Head of Worcester College, Oxford. Her life can as yet afford but few events to chronicle ; and we hope it will never be chequered by any of an unpleasant character. It is to the credit of the " Literary Gazette," that it has been the principal means of introducing to public attention so distinguished a Lady.

We cannot take leave of Miss Landon, without presenting our readers with a specimen of her Verses. We, therefore, select from her last Volume, the following sweet and truly poetic effusion.

"SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.

Another day-another day

And yet he comes not nigh;

I look among the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets my eye.

I hear the rush of mountain streams
Upon the echoes borne ;

I hear the singing of the birds,
But not my Hunter's horn.

The eagle sails in darkness past,

The watchful chamois bounds;

But what I look for comes not near-
My Ulric's hawk and hounds.

Three times I thus have watch'd the snow

Grow crimson with the stain

The setting sun threw o'er the rock,

And I have watch'd in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow
Across his shoulder slung-
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his Baldric hung.

I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;

I love to see his manly cheek

With mountain-colours bright.

I've waited patiently, but now
Would that the chace were o'er;
Well may he love the Hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.

Why stays he thus?-He would be here
If his love equall'd mine;
Methinks, had I one fond cag'd dove,
I would not let it pine.

But hark! what are those ringing steps That up the valley come?

I see his hounds-I see himself

My Ulric, welcome home!"

WALTER MAPES.

THIS Poet, who was Archdeacon of Oxford, has been very happily styled "the Anacreon of the eleventh century." He studied at Paris. "His vein (says Warton) was chiefly festive and satirical; and as his wit was frequently levelled against the corruptions of the clergy, his poems often appeared under fictitious names, or have been ascribed to others. The celebrated 'Drinking Ode' of this genial Archdeacon has the regular returns of the Monkish rhyme; but they are here applied with a characteristical propriety, are so happily invented, and so humorously introduced, that they not only suit the genius, but heighten the spirit, of the piece. He boasts that good wine inspires him to sing verses equal to those of Ovid. In another Latin Ode of the same kind, he attacks with great liveliness the new injunction of Pope Innocent, concerning the celibacy of the clergy; and hopes that every married priest, with his bride, will say a pater-noster for the soul of one who had thus hazarded his salvation in their defence."

JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL.

"THERE is," says Mr. Bowring, "a country almost within sight of the shores of our island, whose literature is less known to us than that of Persia or Hindostan : a country, too, distinguished for its civilization, and its important contributions to the mass of human knowledge.* Its language claims a close kindred with our own; and its government has been generally such as to excite the sympathies of an English spirit. It is, indeed, most strange, that while the Poets of Germany have found hundreds of admirers and thousands of critics, those of a land nearer in position-more allied by habit and by history with our thoughts and recollections should have been passed by unnoticed. It would be as soon expected to hear the birds of the East filling our woods and valleys with their songs, as to find the Batavian minstrels in our libraries or our drawing-rooms. And it would appear as if they had been excluded after

* We owe to the Dutch the discovery of the arts of Printing and Oil Painting: we owe to them the Microscope and the Pendulum.

a fair estimate of their claims,—so absolute has been the sentence of condemnation ;—yet there are many among them whose reputation is as firmly established, though not so widely diffused, as that of the most renowned among the sons of fame. But Vondel himself, ingenious, emphatic, and sublime as he is, has never found an interpreter, perhaps scarcely ever even a reader, in England.”

This celebrated writer" was born at Keulen, in 1587, but was removed in infancy to Amsterdam, by his parents. At the early age of thirteen, he is said to have been flatteringly noticed by Hooft. His education, however, was much neglected, as he did not commence a course of study until he was more than twentysix

years of age: but his perseverance and inexhaustible application surmounted every difficulty; and, by associating with such men as Vossius and Barlæus, Hooft and Grotius, he improved himself not only in the manner of expressing his thoughts, but even in the action of thinking. He acquired a very extensive general knowledge, and, as a poet, has never been rivalled in Holland. His Tragedies are, perhaps, the grandest specimens of Dutch literature.