We love our country's freedom, and feel satisfied that purity of morals, and the sacred influence of our blessed religion, constitute its only true basis. We wish ardently, therefore, that we could prevail upon the noble poet whose works we are now considering to put in execution the promised retirement of his muse, and do justice to those powers which nature has bestowed upon him, by giving them their ample range over the wide circuit of contemplation that lies before him, selecting those objects which are worthy of his intellect, and connected with his own and his country's glory-which may lead him through nature to nature's God, and qualify him to open what in the language of the author of the Night Thoughts is called "the volume of the skies."

"Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide,
And let in manhood; let in happiness;
Admit the boundless theatre of thought
From nothing up to God."

If lord Byron could be persuaded to expand his capabili ties, and raise his poetical thoughts to their proper standard, he might soon perhaps be able to afford to abandon to their due condemnation all those miserable compositions which have flowed from his pen since the appearance of the Childe Harold, and give us a hero instead of a malefactor.

Le Rodeur Français, ou les mœurs du jour. Orne de deux Gravures

The motto to this work is from Duclos:

"Je me suis propose, en considerant les mœurs, de demeler dans la conduite des hommes quels en sont les principes."

[From the Critical Review.]

THIS work, entitled the French Rambler, in allusion to Dr. Johnson's Rambler, is a series of papers published at Brussels, of which the greater part appeared in the Quotidienne, and the remainder in the Journal General de France. The author had immediately in view as his model L'Hermite de la chausee d'Autin, which has been considered a happy imitation of our celebrated English Spectator, with the merits of which the public is fully acquainted.

MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS.

[From the Champion.]

THE PILGRIMAGE OF LIVING POETS TO THE STREAM OF CASTALY.

"Who now shall give unto me words and sound
Equal unto this haughty enterprize?”

SPENSER, B. 2. c. 10.

I AM one of those unfortunate youths to whom the muse has glanced a sparkling of her light, one of those who pant for distinction, but have not within them that immortal power which alone can command it. There are many,-some, sir, may be known to you,--who feel keenly and earnestly the eloquence of heart and mind in others, but who cannot, from some inability or unobtrusiveness, clearly express their own thoughts and feelings: whose lives are but long and silent dreams of romantic pleasure and poetic wonderment;-who almost adore the matchless fancies of genuine bards, and love them as interpreters and guardians of those visionary delights which are the perpetual inmates of their bosoms. I love the poets: I live in the light of their fancies. It is my best delight to wander forth on summer evenings, when the air is fresh and clear, and the leaves of the trees are making music with it, and the birds are busy with their wings, fluttering themselves to rest, and a brook is murmuring along almost inaudibly, and the sun is going quietly down:-it is at this time delicious to muse over the works of our best bards. Some time last year, I had roamed in an evening like to one of those I have spoken of; and, after dwelling on the fairy beauties of Spenser, and from thence passing to the poets of my own time, and comparing the latter with some that had gone before, I cast myself on a romantic bank by a brook side. The silence around me,-save the home-returning bee with its "drowsy hum,”—and the moaning sound of distant cattle, and the low, sullen gurgling of waters-lulled me into a sleep. The light of my thoughts gilded my dream;-my vision was a proof of mental existence when the bodily sense had passed away.

Methought-(this, I believe, is the established language of dreams)-methought I was walking idly along a romantic vale, which was surrounded with majestic and rugged mountains;—a small stream struggled through it, and its waves seemed the brightest, chrystal I had ever witnessed. I sat me down on its margin, which was rocky and beautiful-(so far my vision was copied directly from life).—As I mused, a female figure rose like a sil

very mist from the waters, and advanced, with a countenance full of light, and a form of living air:-her garments floated round her like waves, and her hair basked on her shoulders

"like sunny beams on alabaster rocks."

There was a touch of immortality in her eyes,--and, indeed, her visage altogether was animated with a more than earthly glory. She approached me with smiles, and told me she was the guardian of the stream that flowed near,--and that the stream itself was the true Castalian, which so many "rave of, though they know it not." I turned with fresh delight to gaze on the water; its music sounded heavenly to me,-I fancied that there was a pleasant dactylic motion in its waves. The Spirit said, that from the love I bore to her favourite, Spenser, she would permit me to see (myself unseen) the annual procession of living bards to fetch water from the stream on that day:-I looked her my thanks as well as I was able. She likewise informed me, that it was customary for each poet, as he received his portion, to say in what manner he intended to use it. The voice of the Spirit was such as fancy has heard in some wild and lovely spot among the hills or lakes of this world at twilight time:--I felt my soul full of music while listening to it, and held my breath in very excess of delight. Suddenly I heard the sound of approaching feet, and a confused mingling of voices;--the Spirit touched me into invisibility, and then softly faded into sunny air herself.

In a little time I saw a motly crowd advancing confusedly to the stream:-I soon perceived that they were each provided with vessels to bear away some portion of the inmortal waters. They all paused at a little distance from the spot on which I was reclining; and then each walked singly and slowly from the throng and dipped his vessel in the blue wild wave of Castaly. I will endeavour to describe the manner and words of the most interesting of our living poets on this most interesting occasion. The air about the spot seemed brighter with their presence, and the waves danced along with a livelier delight:--Pegasus might be seen coursing the winds in wild rapture on one of the neighbouring mountains,--and sounds of glad and viewless wings were heard at intervals in the air, as if "troops of spirits were revelling over head and rejoicing at the scene."

