For days well spent, and years not given in vain. Her grave was made,-for her, as for the worst! Our lives were tortures? No! I look around, Pure as if hymn'd by angels! still 'tis sweet, Hold on thy course, irrevocable fate! Thou stayless action of the world, hold on! Tower up like mists,-glide on like flying rain In the void skies! Their millions without strife Hold on the sternest doom thy power inflicts, Now unbound My love no longer chains me; and in part, LINES E. O. B. ON MR LAURENCE MACDONALD'S STATUE OF THE GIRL AND THE CARRIER PIGEON. By J. S. Knowles. THE maiden holds a letter to her breast Would'st con its secrets?-Read them in her face! It is the proper glowing page of Love! It voucheth for a heart beneath that breast, And in that heart the virgin's tender wish SONNET TO THE MEMORY OF GRAY. By the late Alexander Balfour. SWEET Bard! who sung "the rosy-bosom'd hours;" O'er classic Eton's "spires and antique towers," arrowy shower.' But chief," who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead," Could pensively thy twilight vigils keep; And musing sigh above the "lowly bed," Where" rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep ;" Thy name shall live, on Fame's broad pinions borne, And on thy grave shall smile the "incense-breathin I see the Danish Raven sweep O'er the dark bosom of the deep,— Its scatter'd plumage strews the steep Of rugged Albin's shore. Lo! England's Edward comes!—the plain Gaunt Famine, prowling, dogs his heel! And treason points the murderous blow, But who is he with dauntless brow, And dragon crest, and eagle eye, Whose proud form never knew to bow Its lofty port and bearing high? Around him close a glorious bandFew-but the chosen of the land; Beneath the Torwood Tree they stand, Freedom to gain, or die! 'Tis he, the bravest of the brave! Champion of Scotland's liberty, Whose mighty arm and dreadful glaive His mother-land could thrice set free! That hero-patriot, whose great name Justly the foremost rank may claim Of all that grace the rolls of fameWALLACE OF ELDERSLIE! Yes, oft the Torwood Oak has bent Its broad boughs o'er his noble head; Oft, in his hour of peril, lent The shelter of its friendly shade; And though rude Time and stern Decay Its moulder'd stem have swept away, The Hero's name there dwells for ayeA name that cannot fade! MARY'S EYES. By J. W. Ord. Wild as the gazelle's Now brightly bold-now beautifully shy- THERE are who doubt that Jove doth live at all, e'er have loved to dwell within the light Of woman's eye,-it hath so much delight. And, Mary, though thy brow is clear and high, And though thy words are full of melody, hough roses sit upon thy speaking face, And all thou dost is full of ease and grace, nd though young loves do wanton on thy breast, Chine eyes!-thine eyes!-I love thine eyes the best! LITERARY CHIT-CHAT AND VARIETIES. BOURRIENNE'S MEMOIRS OF BONAPARTE.-A translation of this interesting work, by James S. Memes, LL.D., is preparing for Constable's Miscellany. The Memoirs of Bourrienne are to be regarded as the most authentic and impartial documents yet given to the world on the subject of Napoleon. This preference is claimed on the grounds of the opportunities of information enjoyed, and of the qualifications, literary as well as moral, exhibited by the writer. For six-and-twenty years, commencing with the eighth year of Bonaparte's age, Bourrienne possessed the unlimited confidence of that extraordinary personage, and this during the most eventful period of his career. From all beside, the mask of ambition first, of policy afterwards, concealed entirely the man, and, in a great de gree, the ruler also. To the writer of these Memoirs alone were bared the genuine features of his mind and conduct. At school, Bourrienne was the chosen companion-the sympathising comforter of the youthful and melancholy Corsican. At Paris, amid poverty and disappointment, he continued the sole confident of the hopes, fears, and schemes of the young officer of artillery, sharing the contents of his own scantily furnished purse with him who was to sway the destinies of Europe. He witnessed the various turns, or was informed of them by letter, which raised his former comrade to general, and finally commander-in-chief in Italy. No sooner had Bonaparte obtained this elevation, than he invited Bourrienne to come to him and share his prosperity. Henceforth, in the capacity of secretary and confidential friend, in Italy, in France, at sea, in Egypt, in Syria, during the struggles and triumphs of the Consulate, he was con. stantly by Bonaparte's side in public-ever a party to his private thoughts and plans. From the closet of Napoleon, where his secretary and himself alone laboured, proceeded, from the dictation of the former, and in the handwriting of the latter, those documents, which, now forming a portion of history, then awed or astonished Europe. In the last volume of the work, even when Bourrienne, from being too unbending in principle, had ceased to be secretary, he was often employed, and sustained offices of