to opulence as a manufacturer. At the age of thirteen, the poet was entered of Glasgow University, whence in 1804, he was transferred to Magdalen College, Oxford. Here he carried off the Newdigate prize from a vast number of competitors for the best English poem of fifty lines. Mr. Wilson was distinguished in these youthful years by his fine athletic frame, and a face at once handsome and expressive of genius. A noted capacity for knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a predilection for gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four years' residence at Oxford, the poet purchased a small but beautiful estate, named Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, where he went to reside. He married-built a house-kept a yacht-enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of the lakes-wrote poetry-and cultivated the society of Wordsworth. These must have been happy days. With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaustless imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some reverses, however, came, and, after entering himself of the Scottish bar he sought and obtained his moral philosophy chair. He connected himself also with 'Black wood's Magazine,' and in this miscellany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, and taste-displaying also the peculiarities of his sanguine and impetuous temperament. The most valuable of these contributions were collected and published (1842) in three volumes, under the title of ‘The Recreations of Christopher North.' The criticisms on poetry from the pen of Wilson are often highly eloquent, and conceived in a truly kindred spirit. A series of papers on Spenser and Homer are equally remarkable for their discrimination and imaginative luxuriance. In reference to these 'golden spoils' of criticism, Mr. Hallam characterised the professor as 'a living writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush mighty waters.' The poetical works of Wilson consist of the 'Isle of Palms' (1812), the City of the Plague' (1816), and several smaller pieces. The broad humour and satire of some of his prose papers form a contrast to the delicacy and tenderness of his acknowledged writings-particularly his poetry. He has an outer and an inner man -one shrewd, bitter, observant, and full of untamed energy; the other calm, graceful, and meditative-'all conscience and tender heart.' He deals generally in extremes, and the prevailing defect of his poetry is its uniform sweetness and feminine softness of character. Almost the only passions,' says Jeffrey, with which his poetry is conversant, are the gentler sympathies of our nature-tender com 6 6 From all these passion, confiding affection, and guiltless sorrow. there results, along with most touching and tranquillising sweetness, a certain monotony and languor, which, to those who read poetry for amusement merely, will be apt to appear like dullness, and must be felt as a defect by all who have been used to the variety, rapidity, and energy of the popular poetry of the day.’ Some of the scenes in the City of the Plague' are, however, exquisitely drawn, and his descriptions of lake and mountain scenery, though idealised by his imagination, are not unworthy of Wordsworth. The prose descriptions of Wilson have obscured his poetical, because in the former he gives the reins to his fancy, and, while preserving the general outline and distinctive features of the landscape, adds a number of subsidiary charms and attractions. In 1851, Mr. Wilson was granted a pension of £300 per annum; his health had then failed, and he died in Edinburgh on the 3d of April 1854. A complete collection of his works was published by his son-in-law, Pro fessor Ferrier, of St. Andrews, in twelve volumes (1855-58). A Home Among the Mountains.-From 'City of the Plague.' MAGDALENE and ISABEL. MAGDALENE. How bright and fair that afternoon returns Its dewy freshness in my soul! Sweet breeze! That hymning like a spirit up the lake, With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest What'er my doom It cannot be unhappy. God hath given me The boon of resignation: I could die, Though doubtless human fears would cross my soul, Calmly even now; yet if it be ordained That I return unto my native valley, And live with Frankfort there, why should I fear To say I might be happy-happier far Than I deserve to be. Sweet Rydal Lake! Am I again to visit thee? to hear Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul? Where our lone summer-house MAGD. Sweet mossy cell! So cool-so shady-silent and composed! Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring |