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Choose what you love the best,

All cull'd in the cool fresh morn,

For I waken'd the lark from the tulip's breast,
In the depths of the waving corn!

A rainbow might have dyed this wreath :
It has ev'ry scent and hue

That is born of the west-wind's wooing breath,
Or waked by the early dew!

Fragrant and sweet and fair!—

Yet, they neither toil nor spin;

And they have not known the touch of care,
Or the taint of mortal sin!

Beside their beauty pure and lone,

The glow of earthly fame,

Or the

pomp and pride of Solomon, Is a vain and empty name!

Is not my calling sweet?

To dwell amid beautiful things,
Flowers giving perfume at my feet,
And birds-like flowers with wings!
Oh! happy they who shun the strife
Of pride or passion's hours,
And glide along the calms of life,
Like me, dispensing flowers!

THE NAIAD'S HAUNT,

by the Author of "Cain the Wanderer."

Lo! beside

The root of that gray tree, o'ercanopying

With its woven branch the stream, and veiling
In slumber and in coolness from the sun,
She stands half leaning, eyeing the dark water,
As moveless as the form the sculptor hath
Embodied into life; image of his

Idolatry he hath not seen-not so,

For wherefore turns he from the living so coldly?
But that they break in harshly on the dream,
The vision that lived upon his tranced eye,
Which he feeds on in solitude, there drooping
Over the unapproved work of his hands.
It is the form of innate beauty in him
That exists everywhere common as life,
Felt though unseen: we know that it exists
From the consciousness and recognition we
Own when we see aught bear its visible impress,
Though reveal'd to us all dimly as the light
Of a veil'd star. What marvel he is baffled-
For how can hand of clay embody aught
Of spiritual feeling chisel'd from crude mould?
The limner may pour forth his soul in hues
Life-like, that are deep feelings, and thrill through us
The sense of rapture or of pain; the bard

May rouse the slumb'ring thought to create grand forms
On the mind's eye, though fleeting, vague, and shadowy;
But how may cold, carved, colorless, sightless marble,
Give back the life, love, beauty, soul of woman?

She stood by the extreme brink of that blue stream:
The image of herself so standing was
Reflected to the lightest hair escaped

From the braid of her redundant tresses, parting
Over her glossy shoulders, tangling down
Her neck and bosom. She look'd on the water,
And saw her visible self return'd:* the same
In hue and stature, and each rounded limb
Swelling with breathing life-and yet a shadow!
The sky look'd in behind her, and they were
Alone together! What were then her thoughts?
For her eye is lighted up, and a faint smile
Is on her parting lips; and then a shade
Stole over them, but slight, so slight, as scarce
Perceptible. Perchance she saw and felt
How beautiful she was: that she stood there,
The form all would resemble, the embodied
Being all dream of, sighing to possess.
That consciousness gave light to her dark eye,
And the faint dimpling smile on her soft cheek;
And then, it may be, a shade of sadness, mindful
Of all she had heard of love, yet loving none;
For she had seen none like herself.

THE DESERTED OR VOICELESS CITY,
by Mr. C. Redding.

No voice comes on the watching ear:
There is an universal hush

Broke but by marble founts that gush
Untouch'd, unquaff'd, in waste away,
With fall monotonous and drear

Save when its tongue some beast of prey
Dips in their crystal, or the beak
Of wild bird may their stillness break.
On battlement and tower and town,

One chill hue hovers; on the ground
Objects show strangely, while around
A pale and hazy light gleams down;
If it be light, like that the sun

Flings in eclipse, when made obscure
By intervening moons, and dun

And sad appears the portraiture
Of earthly things, as if this hour
Some agency of hell had power.
In ev'ry street is solitude;

In ev'ry dwelling is decay;
From painted halls the raven rude,
With prescience of deep things imbued,
Flaps his black wing and cowers away.
In the wreath'd cornice scorpions lurk;
The spider plies his cruel trade,
Like some thron'd felon, 'midst the work

Of wreck and blood his hands have made.

* This will remind many readers of Milton's description of Eve, viewing and admiring her fine form reflected in the water.

Long grass grows tall and tangled where
The streets from life were lately bare;

And the wolf prowls in chambers bright,
Where Time yet treads with traces light;
And bones are there he long hath clean'd,
Marrowless, scatter'd wild about,
In revel of his hungry rout,

On inlaid floors and carpets wove
Of purple grain with gold invein'd.