And first, methought, a lonely and melancholy figure slowly. moved forth and silently filled a Grecian urn:-I knew by the look of nobility, and the hurried and turbulent plunge with which the vessel was dashed into the stream, that the owner was lord BYRON. He shed some tears while gazing on the water, and they seemed to make it purer and fairer: he declared that he would keep the urn by him, untouched" for some years;"--but he had scarcely spoken, ere he had sprinkled forth some careless drops on the earth. He suddenly retreated.

There then advanced a polite personage very oddly clad;-he had a breast-plate on,-and over that a Scotch plaid-and, strange to say, with these,-silk stockings and dress shoes: this gentleman brought an old helmet for his vessel;--I guessed him to be WALTER SCOTT. His helmet did not hold enough for a very deep draught, but the water it contained took a pleasant sparkle from the warlike metal which shone through its shallowness. He said he had disposed of his portion on advantageous terms.

Next came THOMAS MOORE. You might have known him by the wild lustre of his eye, and the fine freedom of his air; he gaily dipped a goblet in the tide, and vowed, in his high spirited manner, that he would turn his share to nectar:--he departed with smiles. I heard the wings play pleasantly in the air while he was bending over the stream.

I now perceived a person advance whom I knew to be SOUTHEY. His brow was bound by a wreath of faded laurel, which had every mark of town growth. He appeared quite bewildered, and scarcely could remember his way to the inspiring stream. His voice was chaunting the praises of kings and courts as he advanced-but he drept some little poems behind him, as he passed me, which were very opposite in tone to what he himself uttered. He was compel. led to stoop before he could reach the water, and the gold vessel which he used, procured but little at last. He declared that his intention was to make sack of what he obtained. On retiring, he mounted a cream-coloured horse, which was in waiting,--and set off in uneven paces for St. James's.

Then appeared ROGERS with a glass in his hand, which, from the cypher engraved thereon, had evidently once belonged to Oli ver Goldsmith. He caught but a few drops, and these he meant to make the most of, by mingling them with common water.

CRABBE, with a firm step and steady countenance, walked sedately to the stream, and plunged a wooden bowl into it:-he observed that he should make strong ale for the country people, of all that he took away;-and that, after the first brewing, he should charitably allow Mr. Fitzgerald to make small beer for his own

use.

--

In a pensive attitude, MONTGOMERY sauntered to the water's brink; he there mused awhile,-uttered a few somethings of half poetry and half prayer,--dipped a little mug of Sheffield ware in the wave, and retired in tears.

With a wild yet nervous step CAMPBELL came from the throng;-light visions started up in the fair distances as he moved, and the figure of Hope could be faintly discerned amidst them, she smiled on him as he advanced. He dipped his bowl in the stream with a fine bold air, and expressed his intention of analysing part of the water which he procured.

Next came HUNT, with a rich fanciful goblet in his hand, finely enamelled with Italian landscapes; he held the cup to his breast as he approached, and his eyes sparkled with frank delight. After

catching a wave, in which a sun-beam seemed freshly melted, he intimated that he should water hearts-ease and many favourite flowers with it. The sky appeared of a deep blue as he was retiring.

Lord STRANGFORD would now have advanced but the voice of the Spirit forbad hím,--as he did not come for the water on his own

account.

COLERIDGE, LAMB, and LLOYD, walked forth arm-in-arm, and moved gently to the stream:--they conversed, as they passed, on the beauties of the country, on its peaceful associations, and on the purity of domestic affections. Their conversation then turned to poetry, and from the simplicity of the remarks of Lloyd and Lamb, I found that their very hearts were wedded to innocence and peace;--Coleridge talked in a higher strain,--but he at last confused himself with the abstruseness of his own observations:-he hinted at a metaphysical poem he was about to write in 100 books,-Lamb remarked to him that he should prefer one of his affectionate and feeling sonnets to all his wanderings of mind. Each of these poets held in his hand a simple porrenger-declaring, that it brought the finest recollections of frugal fare and country quiet:-Lamb and Lloyd dipped in a bright but rather shallow part of the stream;--Coleridge went to the depths, where he might have caught the purest water, had he not unfortunately clouded it with the sand which he himself disturbed at bottom. Lamb and Lloyd stated that they should take their porrengers home and share their contents with the amiable and simple hearts dwelling there;--Coleridge was not positive as to the use to which he should apply his portion of the stream, till he had ascertained what were the physical reasons for the sands' propensity to mount and curl itself in water: he thought, however, of clubbing it with the portions of his companions and making a lake of the whole.-These three poets left the stream in the same manner they approached it.

Last came a calm and majestic figure moving serenely towards the stream:--the Celandines and small flowers sprang up to catch the pressure of his feet,-the sun-light fell with a finer glow around, spirits rustled most mirthfully and musically in the air, and a wing every now and then twinkled into sight,-(like the au. tumn leaf that trembles and flashes up to the sun)-and its feathers of wavy gold were almost too sparkling to be looked upon;-the waters of Castaly ran brighter as he approached, and seemed to play and dimple with pleasure at his presence. It was WORDSWORTH! In his hand he held a vase of pure crystal,--and, when he had reached the brink of the stream, the wave proudly swelled itself into his cup:-at this moment the sunny air above his brow, became embodied, and the glowing and lightsome spirit shone into being, and dropt a garland on his forehead;-sounds etherial swelled, and trembled, and revelled in the air,--and forms of light played in and out of sight,--and all around seemed like a living