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Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year,

By shewing his leg to an heiress.

Now, I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear,
Surnames ever go by contraries.
New Monthly Magazine.



SYMPATHY is always a pleasing emotion, and therefore whatever excites it must necessarily impart pleasure. It requires a stubbornness of nerve which, if we ourselves possessed, we should blush to acknowledge, to read the female convict without sympathyzing with her situation. As this sympathy is pleasing, however mournful, and as the primary object of poetry is to please, we think the Female Convict worthy a place in our selection. ED.

Oh, sleep not my babe, for the morn of to-morrow

Will hush me to slumbers more tranquil than thine; The dark grave will shield me from shame and from sorrow,

Though the deeds and the doom of the guilty are mine. Not long shall the arm of affection enfold thee,

Not long shalt thou hang on thy mother's fond breast; And who with the eye of delight shall behold thee,

Who watch thee, and guard thee, when I am at rest? And yet doth it grieve me to wake thee, my dearest, The pangs of thy desolate parent to see;

Thou wilt weep when the clank of my fetters thou hearest, And none but the guilty should mourn over me.

And yet must I wake thee,-for while thou art weeping, To calm thee, I stifle my tears for awhile;

But thou smil'st in thy dreams, while thus placidly sleeping,

And, oh! how it wounds me to gaze on thy smile!

Alas, my sweet babe! with what pride had I press'd thee, To the bosom that now throbs with terror and shame; If the pure tie of virtuous affection had bless'd thee, And hail'd thee the heir of thy father's high name!

But now, with remorse that avails not, I mourn thee,
Forsaken and friendless as soon thou wilt be;
In a world, if it cannot betray, that will scorn thee,
Avenging the guilt of thy mother on thee.

And when the dark thought of thy fate shall awaken
The deep blush of shame on thine innocent cheek;
When by all, but the God of the orphan, forsaken,
A home and a father in vain thou shalt seek.

I know that the base world will strive to deceive thee,
With falsehood like that which thy mother beguil'd;
Deserted and helpless, to whom can I leave thee?
O, God of the fatherless! pity my child!

New European Magazine.

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THEODORE is an evident imitation of Moore, at least in this and some other of his poetic effusions, and yet in calling him an imitator, we would by no means imply that he evinces either an absence of original powers, or original genius, for we believe no imitation can be perfect, without possessing both. A poet only can translate a poet, and genius only can imitate genius perfectly. It is true that some men possess a talent of imitating, but they possess it only in a certain degree, for in no instance whatever can they seize on the finer shades, and uncompounded beau ties of their original. A writer of genius and true taste will, therefore, have no difficulty in detecting the grossness of the imitation, and proving it to be a caricature instead of an imitation. Whatever is of a superior order in poetry, painting, music, and the fine arts in general, are incapable of being taught. " Ea quæ in oratore maxima sunt, imitibilia non sunt. Ingenium, inventio, vis, facilitas, et quid-quid arte non traditur." Hence they can only be imitated by genius, because it is only genius that can operate without instruction. Genius seizes at once by an indescribable and incommunicable feeling, the spirit of the original, the "soul of soul" by which it is animated; but talent can only grasp those tangible and grosser elements which present themselves to the eye of the senses, and are only the clothing of that spirit which he can neither feel nor perceive. Theodore, in this, and his other imitations of Moore, has happily seized upon his spirit, though we doubt whether he is capable of entering into all its depth and intensity. The following lines want the richness, luxuriance, and versatility of Moore, that plastic feeling, which vibrates to all the finer impulses and harmonies of nature, and in which, we think Moore has never been excelled,

we could almost say equalled; but Theodore partly makes amends for it, by the truth and philosophy of

his sentiments.

All men are dreamers; from the hour
When reason first exerts its power,
Unmindful of its bitter sting,
To some deceiving hope we cling,-
That hope's a dream!

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The brazen trumpet's clangour gives
The joy on which the warrior lives;
And at his injured country's call,
He leaves his home, his friends, his all-
For glory's dream!

The loverhangs on some bright eye,
And dreams of bliss in every sigh?
But brightest eyes are deep in guile,
And he who trusts their fickle smile,
Trusts in a dream!

The poet, nature's darling child,
By fame's all-dazzling star beguiled;
Sings love's alternate hope and fear,
Paints visions which his heart holds dear,-
And thus he dreams!

And there are those who build their joys,
On proud ambition's gilded toys,
Who feign would climb the craggy height,
Whose power displays its splendid light,-
But dreaming fall!

Whilst others 'midst the giddy throng
Of pleasure's victims, sweep along;
Till feelings damp'd and satiate hearts,
Too worn to feel when bliss departs,-
Prove all a dream!

And when that chilly call of fear,
Death's mandate hurtles in the ear;
We find, would we retrace the past,
E'en life at best now fading fast,—
Is all a dream!


From the New European Magazine.


THE following is a tender and melancholy picture of unfortunate love withdrawing from the world, and terminating all its hopes and desires in religious solitude.-ED.

Raised on the rocky barriers of the sea,
Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie !
Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine trees tall
Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall,
Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep
Of mountain-waters rushing to the deep,
The tempest's midnight song, the battle-cry
Of warring winds, like armies met on high,
And in the silent hour the convent chime,
And sometimes, at the quiet evening time,

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