great monarchs lie interred, nor the vast temples that are enshrouded amid the simoom sands of Egypt, can compare, in simple grandeur and in harmony of construction, with one little island" La Belle Island” of the Lake of Windermere; and the seven wonders of the world, fall to nothing before the "Floating Island” of Derwentwater.

Our walk the next day was the most splendid and inspiring and the scenery the most various and commanding we had yet beheld. A few miles on the road to Bala was a rich prospect, which though neither so extensive as the one from Ormesby Bank near Guisbrough-the Richmond Hill scene-nor the one less known near Harewood, did in other respects much excel them, being shut in on all sides by high mountains. The rich hue of the oaks, slightly browned by the sharp breezes of declining September-the cottages so neat, simple, and secluded-the sheep browzing on the green hill-sides and among the cliffs-the torrents rolling down from the overhanging precipices, seeming to struggle in their confined channel, and roaring like a lion in his cage-the tremendous cliffs o'erhanging it and shooting out their sharp barren summits far into the skies-all united, gave this scene an interest and a beauty that I never saw surpassed. Seldom is this lonely and beautiful place seen even by the pedestrian-and, perhaps, this circumstance enhanced its interest.

Advancing from this vale, and ascending by a shep

herd's track, we saw far above us the mountain called Arran, and, rushing down from its chasms, the river Dee -at this place an inconsiderable brook. The great Edmund Spencer refers to this scene, and makes it the residence of Simon, the foster-father of Prince Arthur. "His dwelling is full low, in valley green Under the foot of Arran's mossy hour

From whence the silver Dee as silver clear

His tumbling billows flow with gentle roar.”

CLEVELAND SKETCHES.

THE LAST OF THE PHOENICEANS.

[It is well known that a colony of Phoeniceans, long ago, trafficked in Tin, to the mines of Cornwall. Tradition states that the last of this remarkable race of men, was observed wandering on the sea coast, apparently without any object or aim, and was never seen more he was an aged man of singular dress and manner, and spoke in a language totally unknown to the inhabitants of the country. The following brief and imperfect sketch was composed on hearing the narrative.]

Like the sand of the ocean, his brow's furrow'd o'er,
And his tresses were white as the turf-beaten shore,
Yet, the dark eastern glow flashes quick in his eyes,
And a throng of home-memories heaves in his sighs.-
Those low wilder'd mutterings, oh, what do they mean?
"Tis a language more strange than his garments and mien,
He's the last of a race of the mighty and brave,
Who have found in these deserts a home and a grave!

Phoenicea's proud princes, young heroes, fair daughters,
In triumph and gladness swept over the waters;

A barbarous people, unletter'd they found,

A realm of bleak mountains, and verdureless ground, They taught a sweet language and harmony's sound; The science of ages, themes lofty and high,

O wondrous religion, the lore of the sky

Lone, lone are his vigils!—oh, what doth he see?
Phoenicea's fair gardens glow bright o'er the sea:
He beholds the broad palm-groves in beauty ascend,
The tall, graceful date-trees luxuriantly bend;
Rich blooms of the East, in that sunlight appear,
And the songs of its nightingales float on his ear,
And the murmur of breezes, the music of streams—
"Tis the home of his childhood illumines his dreams.

Eleutherus, Adonis, and Biblus glow bright,
Mount Carmel, and Libanus gleam on his sight,
The terraces, temples, and marbles of Tyre,
The splendours of Sidon, the altars of fire,

Moloch, Ashteroth, Thammuz (whose orgies they hail
All frantic and wild) and the worship of Baal,-
This, orb'd in his vision, like sunset appears,
The phantoms of boyhood, the glory of years,

No more, O, no more, can these eyeballs behold—
The sun is descending, pavilion'd in gold!
He hears the soft waters, the rippling of waves,
The dash of the sea-birds, the echo of caves,
And, again high-uplifting his eyes to the sun
He dreams of the land which his fathers had won;
Oh glory immortal!—what splendours on high-
Tis Baal, 'tis Baal himself in the sky!—
Exhausted, entranced, lo, he sinks him to die.

*See description of this annual rite in Milton's Paradise Lost.

RURAL SKETCHES.

SOUTH WALES, No. V.

The love of Nature has been worthily and wisely cultivated by the poets in all ages. Nature is truth-it is the visible seal of heaven, the motto to be examined by our own understanding-it is a map laid before the poet's soul, beautiful in all its parts, simple and harmonious, yet only to be arranged and put together by the poet himself. Nature, then, and the human heart and mind, which are nature also, but somewhat different from the other, inasmuch as the changes within them have been greater, have conjoinedly been the primal sources of study to those whose aim it was to win immortality, and gain the "Monumentum are perennius." None bears the palm more proudly than Spencer; and in later days let the names of Wordsworth, Cowper, and Byron be superadded-men different in many things, but kindred and alike in genius-at least in its results. Was it not then a proud thing for me, to whom poetry has been a deep study, an ambition, yea, a part of my physical and spiritual being, to stand on the same spot, look on the same objects, and feel the same impulses, as Edmund Spencer, and this after a lapse of many

centuries.