VOL. 8.] mencement, the performance drags heavily on Punch would be a thousand times betier subject for a melodrame. The Scenery is appropriate, and Monsieur the Vampire being shot in an attempt to carry off a rustic bride (by way of having two strings to his bow) dies very prettily, with an effect His final of light upon his armour. disappearance, on the sinking of the moon, is also well managed. The other chief characters are the Lady Margaret, Lord Ronald, her father, M.Swill, a drunken henchman.

BEAUTY.

:

DRUIDS.

Lost, never thinks of the sun, but to address him in the lines of that immortal bard,

"To tell him how she hates his beams."

LEARNED LADIES.

A person who frequently attended the Royal Institution, and who was both astonished and delighted with the numerous attendance of the fair sex at these scientific lectures, observed with a smile somewhat Sardonic, that he saw great advantage arising from that circumstance, as he was sure that for the future the sciences would no longer have any secrets.

EVIDENCE ADMITTED.

Mr. R. a staunch Lawyer, used frequently to rate his wife for her unfounded stories, for which she was in vain requested to bring some authority or voucher. Once in a passion she told him that he was a cuckold. Now, my dear, replied Mr. R. with the ut most sang froid, now I believe I may consider your own assertion as the best possible evidence.

BARON SMYTH's riddle. Some men of the greatest talents have taken delight in composing or endeavDean Swift ouring to unravel riddles. is a case in point. Sir William Smyth, the learned Irish Baron of the Exchequer, at one time spent two days and nights in considering the answer to this conundrum: Why is an egg underdone, like an egg overdone? He would not suffer any one to give him the answer,

which be at last discovered. It is a tolerable pun enough. Because they are both hurdly done.

That it should fright my boy? Come, dearest, come. C. You are not angry then?

F.

Too well I love you. C. All you have said I cannot now remember, Nor what it meant-you terrified me so. But this I know, you told me,-I must sleep Before my mother wakens-so, to-morrowO father! that to-morrow were but come !

CANZONET.

(From the Italian of Filicai.)
Behold! the sun of Ganges beams,
Which set on Tagus yesterday;
The lurid air with glory streams,

Exulting in his cheering ray.
The darkest wishes of the soul,
Freed from their sin by God's controul,
Grow pure: His grace surpassing far
The transient brilliance of an earthly star.
The sun, kind source of varied hue,
On every flower its tint bestows;
The violet, with its rich deep blue,

The lily pale, and blushing rose:
Thus holy thoughts, that feel no life,
And sleep 'midst wordly sordid strife,
Biess'd and illumin'd from above,
Awake to moral light and heavenly love.

The foliage of the morning bour,

'Reft of the sun would fade away;
Light in itself, and light its flower-
A mirror that reflects the day.
Thus, if the traveller's eye on glade,
On mountain, or on rocks, be staid,
Deem it not wedded to the clod:-
It rests-and only rests-on Nature's God

Of God the sun resounds the praise,

The present God his beams declare, The winds their whispering anthem raise, And ocean owns that God is there. The trees in Deity rejoice, And that sweet bird, whose hymning voice, In all her wanderings through the grove, Would seem to say to God-"I love-I love." Where juts the crag, or slopes the mound, At every step love's pans rise; Each plant-each stone-shall chaunt a sound, In one harmonious sacrifice. Now tears prevail-now grief retiresTo pardon then the soul aspiresPardon from HIM, whose mercies flow To cancel every sin, and solace every woe,

HIS Family Circle is, we believe,

THIS

that which gathers round the fireside of Mr. Roscoe; and, if amiable sentiments and refined expressions are to be taken in confirmation of the fact, we may say that we have no doubt of its truth. The Poems for Youth are very sweetly written; and they are especially deserving of applause for their invariable tendency to cherish the purest feelings, and inculcate the softest humanity-the grace and blessing of our nature. Those who have studied the formation of character will be the best able to appreciate the value of so delightful an assistant as this little volume offers

-To rear the tender thought,

And teach the young idea how to shoot;

And we enjoy the pleasure of doing a good action, when we recommend it to instructors and parents.

That it may not, however, rest altogether on our favourable report, we transcribe a few of the pieces, which, we trust, even age and learning may peruse with satisfaction.

TO AN EARLY SWALLOW.
Wild tenant of the changeful year,
That, borne upon the southern wind,
Across the ocean's distant waves,
Would'st here a sheltering region find;

Too soon, alas! from brighter climes
Thou heedless spread'st thy truant wing;
Too soon thou hither com'st to greet,
With artless notes, the infant spring.
In hoary Winter's palsied lap
The infant Spring all cradled lies,
Whilst round the nursling's tender form
The bitter storms unpitying rise.

To melt the tears that freeze his eyes
No zephyr lends its balmy breath;
For ever clos'd their purple light,
Scal'd by the icy hand of death.

And gentle May, in sable garb,
Seeks with slow steps his mournful bower;
And sadden in the silent grove,
The leafless tree, and lingering flower.

For thee, amid the noontide beam,
No gossamer floats along the vale;
And fled the various insect tribes,
That revel in the summer gale.

Behind yon mountain's misty brow

The low'ring storm is gathering fast,
And sweeps along the cultured plain
And wakes the wind and welkin blast;

Then turn thee to my humble cell,
And shield thee from the beating rain
Till Winter's dreary régn is o'er, de
And Summer suns shaft smile again.
Thus would I soothe Misfortune's child,
And gently calm his troubled breast;
And when life's pelting storms arise,
Here bid the wretched wanderer rest.

It is thus that benevolent morals are implanted in young hearts: For sheer fancy, we will quote an example of another kind.

R ATHENEUM VOL. 8.

FAIRY SONG.

Swiftly we fly

Thro' the evening sky,

When the silver moon shines bright;
When the bat flits round,
And the dewy ground

Is speckled with the glow-worm's light.

When the ring-doves rest On their downy breast, Flitting thro' the air we pass;

Where screams the owl,
And watch-dogs howl,
We revel in the shaven grass.
Then when we hear
Loud chanticleer,

Again to our haunts we fly;
And thro' the day,

Sleep the hours away,

Till the noon-beams again we spy.

The language of the following is, perhaps, too elevated for the subject; but the thoughts are charming, and we are not without hopes that it may augment that sympathy which has lately been bestowed on the wretched creatures whose lot it bewails, and aid the efforts of the good Samaritans who bave, as yet in vain, endeavoured to accomplish the amelioration of their condition.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S COMPLAINT.
Sweep, Sweep! I cry from street to street,
With wailing loud to all I meet;
In sorrowing voice and disinal plight,
'Tis still Sweep, Sweep! from morn till night.
Oh! many a frightful risk I've run,
Since first my wretched toil begun;
I've climb'd up many a chimney dark,
Bear witness many a cruel mark!
My limbs are cramp'd, my spirit's gone,
And all unheeded is my moan.

I once could laugh, and sing, and play,
Full jocund, thro' the merry day;
Breathe unconfin'd the air of heaven,
And feel the blessings God had given;
But now all stunted, maim'd, diseas'd,
I wait till I may be releas'd.
Beyond the grave there sure will be
No master hard to torture me;
With tearless eye and flinty heart,
To act the ruthless tyrant's part.
The secret truth will then be shewn,
And all my silent sufferings known!
And all will find, ev'n hearts of steel,
That little chimney-sweeps can feel.
Oh! once I had a mother dear:
She would have shed the bitter tear,
To see her darling thus degraded,
His ruin'd health-his cheek so faded;
That cheek where she left many a kiss!
Thank God! she has not lived for this.
No, she rests in her last calm home,
And thither her poor boy will come.

The world, alas! is all unkind;

There's nought I love to leave behind; No! there is none to pity me,

And only when I die-I'm free!

The following short poem is, we think, extremely pathetic.

A DIRGE.

The summer winds sing lullaby
O'er Mary's little grave,

And the summer flowers spring tenderly,
O'er her their buds to wave.

For oh, her life was short and sweet
As the flowers which blossom at her feet.

A little while the beauteous gem

Bloom'd on the parent breast;
Ah! then it wither'd on the stem,

And sought a deeper rest;
And we laid on her gentle frame the sod,
But we knew her spirit was filed to God.
The birds she loved so well to hear

Her parting requiem sing,
And her memory lives in the silent tear,

Which the heart to the eye will bring;
For her kind little feelings will ne'er be forget
By those who have mourned her early lot.

Our readers will not dislike a livelier strain to close our notice; and we (in preference to an Elegy, page 29, which strikes us as the only failure in the book, being rather ludicrous than affecting,) select for them, the

FORESTER'S SONG.

Forester! leave thy woodland range,
And hie thee hence with me ;

For brighter scenes and pleasures strange,
Forsake thy greenwood tree.
Come gather thy cloak above the knee,

And take thy tall staff down,

I'll shew thee what delights they be
That dwell in tow'r and town.

Nay, stranger, check thy bright bay steed,
To sojourn with me here;

And turn him forth at large to feed,

Amongst these dappled deer:

And thou, while summer skies are clear,

Within my greenwood bower,

Shalt scorn the pleasures once so dear,

That dwell in town and tow'r.

Well may I find a better home,
My steed a warmer stall,

I know full many a lordly dome,

Full many a palace hall;

Where stately rows of columns tall,
The fretted roof sustain,
Then, Forester, yield thee to my call,
And follow me o'er the plain.

Doth lofty roof delight thy eye,

Or stately pillar please;
Look, stranger, at yon azure sky,
And pillars such as these-

Where, wreathing round majestie trees,

The verdant ivy clings;

The pillar'd roofs, the peasant sees,

Are fit to shelter kings.

O, who would to the greenwood roam,
To hear the hauthoy's sound,
To see the glittering goblets foam,

While mellow pledge goes round;
Then, while our cares in wine are drown'd,
The precious stake to hold,
And find our varying fortunes crown'd
With hopes of yellow gold?

Stranger! the woodman's frugal fare,
No sickly riots stain ;
Nor ever hautboy's artful air,

Might match yon throstle's strain:
And, if the stores of ample gain

Thy useful avarice crave,

Go, stranger, teach the ruddy grain
O'er yonder wastes to wave.

Nay, rather to my lady love,

My courtly lays I'll sing;
And in my helmet wear her glove,
When gallants ride the ring;
Or foremost in the battle spring,
Where charging squadrons meet;
And all my warlike trophies bring
An offering to her feet.

Falsehood in beauty lies conceal'd,
Guilt haunts the deadly fight;
Here woods a harmless warfare yield,
And maids their true-love plight-
Such simple joys of rustic weight,

To thee 'twere vain to tell;
But heavily fall the shades of night-
Now, stranger, fare thee well.

We are sure we need not reiterate our eulogium on a publication so unpretending, and yet containing such compositions as these.

DURIN

URING the tumults in Russia, when the Princess Sophia's intrigues to avail herself of Iwan's imbecility were defeated by Peter the Great, several ancient, Boyards withdrew to their country-houses in disgust or fear. Mierenhoff, one of this number, had a mansion about twelve versts from the metropolis, and resided in very strict retirement with his only daughter Feodorowna. But this beautiful young Muscovite had accompanied her father with more reluctance than he suspected, and contrived to solace her solitude by frequent visits from her affianced husband, Count Biron, one of the Czar's body-guard. Though her lover laid claim to a title so sacred, his attachment to the impe. rial court, and the kind of favoritism he enjoyed there, had created a jealousy not far from rancour in Mierenhoff. Mixing private feuds with political secrets, he devised a pretext to dismiss the young captain of the guard from all pretension to his daughter; but the young couple revenged themselves by clandestine disobedience. On one of the nights dedicated to their

meetings, the Boyar chose to visit his daughter's apartment with an affectation of kindness. She, apprised of his intention only a few moments before, conveyed her lover into a large chest or press in the corner of her room, and closing the lid, covered it with her mantle, that he might obtain air by lifting it occasionally. But the Boyar unhappily chose to take his seat upon it; and after a long stay, which cost his daughter inexpressible agonies, departed without intimating any suspicion. Feodorowna sprang to raise the lid of her coffer, and saw Biron entirely lifeless. What a spectacle for an affianced wife!-but she had also the feelings of an erring daughter conscious that detection must be ruin. She had strength of mind enough to attempt every possible means of restoring life; and when all failed, to consider what might best conceal the terrible circumstances of his death. She could trust no one in her father's household except his porter, an old half-savage Tartar, to whom he had given the name of Usbeck, in allusion to his tribe, this man had taught her to ride, reared her favourite wolf-dog, and shewn other traits of diligent affection which invited