importance. He was also employed under Louis. Here some of his narrative is peculiarly interesting. In every case of moment he refers to original documents, very frequently autographs in his own possession. These he was enabled to preserve by a singular display of courage and address, by which he foiled first Fouché, and even Bonaparte himself; subsequently the Bourbons, who, in succession, sought to deprive him of his treasure. He now enjoys powerful protection in the Netherlands, where he has drawn up his Memoirs, or rather transcribed his journals; for seeing from the beginning that history was making, he wrote down the transactions as they occurred. To these advantages of situation and opportunity, such as no other writer on this subject ever enjoyed, Bourrienne adds excellent talents, great good sense, and, above all, a most reverential regard for truth. This he searches out, and displays at all hazards. Prejudices he has, but they are of the right kind, in favour of humanity and liberty. Even these sentiments, however honourable their excesses might be esteemed, are never allowed to oppose truth. But with all these advantages, the work, to be valuable at once, and interesting to the general reader, will require care in the translation. The style is light and elegant, but very loose, diffuse, and full of repetitions. These give great room for condensing, and indeed require it. From following the order of time, too, the facts are often perplexingly intermixed and repeated. This clogs the narrative. These superfluities must be lopped off, the diffuseness condensed, and the facts arranged, in a translation; and it is evident that this cannot be ventured upon except with the utmost care, and by a responsible translator. We look, Besides his well-known tahowever, with confidence to Dr Memes. lents and discrimination, he visited most of the scenes of Bonaparte's operations in Europe, in Italy, Germany, and Holland, coll cting information on the spot, with views, long since laid aside, of doing something on the same subject. Under his superintendence, the work can hardly fail to be well executed. A History of the Western Highlands and Hebrides, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, by Donald Gregory, Esq. Assistant Secretary to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, is preparing for publication. This work is meant to be one of more research than any that has hitherto appeared on the subject of the Highlands; and, from what we know of the talents of the author, we are inclined to augur very favourably of its contents. An interesting Memoir of the Rev. Thomas Bradbury, author of the Mystery of Godliness, &c. by the Rev. John Brown of Whitburn, is in the press. Obedience, a Tale, by Mrs Sherwood, is announced. Our able friend and contributor, William Kennedy, who has already displayed so much poetical genius in his "Fitful Fancies," and other works, has a new volume in the press, to be entitled, The Arrow and the Rose, and other Poems. Mr Kennedy is also engaged with a prose work for one of the Family Libraries. Our readers will be glad to learn that Mr Tennant is about to pub lish, in a separate pamphlet, all the articles upon the Psalms which have appeared in the Literary Journal, with some additions, which may probably yet be made through the medium of our pages. The pamphlet will be ready previous to the meeting of the General Assembly. A disquisition on the Geography of Herodotus, with a Map; and Researches on the History of the Scythians, Getæ, and Sarmatians, from the German of Niebuhr, is in the press. Colonel Bory de St Vincent has been appointed by the French Minister of the Interior to prepare a work on Greece; and, having directed the first expedition to the Morea, he will probably be able to furnish many interesting particulars relative to that country. A Second Voyage round the World, translated from the German of Otto von Kotzebue, is in the press. We understand that the new work now in preparation, by the author of "The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," (Thomas De Quincey, Esq.) will not be published before next winter. magistrate before whom they were taken had the wit or imperti nence to quote to them the well-known couplet, "Strange that such difference there should be 'Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee." -Madame Vestris has been applying to Sir Richard Birnie for assistance because she was hissed the other evening at Drury Lane, when she made her appearance in the part of Captain Macheath. If Madame Vestris had been hissed a little more frequently in the course of her career, it would have been better for her. From the last published statement of the number of students at the English Universi ties, it appears that Cambridge has now a majority over Oxford, having increased by 118 students in the last year. The present total of the members of Cambridge is 5263, while that of Oxford is 5259. Theatrical Gossip.-The Easter melodrame at Drury Lane is called the "Dragon's Gift, or the Scarf of Flight and the Mirror of Light:" it is very splendid, and was completely successful. That at Covent Garden is called the "Wigwam," and is founded on Cooper's novel the "Pioneers." Astley's has re-opened with "an equestrian romantic tale," entitled "The Spectre Monarch and his Phantom Steed." It gives Ducrow an opportunity of exhibiting his unrival Burke's exhibitions.-The Cobourg rejoices in Monsieur Gouffe, the man-monkey, and a piece of spectacle bearing the captivating title of "Charles the Terrible."-Sadler's Wells has brought out something after the model of "Tom and Jerry."-The stupid old twaddler Colman has just given a new specimen of the manner in which he exercises the functions of Dramatic Licenser. In the English version of the opera of "Cinderella," brought out a few nights since at Covent Garden Theatre, the following dialogue originally occurred: PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY'S FOURTH CONCERT.-The fourth and last Concert given by the Society this season, took place in the Assembly Rooms, on Friday, the 16th inst. It was respectably, but not crowdedly, attended. The instrumental music was, as usual, very good; and among the vocalists, Miss E. Paton especially dis-led skill.-At the Surrey, they have made a melodrame of young tinguished herself, her "Ah, compir" being one of the most brilliant efforts she has made this season. Our readers will find some able remarks upon this concert in the Weekly Journal of Wednesday last. We do not always agree with the musical criticism in that paper; but on the present occasion it has our sincere approbation. MR MURRAY'S CONCERT.-This Concert took place in the Hopetoun Rooms last Tuesday evening, and was well attended. We have seldom heard at a benefit concert a more pleasing selection of music. The orchestra, though not full, was well selected and admirably-" Dandini. Pray, Master Alidoro, help me, for I am a great man drilled; and Murray's solos on the violin, especially that in which he introduced the Scotch air, "Here's a health to ane that's awa,' were in themselves a treat of no mean order. Miss Inverarity sang her chef d'œuvre, the Scena composed for her by Murray from "Il Sacraficio d' Abramo," and her efforts were, as they deserved, rapturously applauded. Miss E. Paton was no less successful in an exquisite piece of music by Niedermeyer, never before performed in this country, but which we hope to hear her frequently sing again. Her fair sister, Miss I. Paton, sang her favourite song, "In infancy our hopes and fears," very beautifully. Mr Wilson was unfortunately so hoarse, that it was difficult to say what sort of music he sang. The principal novelty of the evening was the debut of Miss Orme, as a pianist. She performed variations on a favourite theme from the opera of Semiramide, and a fantasia of Czerny's from the Siege of Corinth. We question whether more difficult and chromatic music could have been selected; but Miss Orme's articulation and touch are both excellent,-her style is full of expression and feeling, -and she certainly bids fair to be a distinguished ornament to the musical circles of Edinburgh. If her object be to teach the pianoforte, we know of no young lady to whose care we would sooner enTwo MS. trust any pupils in whose progress we took an interest. songs by Murray, and one by John Thomson, were also produced at this concert, and were all well received. MR TAYLOR'S CONCERT.-This concert, which took place in the Hopetoun Rooms on Thursday evening, was crowdedly attended. Mr Taylor, of course, distinguished himself as the first harp-player in Edinburgh. Miss Louisa Jarman sang two songs, "Elena oh tu,' and "My own Blue Bell." We never heard this young lady to greater advantage. In the last song she was honoured with an unanimous encore. Miss E. Paton and Miss Inverarity were also encored in their respective songs; and the audience generally seemed to be well satisfied with the entertainment which Mr Taylor had prepared for them. now, and can do nothing !-Alidoro. How, sirrah! is that one of our SAT. 39 MON. CHIT-CHAT FROM LONDON.-There is a good article in the last number of the Literary Gazette, exposing what the editor calls "the cut and dry system of criticism," or what he might have termed, It has of late "the art of reviewing books without reading them." become customary for publishers to pick out a score or so of what they consider the most striking passages of any new book, and to print them on a loose separate sheet of paper, which they forthwith transmit to all the journals and newspapers, in order to save reviewers the trouble of making their own extracts. The consequence is, that we see the same extracts in all the papers, and run a great chance of being nauseated with the new work before we have cut up the leaves. In common with our contemporary, we protest against such scissor work, and are confident that no such helps will ever be resorted to by the conductors of the Literary Journal-It is said that Moore does not intend to take any notice of Campbell's late attack, his friends being of opinion that it does not deserve the compliment.