In freshness shines the gilt alcove,
Untarnish'd yet, where late men moved,
Revel'd in luxury, dream'd and loved;
And even on the damask seat
Where youth and beauty sat elate,
And on the table holding still

Goblet and bowl, lies many a scull

In silent antic, grinning ill

Near cups the eyes had joy'd at full,
When those black hollows glanced all rife
With the rich revelry of life!

A TRIBUTE TO THE MERIT OF MR. LUCAS,

an Artist, by Miss Mitford.

Он, young and richly gifted! born to claim
No vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;
With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,
And skill to realise art's loftiest themes;
How wearisome to thee the task must be
To copy these coarse features painfully;
Faded by time and paled by care, to trace
The dim complexion of this homely face;
And lend to a bent brow and anxious eye
Thy patient toil, thine art's high mastery!
Yet by that art, almost methinks divine,
By touch and color and the skilful line,
Which at a stroke can strengthen and refine,
And mostly by the invisible influence

Of thine own spirit, gleams of thought and sense
Shoot o'er the care-worn forehead, and illume
The heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom,
Even as the sun-beams on the rudest ground
Fling their illusive glories wide around,
And make the dullest scene of nature bright
By the reflection of their own pure light.

ROYAL POETRY,

in humble Prose.

PRINCES are not better kings because they are poets, for some execrable tyrants (Charles IX. of France for instance) have been poetically inclined; but, when they make tolerable attempts in literature, a bright ray is thrown over their other merits.

The following pieces are the productions of Louis, king of Bavaria.

"While I was seated in solitude amidst the ruins of the temple of Mercury at Schwetzingen, my thoughts reverted to a period long passed. Artificial ruins, you have become real ones since I saw you! so many things, alas! have perished. These haunts, which witnessed the days of my youth, are now the

confidents of my sadness; and yet they awaken the most pleasing recollections. What I have undergone, what I have seen, and what I have acquired, are no where so vividly recalled to my mind as here. Schwetzingen! afflicting image of worldly vicissitudes! I resided there as a mere stranger. Hidden from the eyes even of those who loved me, I lived on the past. I had before me the writings of Müller, that friend of whom death has prematurely deprived me,-those adınirable works which warm the heart and elevate the soul. Absorbed in profound melancholy, tears filled my eyes on thinking of Hompesch; of that friend whom I lamented as I never did lament, and as I never shall lament, any other person. Rapid death tore those two cherished beings from me in the same year. Alas! I little thought at that time that I should so soon assume the mourning scarf for thee, O noble Stadion! the friend of Hompesch and of Germany. same day which had separated those two friends, a year after re-united them for ever. Will my life also terminate at the same instant? Death has deprived me of many faithful friends; but their memory survives. Let all totter around me, I will remain to myself the same-attached to whatever is good."

The

"My dear first-born child, may sweet sleep close thine eyes! Repose in peace, beloved infant! Thou art yet ignorant of the troubles of this life; but, alas! happy childhood flies with rapid wing. A stranger to the joys of existence, thou art also a stranger to its sufferings; but thou wilt not escape them more than any other mortal. We are all born imperfect. The morning of thy life has been saluted by general rejoicing. O my dear child, be a good man. Then, even amidst the cares of royalty, thou wilt enjoy the serene slumbers of innocence. Thou smilest, and openest wide thine eyes. At present thou throwest on the world a joyful look. This world will one day make thee taste its bitterness; and thou wilt learn how wicked and deceitful it is.

"Behold, extended on his little couch, feeble and helpless, one who may in future govern men! Happy will the person then be considered who knows how to please, even in trifles, one who has so much to give, and who can take so much away.

"Nothing on earth is durable. May this truth be early engraven on thy young mind. But Virtue will render herself superior to all vicissitudes. To her thou owest eternal fidelity.

"Wear Heaven in thy heart. Whether in solitude or in crowds, obey like a child the divine precepts; and death will find thee tranquil and happy.

"Never forget that thou art a German. Let not the false splendor of the foreigner dazzle thee. Be ever on thy guard against his stratagems.

"If he who has given thee life should hear from thy mouth only the lispings of infancy; if he should fall early in the defence of his country, drop a tear on his grave.

"Learn to inherit his German feelings. Draw thy sword fearlessly for thy people; die with joy in protecting them; be worthy of thy ancestors!"

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SKETCHES OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS
LATELY DECEASED.

