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Then, if a breeze came floating through the vale,
'Twas but the inspiring odorous balm to bring
From groves now blooming in the pride of spring;
And if a voice rose, 'twas the nightingale,
Even ere the twilight hour, her cherish'd themé
Of love reviving.--ALL WAS YET A DREAM !

Blackwood's Magazine.


THIS would be a delightful picture of an evening in autumn, were it unaccompanied by the moral reflection that reminds us of life's decline. This reflection gives, invariably, an appearance of delusion to all the bright realities of nature. ED.


It is the stilly hour of eve,

When all the blossoms seem to grieve;
And mourn in tears the day's decline,
While on their petals déw-drops shine:
Each setting sun, that fades away,
But warns them of their own decay;
Alas! when some few suns are o'er,
They'll revel in the beam no more,
But wither on their lowly bed,
Like some lone maid, whose beauty's fled.
The breeze that slumber'd through the day,
Now whispering kisses every spray,
In yonder fragrant jasmine bower,
And fans to health each languid flower.

The nightingale is warbling now
Responses to the lover's vow.
There's music in the grove, the brake,
Nay, music in the sleeping lake;
For every zephyr's wanton sigh
Fills the air with melody;

And every sound,

At eve like this,
That floats around,

Breathes balmy bliss.

European Magazine.


In all Theodore's poetical effusions he seems to be an imitator of Moore. We have no comment to make, but that these lines are in the manner of Moore, and worthy of him.-ED.

When the fair sun his smile displays,

And gilds the earth with gladd'ning rays :
When Nature wakes, and sweet birds sing
Their softest praises to the spring,

I think on thee!

Or, standing 'midst the glitt'ring crowd,
Where mirth and revelry are loud;
And hearts are lost in pleasure's maze,
Or, 'midst the spell of beauty's gaze,


I think on thee!

Or, when the pensive moon's pale beam
Show'rs silver lustre o'er the stream;
And thoughts of former days arise
Beneath the silent, starry skies,

I think on thee!


When music bids her witching note
From some lone harp in sadness float,
And wakes the soul's soft pulses then
To bliss, no tongue can tell again,

I think on thee

Or, in the gloom of midnight's hour,
When all is hush'd, and fancy's power,
Whose dictates we can ne'er controul,
Sheds thoughts of terror o'er the soul,
I think on thee!

That blessed thought, where'er I go,
'Midst bale or bliss, or joy or woe,
Pursues me still, and soothes the smart
That passing sorrow will impart,

To think on thee!


From the New European Magazine.




We have selected the following lines, not for their merit, but from their possessing an appearance of merit that does not belong to them, and, consequently, being a dangerous model for imitation. What is it the poet describes? Not passion, surely, though it affects to be so; for it is evident, from his coldness of sentiment, that he is satiated with enjoyment. If he had, at any time, felt a passion for his fair one, it is obviously at an end, or, at least, has subsided into what he calls "quiet love.' We apprehend, the ladies are no great admirers of quiet" lovers; and to talk of a heart formed for quiet love, is to talk of a something which, poetically considered, appears to verge on the borders of indifference, though, philosophically considered, perhaps it may be allowed to possess some degree of warmth. In poetry, however, this warmth appears all coldness. The entire consists of a common-place thought, tediously spun out; and, when properly examined, instead of paying the lady any compliment, he leads us to believe that she is only a very inoffensive harmless woman, but will endure no comparison with the brighter stars of her own sex. Comparaison n'est pas raison; and no comparison is more absurd than that of comparing the object which we wish to praise with some other, confessedly superior to it. Cæsar preferred being the first man in a village to that of being the second in Rome; and a beautiful woman will at any time prefer the same.-ED.

I ask not if the world enfold

A fairer form than thine,

Tresses more rich in flowing gold,

And eyes of sweeter shine.

It is enough for me to know
That thou art fair to sight,·
That thou hast locks of golden flow,
And eyes of playful light.

I ask not if there beat on earth
A warmer heart than thine,
A soul more rich in simple worth,
A genius more divine.

It is enough for me to prove,
Thou hast a soul sincere,
A heart well made for quiet love,
A fancy rich and clear.

Already by kind heav'n, so far
Beyond my wishes blest,

I would not, with presumptuous pray'r,
Petition for the best.

While thou art wise, and good, and fair,
Thou art that best to me;

Nor would I, might I choose, prefer

A lovelier still to thee.


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