RECOLLECTIONS. A FRAGMENT. I spurred my horse, and in a few moments I was at the top of the hill, which commands a full view of the village, as well as the finest prospect of varied landscape that England can boast. My horse, with the accustomed sagacity of his species, went direct to the village inn; a crowd of mournful recollections now rushed across my mind-the last time I passed through the gateway I followed a corpse-that of my friend, George Villars; and as I thought of the circumstances that then engaged me, my mind rose to a state of fevered excitement. I hastened to the churchyard, sweetly secluded from the world, at a short distance from the village, and was wholly occupied in recollections of my departed friend. • Poor George!' said I, as I arrived at the termination of a long avenue of trees which leads to the house appointed for all living,' poor George! thou hast indeed loved too well, and fallen a martyr to a hopeless passion.' At the same moment my eye instinctively wandered through the burial-ground, and immediately rested upon George's monument. It was of plain white marble, surmounted by an urn of the same material, part of which was beautifully developed by the exquisitely chaste drapery which hung in mournful folds about it. The inscription was simple To the Memory of This Monument is dedicated by the hand of Friendship. There is Hope.' I walked up to the tomb-the sepulchre in which my friend, my all, was buried. Leaning my head against the ambient railing, I endeavoured to utter my humble thanksgiving for the protection which our Heavenly Father had vouchsafed to me since I last trod that hallowed spot-hallowed by the presence, the invisible and now unsightly presence, of all my heart held dear. I thought of George; and once my soul, borne down with grief, attempted to rise in reproaches to its Maker for taking my friend from me; but a beneficent angel hushed my murmurings, and sweetly whispered me to say, 'Thy will be done.' Perhaps, ah! perhaps 'twas George's spirit! who had left the presence of the Eternal Majesty to attend me as my guardian! Be it so. From the moment I ut * * tered the words my spirit became calm. Again I thought of George, and as the thought flitted across my brain, I unwittingly exclaimed, 'There is hope!' and, turning towards the monument, the words met my eye. They were the last he uttered on earth, and immediately his purified spirit took its departure to those regions where hope is changed to enjoymentwhere the enjoyment is unalloyed. I had not seen the grave of my friend since his interment, which took place at eventide; the sun was shining in all his glory: he departed ere we left; the trees were full of foliage, and the birds were chaunting their vesper hymn; and as we approached the grave, preceded by the officiating clergyman, a fine effect was produced by his inimitable manner of reading the service, while the funereal slowness of the procession was in melancholy keeping with the whole. My earliest recollections are associated with the name of George Villars; from his cradle to his grave he was my best and almost only companion-he was a lover, and a broken-hearted one. It was more than George could bear, and a change of air, and removal from the localities which tended to arouse his feelings, were deemed the only means of rescuing him from the grave, and here we came, but he was wounded too deeply to be healed; the natural fire of his eye continued to decay, his countenance was wan, and his whole frame became sepulchral and unearthly. One evening, as we sat at the window of the inn, his eye wandered to the church and churchyard; turning to me, he said, 'A few days, and thou must seek a grave for me; yonder place appears to participate as little as can be in the affairs of this world-bury me there.' I endeavoured to divert him from this melancholy strain by pointing his attention to the sun, then setting in all his beauties, trailing the lengthened shadows of the trees and tombs along the ground. He replied, He, like me, is bidding farewell to the world : he will rise again, but I shall not-he sets at eventide, but I at noon; and oh! that I may decline, not with all his splendour, but as calmly as he-not to rise again in this world, but with a sure and certain hope of a happy rising in a better.' A change was visible in his countenance, he uttered a short but fervent prayer, said farewell, and, with an angelic smile, exclaimed, 'There is hope!' and died. U. C. K. L'E. STANZAS TO By that hair of flowing gold, By th' immortal powers on high, By those blooming dimpled cheeks, By all thy beauties here untold, J. D. A DREAM. WRITTEN IN THE FIRST PAGE OF AN AMATEUR'S ALEUM. On the evening of the day on which I purchased this book, I sat revolving in my mind the various scraps with which it should be filled, and the no less variety of persons whom I would solicit to become contributors. Whilst thus musing-my elbow on the book, and my head upon my hand-I gradually sunk into a deep slumber, when Fancy (ever busy with my thoughts-sleeping or waking) suggested a singularly beautiful scene to my imagination. Methought I stood, with my album under my arm, upon the apex of Mount Parnassus, before Apollo and the nine Muses in full conclave, beneath the roof of a temple, the beauties of which were beyond the powers of description. Finding that for the moment I was not regarded, I had some leisure to look around, and was struck with the appearance of a female by my side. Her aspect was at first sight severe; but on a closer examination, traces of the most ineffable goodness were discoverable in her speaking countenance. From the helmet upon her head, the terrific shield, displaying a gorgon's head, upon her arm, and the birds of Wisdom and Watchfulness by her side, I instantly concluded her to be Minerva; nor was I mistaken. She told me, in a tone which sounded like a silver bell, that I was summoned from earth to answer for having meditated the crime of encouraging the numerous herd of wouldbe poets, who, because they can tack a rhyme toge. ther, are perpetually scribbling, by which the public become so disgusted as to neglect even those sublime productions which have been suggested by Apollo himself, and thus tarnish the glory he had acquired in the classic ages, which had prodnced an Ovid, an Anacreon, and a Homer. However,' continued the azure-eyed goddess, 'fear nothing; I will continue by thy side, and dictate thy defence. Apollo is preparing the charge, and, in the meanwhile, thou art at liberty to contemplate the surrounding objects. I will explain what thou may'st not be able to understand.' Thus encouraged, I proceeded to examine this farfamed place. The temple was in the Grecian style of architecture, supported by ninety nine columns, which appeared in perpetual motion; now gleaming with a brilliance equal to the sun, which formed the roof of this marvellous place; anon a shade would pass over them; then they would appear again illuminated, and emit sparks of dazzling light, all of which shot upwards, and became a part of the orb of day. These remarkable columns were arranged in clusters of nine; each having their pedestals differently ornamented. The first cluster of nine glittered with the golden image of Pegasus, bearing a lyre, and surrounded by wreaths of bays, inimitably worked, so as to appear perpetually blooming. The second cluster was sculptured with the deeds of those heroes whom the poets of old delighted to describe. The third bore the likeness of a book, on which lay a silver pen with wings, and underneath the word history was inscribed. The fourth was marked with a lute. The fifth with a mask. The sixth with a dagger. The seventh with a harp. The eighth with a flute and trumpet. The ninth with a winged tongue. The tenth with the sun, moon, and stars; and the eleventh cluster of columns displayed all these emblems, blended in one exquisitely imagined group. Above the throne on which the god of day reclined, was a crystal tablet divided into five compartments, each division being headed with the designation of the different styles of poetry, and underneath I could distinguish the following names written in letters of gold :-Homer, Virgil, Milton, and Tasso, in the division of epic poets. Sophocles, Euripides, Eschylus, Shakspeare, Otway, Corneille, and Racine, as the chief of tragic poets. Aristophanes, Menander, Plautus, Terence, Fletcher, Jonson, and Moliere, as the first comic poets. Horace, Cowley, and Malherbe, as excelling as lyric poets; and Juvenal, Persius, Regnier, Boileau, Dryden, and Oldham, as the best |