But poetry,

gotten. Sciences are changed. never fading, never dies. The events of Homer's life are in irrecoverable oblivion. His very birthplace is unknown; and of his heroes and his wars, not a trace remains to prove that such have ever been. Yet he and they live, breathe, and act as freshly in his poetry at this hour as they did two thousand years ago. The hearts that have leaped at the tale of his Achilles, would march ten thousand such armies; and the tears that have dropped over the parting of his Hector and Andromache, might almost make up another Scamander. Well may we exclaim with a living bard:

"Blessings be on them, and eternal praise, The Poets"

They whose courtesies come without being sought, who mingle themselves like friends amid our everyday pursuits, and sweeten them we scarcely know how-Who enhance prosperity and alleviate adversity; who people solitude and charm away occupation-Who, like flowers, can equally adorn the humblest cottage or the proudest palace-Who can delight without the aid of selfishness, and soothe without the opiate of vanity-Please when ambition has ceased to charm, and enrich when fortune has refused to smile.

If we glance over the everyday literature of the time, it is amusing to observe how the imaginative and metaphysical have gone on predominating. Turn to a popular treatise or an essay in a popular periodical, and ten to one it contains reflections on the modifications of character, inquiries into the changes of the human mind, or an analysis of some one or other habit, mood, or passion. The tangible has given way to the abstract. Dry details of Druidical monuments, and openings of barrows and cromlechs; queries as to whether fairy rings are caused by lightning or mushrooms; histories of old churches and market-crosses, annals of water-spouts and land-floods; heights of mountains and depths of lakes; meteors, fire-balls, and falling stars; lunar rainbows; lusus natura; elopements; deaths, births, and marriages have all yielded to compositions in which the feelings such objects produce form as large a portion of the subject as the things themselves; and what has been felt and thought is treated of as fully as what has been seen and done. This is the progress of the mind. Facts are only the precursors of abstractions; and thus may it proceed until, in the fulness of time, our very children may prefer setting afloat a metaphysical paradox to blowing an air-bubble.

THOMAS DOUBLEDAY.

BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.

[Laetitia Elizabeth Landon, born in Chelsea, London, 14th August, 1802; died at Cape Coast Castle, Africa, 15th October, 1838. At an early age she gave evidence of her literary abilities. She says: "I cannot remember the time when composition, in some shape or other, was not a habit. I used to invent long stories, which I was only too glad if I could get my mother to hear. These soon took a metrical form; and I used to walk about the grounds, and lie awake half the night, reciting my verses aloud." Her father's neighbour was Mr. William Jerdan, the editor of the Literary Gazette. To him several of her compositions were submitted, and he could scarcely believe that they were the productions of the girl he had seen in the next garden, bowling a hoop with one hand, whilst the other held a book. He published a number of her poems in the Gazette, under the signature L. E. L., and they immediately attracted attention to the new poet. Miss Landon then produced respect successful. her first volume, The Improvisatrice, which was in every The Troubadour followed, and her fame spread rapidly over the world. Family difficulties rendered the exercise of her pen a necessity, and she worked with untiring industry in prose and verse for the Literary Gazette and the annuals. Her poems are marked by a melancholy, which at times becomes morbid; yet in social intercourse she displayed the liveliest disposition. She published three novels: Francesca Carrara; Romance and Reality; and Ethel Churchill. She married Mr. George M'Lean, then governor of Cape Coast Castle, on the 7th June, 1838, and five months afterwards died from the effects of an overdose of prussic acid.]

I look'd upon his brow,-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,
He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,

He raised them haughtily; And had that grasp been on the brand, It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now; Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh;

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many dint, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,

The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone; The sword, which had defied The mightiest, lay broken near: And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride; And never king or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than did his now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,

A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot and her latest one.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill'd one house with glee Their graves are sever'd far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea!

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd
Above the noble slain,

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd,
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest who play'd Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee!

VOL. I.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, on earth!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE SCREEN, OR "NOT AT HOME."

[Amelia Opie, born in Norwich, 12th November, 1769; died in that city, 2d December, 1853. She was the daughter of James Alderson, M.D., and became the wife of John Opie, the painter, whose genius elevated him from the position of a poor carpenter's son in Cornwall, to that of professor of painting to the Royal Academy. Mrs. Opie wrote several novels, soon after her marriage, of which the most notable are Father and Daughter, Adelaide Mowbray, and Simple Tales. She also contributed prose and verse to various magazines and annuals. She became a member of the Society of Friends in 1825, and became distinguished by her philanthropic labours for the welfare of the poor.]

