ADVERTISEMENTS.

Lost in the mighty ocean of matter that floods the newspaper pages, alas! how unlike that rivulet of text meandering through a meadow of margin in the novels of the day, I look to you, Mr. Bouverie, for rescue from my watery grave.

It is not among political debates, dreadful occurrences, or fashionable movements, that I am to be found, but among those little oblong compartments on the first side of the paper, commonly called Advertisements.

The existence of this valuable community is endangered, in spite of their emphatic fingers and grotesque faces, pointing and grinning their merits into notice. Merits, which the name of a Bish and Goodluck are alone sufficient to perpetuate. Amiable pair! whither would their prospective philanthropy have extended, had not premature fate closed for ever our positively penultimate peeps of Peru and Mexico.

But what inexhaustible stores, what long-withdrawing scenes of bliss and pleasure, glowing in all the luxuriant language and descriptive imagery of my brethren, still remain "for the inspection of the public." Secure of satisfaction among such varied resources, let the individual look to us for assistance, who may have lost his wife or his watch, who wishes to clean his coat, or clarify his complexion.

How many desirable residences, and terrestrial paradises remain unenjoyed, in spite of those two emphatic monosyllables "To Let," that so earnestly challenge our attention, and so successfully disdain compliance with

the tame rules of grammar. What quantities of happiness may be "purchased at a fair valuation;" what convenient premises and undisturbed tranquillity "may be entered upon immediately."

In vain do we assure our correspondents, that health and beauty are at our disposal, that they may be conveyed into the country packed in separate boxes; nay morethat they may be returned, if they fail to meet with approbation-the "Egis of Life" lies neglected on our counter, and much unappropriated immortality remains corked up in pint bottles.

Such pernicious prejudices could scarcely be credited, were we not convinced by the bilious complexions, and tedious coughs of next-door neighbours, who let our "occasional pills, and expectorating lozenges," so unaccountably slip through their fingers. Nay more— how many an obstinate old man commits felo de se at seventy-seven, from neglecting the "Balm of Gilead"; how many a full grown person is useless at a ball, for want of three lessons from a professor; monstrous beyond measure! Orpheus plays, but the brutes positively wo'nt dance.

In spite of the natural predisposition of mankind to be imposed upon, which has prevailed from the Phea of Pisistratus, to the less romantic but equally flagrant impostures of the present day; to the proposed union of the Chalk and Cream, the Thames and Milk companies of the metropolis, a most dangerous principle is gradually gaining on the public mind. Men, Mr. Bouverie, are actually pretending to judge for themselves, and with unparalleled incredulity, refuse to believe every thing they are bid.

If such innovation is permitted, and so pernicious a prerogative gains a precedent, farewell to the noble art which has spread so widely the imperative command of Turner, and the milder entreaty of Lardner.*

The flowery prose of a Rowland, and the pointed poetry of a Warren will be forgotten, and the obliteration of such illustrious names will involve in their fall, the humbler destiny of

(Continued from page 39.)

As the torrent strikes the rock,
Fell Grenada's thunder shock
Fiercely swept along.

As the lightning rends the oak,
On the impetuous Spaniards broke

Through the Moorish throng.

Yet though the Moors were backward borne,

E'en in the battle's early dawn,

The lion banner flouts the sky,

The Abencerrages fight to die,

The kings, the Zegris are o'erthrown,

The Abencerrages fight alone.

Aye, charge, though in the hour of slaughter,

Ye shed that noble blood like water,

And pile the dying on the dead,

To turn th' indignant river red

With the life-blood of the brave;

They, when the trumpet prompts the spear,
Are foremost in the wild career;

* Use Turner's Blacking.-Try Lardner's.

They, when against those crests of pride
O'erwhelming rolls war's angry tide,
Can still raise high the lion shield,
Can bear to die, but never yield
To aught except the grave.
Then, as the Moorish war-cry rose,
And back upon their Christian foes

The wave of battle flow'd,

To where those hero chieftains bled,
Indignant that he ever fled,

The wild Numidian rode.

There, as the foaming mass swept by
In their unbridled majesty,

With flashing eye, and waving mane,
Each courser seem'd to share the pain,
And on to death, in fierce disdain
And eager fury, strode.
Next, waving o'er the Zegri lord,
The banner of the bloody sword
Plung'd in the dark affray.
In Ali's eye of glancing flame

Were mingling pride, and hate, and shame,
In one unhallow'd ray,

As he rush'd past in angry mood,

To write the crescent's fame in blood.

But Roland, when, through war's red tide,

He saw the Zegri chieftain ride,
Sprung fiercely on, to do or die,
With fury dark'ning in his eye,

While his soul reel'd beneath the shock
Of passions which revenge awoke.
Why does the Zegri's falchion fail,
And the red light of his eye grow pale?

With his own name the battle echoes rung,

While through the war-dust Roland fiercely sprung.
In vain he nerv'd his arm, remember'd well
Upon his ear that voice in thunder fell:
In vain he thought of former times,
'Twas but the memory of crimes,
The widow's curse, the orphan's tears;
He strove to wrestle down his fears,

He turn'd in wrath, and with an angry glare,
Laugh'd the short laugh of resolute despair,
And met the flashing falchion well,
Although in just revenge it fell.

Here where the eddying war-dust roll'd
Like the billows of the main,

And the blue banner's ample fold
Had caught a darker stain,
The life-blood of the brave who died,
To guard that banner's sacred pride
As war's wild scream in thunder broke,

The energies of man awoke,

And squadrons dizzy with delight,
Swept thickly to the rising fight,

Forgetful of their care.

'Tis well for man in savage mood

To joy in battle's angry flood;

'Tis well for man in war to die

Beneath the glance of honour's eye,
But what does woman there?

With trembling hand and failing breath,
To overlook the toil of Death,
Sat Clara, fiercely nerv'd by grief,
Alone to snatch the last relief.

Oh, gaze not on that brow so fair,

The paleness of the tomb is there :

Ye saw of late the tender light

Which stole through lashes dark as night,

Just shading with their soft control

The beaming shrine of Clara's soul.

Then turn away-ye could not bear

The ghastly contrast of despair.

Yet as she watch'd, her eye was fraught
With wild intensity of thought.