-Colburn and Bentley continue to publish with great spirit, but the other booksellers are not doing much at present.-Mr Charles Nicholson, the celebrated flute-player, challenged a few days ago Mr James, the editor of "The Flutist's Magazine," in consequence of an article which appeared in the last number of that periodical, entitled "Death of Charles Tootle Too, Esq." Both gentlemen, however, were apprehended, and bound over to keep the peace. The TUES. WEEKLY LIST OF PERFORMANCES. Paul Pry, & Deaf as a Post. Black-eyed Susan, Monsieur Tonson, & Gilderoy. Do., Luke the Labourer, & Cramond Brig. THURS. Do., & Presumption. TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS. We are reluctantly obliged to postpone "The Apology, Part III." till next Saturday. THE EDITOR IN His Slippers, No. VII, in our next. "The Beauties of the Tay and its Tributaries" shall have a place as soon as possible.-"T. B. J." shall hear something about himself next Saturday. We are not aware whether the Prospectus of the "Medical Provident Institution of Scotland" is meant as an adver tisement or not. It could not conveniently appear in the Literary Journal in any other shape.-The Letters of "Presbyter" and sí "J. N. B." of Dundee, shall be forwarded to Mr Tennant. "Our fair correspondent, "Amelia B." will, no doubt, be shocked to hear that we still remain inexorable.-We shall endeavour to find room for the verses by " Alpha;" if he has any better, he may send them to us in the meantime.-There is promise of future improvement in the lines by "Juvenis."-Neither the "Song" nor the "Serenade" by "P." come up to our standard. ERRATUM.-In our last report of the proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries, for " M. D. Greville," read " M. De Gerville" THE EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS; OR, A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES. No. VII. "Stulta, jocosa, canenda, dolentia, seria, sacra, FRIENDS, readers, and contributors! May has come once more! the "merry month of May!"-smiling in the blue skies, and on the feathery clouds, sparkling on the broad breast of the placid sea, and greatly rejoicing the hearts of all the fishes in brook, stream, lake, and river. Many a pair of slippers that formed the solace of the winter fire-side, are now stowed away far back under a huge chest of drawers, or behind a great trunk, or in a rarely-frequented closet, covered with dust, neglected and forgotten! Such is the world's gratitude. It is attentive to its friends as long as they can be of any service, but its attachment ends with the chance of some reciprocal advantages arising out of the connexion. Fie on't! Such is not our mode of treating the companions of bygone days ; "Come, ye SLIPPERS, fair and free, In Heaven worn by Euphrosyne,—” come once more unto our willing feet, and albeit the grate sparkles in the brightness of its own well-tempered metal, unconscious of a fire,-albeit our easy-chair, into which we sink as into a bed of eider-down, be now for a time discarded,-albeit the air is soft and balmy, and when we throw open the casement of our suburban retreat, the perfume of a thousand flowers hurries the sense into Elysium,—still we are prepared to address our SLIP-❘ FERS in the language of Goldsmith, and say, "Eternal blessings crown our earliest friend!" In the long, frosty, blue, coal-consuming nights of winter, how often have they met us smilingly after the fatigues of the day, and, with the gentle pressure of mute affection, a pressure like unto that of a maiden's soft and thrilling hand,—how often have they restored our wounded spirit to the conviction that some small portion of peace and happiness was still left for us in the world! It was in such moments as these that the better portions of our nature awoke within us, and all the scorpions of our heart laid themselves down to sleep. The petty cares, the contemptible jealousies, the perpetual squabbles, which agitate the literary world, and in the vortex of which even we are sometimes involved, faded away like the mist of morning upon a mountain brow, and we felt prepared to love and to be beloved by all mankind. Then came tripping forth, like fairies in the moonlight, our affections and gentler feelings;-a single stanza of divine poesy,-a tone or two of pensive music, perchance one of our old accustomed melodies, loved from childhood, and loved now a thousand times more because those whom we love, love them too,-the glance of a kind eye, the sound of a familiar voice,—each or all PRICE 6d. of these has wellnigh brought our mother's weakness to our eyes, and we blessed God, that though inured in all the cold and artificial habits of the common earth, we were still capable of casting the stiff mantle of manhood away, and recalling to ourselves the nature of a boy who lies among the heather on a bright hill-side, and dreams of the crystal world he is about to enter. And what is man, or the life of man, worth, if he cannot continue to