He viewed creation's wonders, great and small,
And his fine sense exulted in them all:
Yet saw he not, nor ever lived to see,
'Mid affluent Nature's fair variety,

Ought that could equal the transcendent grace
Which glorified his spirit's sacred place,-
Which made even woman's noontide lustre dim,
Dazzling, indeed, but disappointing him.

Within a picture gallery I stood,

Where rival pencils lured the multitude.
'Mong vulgar daubs exposed to shameless glare,
One master painting hung obscurely there.
I gazed, and gazed-receded-paused to see
If on its merits many thought with me.
Apart from the dull throng that sauntered by,
A man regarded it with feverish eye;
And then, as though he observation feared,
Heaved a deep sigh, and instant disappeared.

It was Lorenzo! Oh! how sadly changed,
From him whose free foot o'er the mountain ranged!
Smote by despondency, perhaps despair,
Clogged was his gait, his visage worn by care.
Better he still had trod his northern heath,
Than bear from softer climes a cypress wreath.

‹ Down dropped the eyelids of an angry day;
The pall of evening o'er the city lay.
Dabbled with mud, sore pelted with the rain,
I reached a house in a suburban lane.
A creaking stair-case led me to the room,
Where a poor stranger withered in his bloom.
A pallet, easel, brushes, tarnished dress,-
Such furniture as law allows distress,-
Some random proofs of mind's neglected power,
Were all that cheered his solitary hour.
I clasped his thin, cold hand; bent o'er the bed,
With tender arm sustained his drooping head,-
And, dear Lorenzo, and is this thy fate?"

My friend", he faltered, "kindness comes too late ".

'He's gone! and now a nation's late remorse
Dwells idly on his melancholy course;
His flight of thought, too lofty for the crowd,
His stainless soul, for patron peers too proud.
Wrecked were his hopes on that barbarian coast,
Where many a goodly vessel has been lost,
Whose few rare pearls, chance-scattered on the shore,
Proclaim the noble freightage that they bore.'

VOL. VI.-N.S.

3 G

The Keepsake maintains its aristocratic and exclusive character, by a splendid show of noble, right honourable, and honourable contributors; but the insipidity which usually characterizes the favours of the lords and ladies who condescend to notice the muses, is, in the present volume, happily relieved by a large proportion of effective writing. The first article is a Narrative of an ascent of Mont Blanc in August 1830, by the Hon. E. B. Wilbraham;-unpretending and unaffected, and therefore highly interesting. Among the other attractive articles, we may specify, 'The Dream, a tale by the Author of Frankenstein; Therese,' a tale which, if it had not the name of Sheridan Knowles attached to it, we should have pronounced, without hesitation, to be a translation, the sentiments, the expressions, the every thing being French; the Star of the Pacific,' by J. A. St. John; a tale of the olden time by Mrs. C. Gore; the Fortunes of a Modern Crichton,' an instructive and touching biographical narrative; two tales by a pair of noble brothers, Lord Mulgrave and the Hon. C. Phipps; the Family of Dammerel,' by R. Bernal, M.P.;—' Baby,' an autobiographical memoir, edited by W. Jerdan, Esq.;-and the New King,' to which it may be sufficient to annex the name of Theodore Hook, as that name is sure to bring up something at once comic and satirical, in the Writer's peculiar line. 'Baby' is a very cleverly imagined exposition of what would be the miseries of the first stage of existence, if Baby could have that half-understanding of all that is going forward, that would give rise to the disgusts, terrors, and gloomy anticipations here portrayed. We do not, however, at all perceive the wit or propriety of making Baby swear,-more especially before he had heard the voice of his Papa. Amusing as this volume certainly is, and one of the best of the Series, we have no small difficulty in finding matter for convenient extract. Of the poetry, a stanza or two will suffice to illustrate, that, though peers and peeresses may be created, poeta nascitur, and Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley does not happen to be born to that title. The arrangement of words in the following lines, may be compared to what is called, we believe, Indian tinting; which is not exactly the same thing as sketching from nature.

'Here the manguasteens swell, the magnolias bloom,

Chenar-tree, banana, and palm shield earth's flowers;

The musk-deer lie stretch'd 'neath the gum-tree's sweet gloom, And the paradise-birds wing their way to the bowers."

We have heard young ladies complain of the English language as harsh and ill adapted for musical enunciation,-a fair excuse for the preference of Italian songs. But surely, the soft flow of these lines must be intended to prove, how liquid and musical

the language may be rendered. Here is another line, which we should like to hear said or sung by the soft voice of the fair writer:

' And the humming birds' hues shine like stars thro' the shades.'

Again, as a specimen of the Lalla Rookh sort of prettiness which sparkles in this poem, take the following:

'Tis the time for sweet thoughts-all seem thinking around!
The stars float on the skies like deep, warm reveries.'

Bright flow the champaka and pomegranate flowers,
Like stars that have fallen to earth with a blush.'
"Tis a beautiful night! Oh, the sun hath bequeath'd
To the moon, his sultana, all, all but his blaze!
His being-his soul he hath burn'd in and breathed
Thro' the hush of an hour that hath all but his rays.'
'Oh, one night of beauty, thou'rt worth endless days!'

