LINES TO M. G. P.

AT MADRAS, IN THE EAST INDIES BY MRS. ANN ROLFE.

Thou prized of the brave and thou loved of the fair,
Whose step is as light as the wings of the air,
Whose features are bland, and as noble in worth
As the first balmy essence that blooms on the earth;
Whose mind is enlightened by heaven above
And whose spirit is gentle as that of the dove.
Ah why didst thou cross the rough waves of the sea
And leave the dear land that is lovely to me?
Leave the land of thy fathers-the land of the blest,
Where virtue divine in its holiness rest;
Where truth as a mirror reflects on our sight,
And points to the spheres like an angel of light.
Say, doth not thy memory dwell with a sigh
On the scenes of thy youth, and thy own purer sky,
Where the breezes of summer delightfully blow

Alike on the hills and the vallies below;

Where the blossoms and balms of our landscapes sublime
Breathe odours unknown in that far distant clime.

In that clime where the sun with its vertical powers
Destroys the soft lustre of beauty and flowers,
Where the blood rushes fiercely through every hot vein,
And pestilence traverse the desert and plain;
Where the spirits of death in its jungles abound,
And the ravenous beast spreads destruction around.
In that clime where the heathen and Indian plod
For treasure, and know not the presence of God;
Where the idol gigantic, horrific, and grim,

Heeds not the poor lost ones that bow down to him;
Who midst the deep howls of their trembling breath
Are crushed at one sweep 'neath the engine of death.
In that clime where the waters tremendously roar
And furiously dash on the sea-beaten shore;
Where the woods branching high in their loftiest form,
Are thrown from their heights by the dark stirring storm:

The most shocking circumstance immediately connected with the idol Juggernaut, is the self-sacrifice of worshippers, by throwing themselves under the ponderous wheels of his car.-Penny Magazine,

While the lightnings dart forth from their deep troubled

womb

And earth opens wide, like the depths of the tomb.

Oh yes, for the beauty and powers of thy mind,
Already to arduous duties consigned,
Appreciates fully those blessings so dear-
The jocund delights of thy early career,

When friends, smiling friends, loved thee in full truth,
And scrutinized fondly the path of thy youth.

Oh yes, and thy mem'ry that often hath bled,
Reverts with a sigh to old ocean's deep bed;
And the voice of that ocean is lovely to thee,
For its proud crystal waves wash the land of the free;
Where the daughters of love, and the sons of the brave,
The fervent delights of true virtue will have.

Then hither return, oh thou loved one, nor stay
Till death shall have borne all my wishes away;
Quick, quick to the vessel, it steers from the land,
Its sails are all spread, and its crew are at hand;
The breezes are fresh as the zephyr that brings
The spice and the balm of the rose on its wings.
And hearts in that vessel, a beautiful throng,
Melodiously join in the cadence of song;
The pilot's hymn too, softly floats on the air,
As if the bright spirits of kindred were there;
Oh! my son, mingle thine as thou fliest from the shore
To revisit old England, and leave her no more.
Selby House, Ham, near Richmond, Surrey.

THE COQUETTE.

A DELINFATION OF NATURAL HISTORY.

"A Psycho-logical curiosity." — D'Israeli, Jun.

THE above quoted authority proves that the coquette is of the butterfly species, for, when deprived of its ephemeral blandishments, it appears in its pristine deformity. The insect is of French origin, and, although abundant quantities

of the animal exist in this country, retains its Gallic cognomen. The only literal translation of its name into English is rendered in the word, Man-trap.❞

The education of the Coquette is usually derived from boarding schools, and its sentiments from song books. It learns precepts of morality from novels, and examples of virtue from waiting-maids; and the only evidence it shows of possessing the power of reasoning, is the ingenuity with which it special-pleads out of broken vows. If it have a heart, that is like the Public Ledger, "Open to all parties, and influenced by none."

At church it ogles under smart bonnets, and attracts general attention, from its gaudy attire; while, at the theatre, it becomes the focus of every opera glass, on account of its levity.

This insect is carnivorous, feeding upon the human heart, as spiders do upon flies. It spreads the net of insinuation and encouragement, inveigles its victim into the web, and makes a boast and glory of the agonies it may cause.

Its ideas are singularly confused about the monosyllables, "Yes," and "No," frequently substituting the one for the other, so that it loses all chance of matrimony, and it is to be anticipated, that to this fact, and the general contempt into which the race is gradually falling, the Coquette population will decrease in a Malthusian ratio.

Maids and Widows-if you wish to arrive at the "consummation devoutly to be wished"-good husbands-eschew coquetry; and ye, O wives! who have already got them, be not coquettes, lest they flee from ye!

FROM THE PERSIAN.

What time the sun, at this sweet season,
The east with transient beauty stains;
Say, mortal, dost thou know the reason
Why the bird of morn complains?
Day's bright mirror," thus he sings,
"To me a mournful truth discloses ;
A night of life has spread its wings
And fled, while man in sloth reposes."

THE YOUNG ITALIAN.

Giozzi was born in Naples, of noble parents, but being a younger son, was wholly neglected in favour of his elder brother. At an early age he was, therefore, sent to sojourn with an uncle in a convent, which he left after a few years, being unsuited to the austerities of a monastic life. He returned home, but finding that they intended sending him back again, he resolved to avoid it by leaving the paternal roof. The same night he got on board a vessel bound for Genoa, where he arrived in a few days. Giozzi soon saw the mistake he had made; his scanty purse was exhausted, and he found himself, for the first time in his life, pennyless, and without a home. In this state he wandered into the church of the Annunciata, where a celebrated painter was placing one of his pictures over the altar. Giozzi uttered an ejaculation of delight at the picture, which gratified the painter, and they soon became friends. Being invited to his house, the young Italian soon became his favourite pupil, and assisted him in his works.

Thus far we have analyzed Washington Irving's pathetic "Story of the Young Italian." We shall now proceed in the words of the narrative. Speaking of his master, he says

"Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces at Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the bay; a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her, as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but sixteen years of age-and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a nere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection. I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and I fondly protracted the study that was undoing me.

L. 35. 1.

T

The more

I gazed on her, the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention by her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favour for me; and I am inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite for earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvass, with my eyes occasionally rivetted on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair.

"A few days finished my task. Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil. I became noted for my felicity in depicting female loveliness it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed and yet fed my fancy by introducing her in all the productions of my master.-I have stood, with delight, in one of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a Saint which I had painted. I have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting; they were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca.

I was

“ I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium, for upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination, that the image which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed I was a solitary, meditative being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property, which, from the liberality of his disposition, and his expensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron.