intensity of expression, though some of his lighter lays, on the other
hand, have a childish playfulness about them, that renders them quite
the antithesis of those that have gained him the most popularity. A
translation of one of these, as a sort of curiosity, is taken from an old
number of the Dublin University Magazine.
Oh, the Sun he walks a gentleman full grown,

Though this is but the morning of his birth,
And he rises up so early and alone,
And prepares to make his tour around the earth;

And the little stars draw near him, and they say

“Do let us keep thee company, we pray !"
But the Sun grows red and wrathful, and cries out,

“Get away from me, you silly little things!
You know I should but scorch your golden eyes out
With my great fiery wings!

Get you gone! All alone
Must I take my daily journey round the earth."
And the Moon she girds her waist with silver zone,

Though this is but the evening of her birth,
And she rises up so pearly and alone,
And prepares to make her tour around the earth,

And the little stars draw near her, and they say,

“Do let us go along with thee, we pray !”
And the Moon she answers gently as a mother,

“Oh certainly, my pretty little dears!
But mind and don't fall out with one another,
For, through myriads of years

Must we thus, all of us,
Make in company our journey round the earth.”
So, ever since, from evening until morn,

The golden stars accompany their Queen;
And the earth, and all that on the earth are born,
Are gladden'd by the glory of their sheen.

In them, as in a looking-glass, the Sage

Sees shadowless the Future's mystic page;
To them the love-sick virgin sighs her sorrows;

And from them (and, on occasions, from the Moon,)
In the stilly summer-night, the poet borrows
Thought for which, during noon,

He in vain duns his brain,
While the Sun is dazzling prosers by his sheen.


Now! it is gone.-Our brief hours travel post,

Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee-an eternal Now!

COLERIDGE. AN ALTAR. Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar with a tress Of flowers budded newly: and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive.

KEATS. A WITCH'S CAVE. There once a charnel-house, now a vast cave, Over whose brow a pale and untrod grave Throws out her heavy sbade, the mouth, thick arms Of darksome yew, sunproof, for ever choke; Within rests barren darkness; fruitless drought Pines in eternal night; the steam of hell Yields not so lazy air. There, that's her cell.

MARSTON's Wonder of Women.

A DEW-DROP. What is heaven ? A globe of dew, Filling in the morning new

Some eyed flower, whose young leaves waken On an unimagined world :

Constellated suns unshaken,
Orbits measureless, are furl'd

In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gather'd there,
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. SHELLEY.

Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit,
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd,
Sole monarch of the universal earth.



He had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail, And blew with the same breath for days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Rush'd round him, images and hues that wrought In union with th' employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains—saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn.



In his words
There was an athletic sinew, though they play'd
With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind
Provokes the sea to laughter, and his pride
Ever seem'd well placed, like a castle set
Upon a mountain.



The bridegroom sea
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy,
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks,
Then, proud, runs up to kiss her.


You've sat the night out, Masters! See, the moon
Lies stranded on the pallid coast of morn.

Hold! A stigma, though deserved,
When a child brands it, makes the hearer weigh
The censure with the sin ; but if unjust-
No, no! you could not mean it.

Anne. Say, I did -
What warrant cites me to your bar ?

Thorold. That instinct
Which makes the honour'd memory of the dead
A trust with all the living.

Marston's Anne Blake.

A WALK. Like a new-born spirit did he pass Through the green evening quiet, in the sun O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.


Eternal Hope! When yonder spheres sublime
Peal’d their first notes to sound the march of time,
Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade,
When all thy sister planets had decay'd ;-
When wrapt in flames the clouds of ether glow,
And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,
Thou, undismay’d, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile!


Where the embowering trees recede and leave
A little space of green expanse, the cove
Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers
For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes
Reflected on the crystal calm.


This day is published, No. I. of QELECTED SERIES of FRENCH

LITERATURE. The want of a well-selected series of French Translations has long been felt by three classes of readers : those who are altogether ignorant of the language; those who know it so slightly as not to be able to appreciate its beauties of style and redundancies of meaning; and those who, although well able to do so, have neither the time nor the means at hand to prosecute any very extensive researches into the more recondite provinces of French Literature.

To supply the wants of these three classes we propose to issue a series of translations, embracing one entire cycle of literary progress, extending from Mme. de Sévigné to the French Revolution. These translations will be executed in the best possible manner, and a conscientious endeavour will be made to render them not merely transcripts of the sense, but also correct reflexes of the style. The selections from each author will be made with the double view of rendering the collection as entertaining and as instructive as possible, and also of giving the most striking samples of that author's beauties and peculiarities; they will be prefixed by a comprehensive memoir of each author, and will be supplied with such annotations as may be necessary fully to explain the text. All passages tending against morality or the principles of religion will be carefully excluded from the selection.

In carrying out this idea, it is not the intention of the projectors to confine themselves to those great authors whose names are most conspicuous in French Literature. Many authors of less note, but not inferior interest, will be admitted, and some of them will probably be introduced for the first time to the English reader.

The series will appear in fortnightly numbers, containing thirty-two pages 8vo., at Threepence per number, so that two volumes, of 350 pages each, will be issued in the course of a year.

This series will be uniform in size with “BEAUTIFUL POETRY."


Stamped Copies for transmission by Post.


(If paid in advance.)

Subscriptions and Orders to be forwarded to Mr. JOHN CROCKFORD, 29, Essex-street, Strand, London.

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