throw, at intervals, a rainbow light over the dulness of reality? Woe unto him who scoffs at the existence, and ridicules the enjoyment, of all pure and lovely emotions! We speak not of the boisterous mirth of nocturnal conviviality, though even that hath its redeeming points;-we speak not with the view of painting a fabled Utopia, which hath no being in the nature of things. All that we stand up for, (and now that our SLIPPERS are on, we do not stand so high by a full inch as we did before)—all that we stand up for is, that no poet has ever exaggerated the value and the might of friendship, or the glory and the rapture of woman's love. Poets, with all their inspiration, have but limited powers. They can describe but what they see, and what they feel. They may express feelings, which, in the particular case alluded to, did not belong to them, but which other circumstances either have called or will call forth. Hence all the privileges they enjoy-friendship is with them a passion, and a glad delirium ;-love, a transport and a splendour. Let it be granted that the friendship dies out, and that the love may in time grow cold. It matters not; better to be loved by them for a day, than by all the rest of mankind for a hundred years! We speak no rash and hasty paradox. What is friendship? What is love? It is a succession of feelings towards another, existing within the recesses of our own nature. To a certain extent, these feelings may be expressed by outward signs, and made palpable to the object beloved, but only to a certain ex · tent, and in noble natures to a wretchedly limited extent. By far the higher part of the mystery remains unseen, The movement of the outward wheels may be discovered, but the delicate mechanism of the interior, productive of the acutest nicety of perception, is hid from the vulgar eye-is for ever incapable of being communicated even to the object on which all our regard is lavished. But the mechanism, or, to use a higher and a better word, the soul, with its concomitant emotions, exists, though the weakness of the material senses cannot discover them to others. They exist, and for ever hallow to the mind of the poet the subject by which such emotions are called forth. Is this a matter of little moment? Is it a small thing to be a poet's friend,-a poet's love?-not for what he writes or says about his friendship or his love, but for what he feels, and what he could not ever attempt either to write or say? Words are but feeble types of thoughts. They are not thoughts itself, they are but symbols of it. Can a symbol ever be so good as an original? Think you that the language of a book, or even the syllables which drop from the tongue, are equally fervent and expressive as the throbbings of the unseen heart? or as those lights and shades of feeling, which cause neither a thrilling nor a throbbing, which pass like a sun-blink, or the reflection of a cloud upon the water, but which stamp the character and elevate the individual into something far different from the multitude? O ye men of genius! wear SLIPPERS, and commune with your own hearts, and be still. * Not having read over the above paragraphs, we shall not be too positive, but we are certainly inclined to think they contain some very splendid writing. A set of dolts will assert that it is vain in us to say so. Nay, it has even reached our ears, that the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS is thought at times rather conceited and egotistical! Good God! (as Mr Brougham says in the House of Commons when he wants to be very eloquent,) what an idea is this to enter into the mind of a rational human being! Because we sometimes make our own popularity the subject of a good-humoured joke, must we be therefore classed with the petty coxcombs of this and former ages? By Jupiter Ammon! and likewise by Jupiter Tonans, and also by the Capitoline Jove! the day will come when we shall shake that notion out of the minds of our worst foes! Proud of being the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal, forsooth! What is it, after all, but a mere sixpenny periodical, very neatly printed, to be sure, by Ballantyne, and in very universal circulation and esteem, but still only a weekly Gazette of sixteen pages? Heaven and earth! who is it fancies that periodical writing of any kind would satisfy our ambition? Look at the editors of all the periodicals,-they are mere nobodies, unless they have done something distinct and apart from contributing anonymous articles to Reviews, Magazines, or Literary Journals. Does Lockhart owe his reputation to that most respectable and heavy concern the Quarterly Review? What has Jeffrey made by the Edinburgh, except that he fretted his hour upon the stage, and then departed? Who ever thinks of Campbell as the editor of the New Monthly, with its Cockney sketches and little bits of unreadable trash of poetry? Will not a single page of the "Isle of Palms," or the "City of the Plague," or Lights and Shadows," or something he will yet write, do more to perpetuate the name of John Wilson than all Blackwood's Magazine put together? Is Dr Bowring better known as a poetical translator from the modern languages, or as the conductor of that able and suspicious review the Westminster ? As for the scribblers in Frazer's Magazine, the Monthly, and others, which nobody ever sees or hears of, unless through the medium of a newspaper advertisement, their very names are unknown; and though they were, they would not live one week longer than their own periodicals, which will be short enough. The Edinburgh Literary Journal ranks, we believe, higher than any other weekly miscel.. | lany now in existence; but what kind of satisfaction is it to know this, when we also know that we could, if we chose, rise to as great a height above the Journal, as the Journal is above Cobbett's Register, or the Cork Quarterly Magazine? Vanity, indeed! We shall see, before five years elapse, whether the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS is a person to be sneezed at in this way. The Edinburgh Literary Journal, like a rock rolled from the top of a mountain, shall go on to prosper with increased celerity and quickly accumulating influence, but it shall be confessed, ere long, to be only the smallest gem in our coronet. So much for egotism. Let the small fry sneer and snarl if they will. WE have said it. Revert we once more to the pleasant fact, that this is the first morning of May. Where hast thou been, dear reader?-away up on the mountain side, gathering the sweetest and the brightest dew of all the year,-or down by the stream, catching a score of the biggest trout it boasts, or lying in bed, amidst a profusion of shattered dreams dancing round thee like motes in the sunbeam, till the breakfast bell rang for the last time, and you knew that all the rest would be in the parlour before you, and that the eggs would be cold, and the Literary Journal half read before you got down? Well, never mind; whatever you have been doing, we have a regard for thee. But if thou art a man, then, O man! away with thee to the country for as long a period as thou canst a day, a week, or a month. Thou knowest not how fresh and lovely it looks at this moment. Couldst thou but get one glimpse of the blossoms upon the cherry-trees, we should have a greater respect for thee. Thou smilest with a grave serenity, and thinkest to thyself—" I am a lawyer, and lo! I wear a wig; what have I to do with the blossoms on the cherry-trees?" But again, we say unto thee, O man' fling thy wig to the four winds of heaven, take unto thyself the feelings of a boy-a rosy blossom newly shaken from the tree of life-and away with thee to the blessed gren fields. We should have rejoiced to have taken thee with us to Roseneath, that fairest peninsula in the Firth of Clyde, which we visited but a few short days ago. We should have rejoiced to point out to thee the beauties of Helensburgh, and the loveliness of the Gair Loch, with its towering amphitheatre of hills in the background; ner should we have asked thee to have thrown thyself after us, when we were foolish enough to tumble out of the steam-boat into the water, for well we know that it is only the ignoble and the undistinguished who die the death of a blind puppy,therefore we smiled in the water with a calm smile, and, after a brief space, regained the boat. Reader! perchance thou art a lady! If so, Heaven bless thee! Art thou fond of flowers? Thou art perhaps the lady who wrote the lines in the style of Miss Landen on a tuft of early violets, which are as follows : "The first that grew this season! I have been miles for them! How many miles?— Well, it must have been a pleasant walk, whether short or long. Have you a passion for primroses? Here they are in living groups,—most lovely and gentle things! Do you like cowslips, whose perfume is like the beautiful thought of an innocent girl? If so, there is a bank all golden with them. But are not all flowers alike? They are nature's eternal jewels, and their odour oppresses the heart with a joy that weighs it down almost as if it were a sorrow. We hate a lady who looks coldly upon flowers; we love her best who is affected by them even unto sad ness. Come, sit thee down beneath this pleasant tree, whose tender and feathery leaves quiver in the passing zephyr, and we shall furnish thee with an hour's reading that will make thee remember with delight the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS all the rest of thy days. Here is a scrap, in the first place, which we shrewdly suspect was written by ourselves as we walked in the garden yesternight, and had our attention attracted by the melancholy object which forms the subject of our poem. TO A WITHERED CURRANT BUSH. What is the reason, thou currant bush, That there is not a leaf upon thee, Although there are leaves on the gooseberry bushes, And leaves on the old apple-tree? Art thou asleep in thy winter sleep, That will not be woo'd by the April sun, The heart's-ease looks up, with a smile, in thy face, The blackbird is singing among the boughs, |