Of these specimens it must be owned, that the poetry is worthy of the sentiment; and that the perspicuity of the meaning is equal to the melodiousness of the verse. There are several poems in this volume by the same gifted lady. Inferior in the glitter and perfume of verse, yet somewhat smoother, are 'Stanzas 'by an Honourable G. Berkeley, of which we transcribe the last.

'Alas! the sunshine of the heart displays
No opening bud of promise still to bear,
But
passes like the dream of other days,
And ends its summer with a bitter tear.'

A Mr. J. R. Gowen, who ought to be an Honourable or an Exclusive, thus addresses a lady who desired him to send her some verses.

'Oh, lady fair! in vain you bid me rhyme !
Slow, indistinct, my dull ideas rise,

My halting numbers keep no tuneful time,

Absent your form, unseen your sparkling eyes.'

But there are some better things than these wretched specimens of patrician inanity; and we are pleased to find the name of Lord Morpeth affixed to the following really elegant and beautiful stanzas.

'Who has not felt, 'mid azure skies,

At glowing noon, or golden even,

A soft and mellow sadness rise,

And tinge with earth the hues of heaven?

That shadowing consciousness will steal
O'er every scene of fond desire ;
Linger in laughter's gayest peal,

And close each cadence of the lyre.

In the most radiant landscape's round,
Lurk the dim haunts of crime and care:
Man's toil must plough the teeming ground;
His sigh must load the perfumed air.

O for the suns that never part,

The fields with hues unfading dress'd,
Th' unfaltering strain, th' unclouded heart,
The joy, the triumph, and the rest!'

There are some pleasing vers de societé, describing a party of pleasure up the River Tamer, by the Countess of Morley; some indifferent poetry by the Countess of Blessington; 'Lines' by two or three Lords; and several poems by L. E. L., which shine bright amidst the tinsel. 'Good Angels' is the title of some lines of great vigour and beauty; but the design they have been written to illustrate, was apparently meant for a very different subject; taken, we presume, from Rev. xii. 4, 5. But nothing in the shape of poetry has interested us so much as the following short, simple, but exquisite lines, ascribed to R. H. Stanhope, M. P.

TO ELIZABETH IN SICKNESS.

'O thou whose love hath sanctified and blest
My home, like Abraham's, with an angel guest-
My bosom treasure, yet beloved the more,
(E'en as the ewe-lamb of the poor man's store,)
From each unkindness that my lot hath known,
In those whom Nature falsely styled mine own:
May He thrice bless thee, who thy suffering sent,
God of the lowly and the innocent!

Who to the widow on Samaria's shore,

Bade her, no longer childless, "Weep no more!"'

We find that we have omitted to particularize (we had not overlooked) the most truly interesting prose contribution in the volume, from the pen of Mrs. Charles Gore; entitled, Lady Evelyn Savile's Three Trials.' We can quite believe it to be true, though it does not seem strictly natural; it is at all events affecting, and may be instructive-if the spoiled children of fashion can learn wisdom from tales and parables.

The Literary Souvenir of this year has aimed at producing a sensation by something quite new,-a satirical squib, or rather a regular pasquinade, extending through about 30 pages, in which the Editor has run a tilt against half the town. The best that we can do is, to stand out of his way, as we have no

wish to bite or to be bitten. The poem we allude to, is not the only one of the kind in the volume. Aspasia, a sketch of female character,' is a biting lampoon, and seems to be meant for a portrait; but we have no wish to know the original, nor do we envy the writer. The fair Sisters of the Society of Friends also come in for a little satire of a gentler kind, from the pen of Mrs. Alaric Watts. From these unwelcome novelties, we are glad to turn to contributions of a more usual sort;-a Tale by Miss Mitford;-a legend by Mr. Praed ;-a dramatic scene by James Sheridan Knowles ;-a tale by Mr. Howison, tragical enough to be true, and scarcely pleasing enough for fiction, the scene of which is in the highlands bordering on East Florida;—a romantic story of some Neapolitan banditti, by C. Macfarlane;-a tale of the Tyrol, by Mr. Leitch Ritchie;-and a good French story by Mr. Knowles. But we must pass by all these tempting articles, as not allowing of detached extract of convenient length; and fix upon the following very pleasing and picturesque stanzas.

REMINISCENCES OF ANDALUSIA.

By the Author of "Spain in 1830."

'Seville-gay Seville-with its serenades,
And masks, and convent chimes, and castanets,
And flashing eyes of Andalusian maids,

And Gothic towers, and Moorish minarets:

Bright orange groves, and light acacia bowers,
Whose tufted blossoms far their fragrance throw,

And stately palm, that like a giant towers

Above the dwarfish trees that cower below:

Desert sierras, where the ilex spreads

On rocky steeps; where odours, strange, yet sweet,
Are wafted from the aromatic beds

Of thousand flowers that spring beneath the feet:

'A train of straggling mules,-a muleteer,
Winding their way adown some mountain side,
And sound of tinkling bells, that on the ear
Fall sweetly, at the hour of eventide :

A groupe of boys seated beneath a tree-
Such as Murillo sketched-urchins at play,
With ragged coats, but faces full of glee,
With bread and melon making holiday :

Goats, milk-white, feeding 'mid rosemary bushes,
On prickly pear, upon a craggy steep;
And the half-naked goatherd, plaiting rushes
Or stretched beneath an olive tree, asleep: