Then, if a breeze came floating through the vale, Even ere the twilight hour, her cherish'd themé Blackwood's Magazine. EVENING. 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; Like some lone maid, whose beauty's fled. In yonder fragrant jasmine bower, The nightingale is warbling now There's music in the grove, the brake, 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. I THINK ON THEE. 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, I think on thee! Or, standing 'midst the glitt'ring crowd, G I think on thee! Or, when the pensive moon's pale beam When music bids her witching note I think on thee Or, in the gloom of midnight's hour, That blessed thought, where'er I go, That passing sorrow will impart, To think on thee! THEODORE. From the New European Magazine. THE CONTENTED LOVER. 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 beso; 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, It is enough for me to know That thou hast locks of golden flow, I ask not if there beat on earth It is enough for me to prove, Already by kind heav'n, so far I would not, with presumptuous pray'r, While thou art wise, and good, and fair, Nor would I, might I choose, prefer A lovelier still to thee. THE ETONIAN. |