The Earl of Buchan.-David Stewart Erskine was born in 1742, and instructed by his mother in the mathematics, by his father in history and politics, and by Mr. James Buchanan in classical literature. He completed his education at the university of Glasgow, where, in addition to an ardent thirst for academical learning, he displayed a taste for the arts of design. He succeeded his father in 1767; but, strongly disapproving the measures of the late king's cabinet, he (to use his own words) "withdrew from public life at a very early period after his succession to the title, and dedicated himself to the duties of a private station, the advancement of science and literature, and the improvement of his native country by the arts of peace." He had two brothers, Thomas (afterwards lord chancellor) and Henry; and on their education he earnestly bestowed that care which was to be expected from the kindness and vigilance, not merely of a near relative, but of a prudent and affectionate parent. The fortunes of his family had been, from different causes, impaired so considerably, that they could no longer afford an income sufficiently ample to support its dignities with due splendor, and to enable him to gratify all the generous wishes of a munificent spirit. Impressed

with this consideration, he resolutely adopted a plan of œconomy, admirably fitted to retrieve and re-establish those falling fortunes; and his endeavours (perhaps the most honorable and difficult which a young and liberal-minded nobleman could resolve upon), without subjecting him to the imputation of parsimony, were crowned and rewarded with opulence.

Being fond of the study of antiquities, he became in a great measure the founder of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland; and he occasionally communicated to that respectable association the productions of his literary researches. Without excelling in poetry, he admired the beauties of the British bards, and had so high an opinion of the genius of Thomson, that he instituted an annual festive commemoration of that poet at Ednam, the scene of his birth. He maintained a correspondence with a great number of scholars and men of science, both at home and abroad, and was respected by all for his abilities and integrity. His writings have a peculiarity of style and manner; but this does not render them less interesting. The best are the memoirs of the Admirable Crichton, Fletcher of Saltoun, and Thomson.

The late Bishop of Oxford.-Charles Lloyd, son of an eminent divine, was educated at the college annexed to ChristChurch, Oxford, where, while he was yet an undergraduate, he became tutor to Mr. Peel. He took holy orders in due time, and was soon distinguished as a learned theologian and able preacher. His knowlege and attainments gave him great influence, while the correctness of his judgement was generally acknowleged, and his opinion eagerly solicited, not merely on important points relating to the university, but in matters which affected the welfare of individuals. As his reputation increased, he was selected (in 1819) to succeed the present bishop of Durham as preacher of Lincoln's Inn. He was not long after made chaplain to the late archbishop of Canterbury; and in 1822 he was appointed regius professor of divinity on the death of Dr. Hodgson. In this station he shone with superior eminence; nor was he content with the regular discharge of his duties as an official lecturer, but he became also, if not the founder of a new school, at least the infuser of a new and more energetic spirit, introducing the practice of private

His

teaching in divinity, working incessantly like one impressed with a sense of high responsibility, and inculcating instruction where-ever it seemed requisite. pupils were attached to him by the affectionate zeal which he displayed for their welfare, by the warm interest which he took in all that concerned them, and by the genuine goodness of an honest, open, sincere heart, wholly devoid of selfish feeling, and alive to every generous and amiable impression.

It is probable that Dr. Lloyd would have been elevated to the episcopal bench, even if he had possessed little learning or merit; for, although some of our bishops have owed their preferment to the excellence of their characters, the majority, we believe, have risen by the strength of interest. When Mr. Peel took his tutor by the hand, promotion was certain; and in this case it was well deserved. In 1827, Dr. Lloyd was declared bishop of Oxford; and, in the last session, he gratified his patron by supporting, with all his eloquence, the bill for the relief of the catholics. He did not long survive that triumph which his zeal had contributed to secure; for he caught cold at the dinner given by the Royal Academicians, from being exposed to a current of air, and died before he had attained the age of 45 years. He left a widow, one son, and four daughters. As he was generally esteemed, his death was lamented both as a public and private loss.

The Rev. William Crowe.-From the station of a chorister in the chapel of Winchester College, he rose to the rank of a scholar on that foundation; and, having made considerable proficiency in classical studies, he was at length removed to a fellowship at New College, Oxford, where he was appointed in the sequel to a tutorship. He filled that situation for many years with ability and success; his manner, being as little marked by the repulsive distance, as his instructions were by the pedantry, of other lecturers, soon acquired for him the attachment and affection of his pupils. In 1782 he was presented by his college to the rectory of Alton-Barnes in Wiltshire. In 1784 he was elected public orator on the resignation of the rev. Dr Bandinel. On the many occasions when his talents were called forth in this situation, his orations, pregnant with classical spirit, gave the fullest evidence of his attainments as a scholar; nor did they

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