The widow of Governor Atheling returned from the East Indies, old, rich, and childless; and as she had none but very distant relations, her affections naturally turned towards the earliest friends of her youth; one of whom she found still living, and residing in a large country town.

She therefore hired a house and grounds adjacent, in a village very near to this lady's abode, and became not only her frequent but welcome guest. This old friend was a widow in narrow circumstances, with four daughters slenderly provided for; and she justly concluded that, if she and her family could endear themselves to their opulent guest, they should in all probability inherit some of her property. In the meanwhile, as she never visited them without bringing with her, in great abundance, whatever was wanted for the table, and might therefore be said to contribute to their maintenance, without seeming to intend to do so, they took incessant pains to conciliate her more and more every day, by flatteries which she did not see through, and attentions which she deeply felt. Still, the Livingstones were not in spirit united to their amiable guest. sorrows of her heart had led her, by slow degrees, to seek refuge in a religious course of life; and, spite of her proneness to self-deception, she could not conceal from herself that, on this most important subject, the Livingstones had never thought seriously, and were as yet entirely women of the world. But still her heart longed to love something; and as her starved affections craved some daily food, she suffered herself to love this plausible, amusing,

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agreeable, and seemingly affectionate family; and she every day lived in hope that, by her precepts and example, she should ultimately tear them from that "world they loved too well." Sweet and precious to their own souls are the illusions of the good; and the deceived East Indian was happy, because she did not understand the true nature of the Livingstones.

On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what she fancied they were, or might become, that she took very little notice of a shamefaced, awkward, retiring, silent girl, the only child of the dearest friend that her childhood and her youth had known,-and who had been purposely introduced to her only as Fanny Barnwell. For the Livingstones were too selfish, and too prudent, to let their rich friend know that this poor girl was the orphan of Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, therefore, the most important part of the truth, they only informed her that Fanny Barnwell was an orphan, who was glad to live amongst her friends, that she might make her small income sufficient for her wants; but they took care not to add that she was mistaken in supposing that Fanny Beaumont, whose long silence and subsequent death she had bitterly deplored, had died childless: but that she had married a second husband, by whom she had the poor orphan in question, and had lived many years in sorrow and obscurity, the result of this imprudent marriage;-resolving, however, in order to avoid accidents, that Fanny's visit should not be of long duration. In the meanwhile they confided in the security afforded them by what may be called their "passive lie of interest." But, in order to make "assurance doubly sure," they had also recourse to the "active lie of interest;" and, in order to frighten Fanny from ever daring to inform their visitor that she was the child of Fanny Beaumont, they assured her that that lady was so enraged against her poor mother, for having married her unworthy father, that no one dared to mention her name to her; as it never failed to draw from her the most violent abuse of her once dearest friend. "And you know, Fanny," they took care to add, "that you could not bear to hear your poor mother abused."-"No; that I could not, indeed," was the weeping girl's answer; and the Livingstones felt safe and satisfied. However, it still might not be amiss to make the old lady dislike Fanny, if they could; and they contrived to render the poor girl's virtue the means of doing her injury.

to enrich her with principles and piety. Above all, she had impressed her with the strictest regard for truth;-and the Livingstones artfully contrived to make her integrity the means of displeasing their East Indian friend.

This good old lady's chief failing was believing implicitly whatever was said in her commendation: not that she loved flattery, but that she liked to believe she had conciliated good-will; and that, being sincere herself, she never thought of distrusting the sincerity of others.

Nor was she at all vain of her once fine person, and finer face, or improperly fond of dress. Still, from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they liked; and, as they chose to make her wear fashionable and young-looking attire, in which they declared that she looked "so handsome! and so well!" she believed they were the best judges of what was proper for her, and always replied, "Well, dear friends, it is entirely a matter of indifference to me; so dress me as you please;" while the Livingstones, not believing that it was a matter of indifference, used to laugh, as soon as she was gone, at her obvious credulity.

But this ungenerous and treacherous conduct excited such strong indignation in the usually gentle Fanny, that she could not help expressing her sentiments concerning it: and by that means made them the more eager to betray her into offending their unsuspicious friend. They therefore asked Fanny, in her presence, one day, whether their dear guest did not dress most becomingly?

The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awkward contortions, now looking down, and then looking up;-unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the truth.-"Why do you not reply, Fanny?" said the artful questioner. "Is she not well dressed?"- Not in my opinion," faltered out the distressed girl. "And pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old lady, "what part of my dress do you disapprove?" After a pause, Fanny took courage to reply, “All of it, madam.". "Why? do you think it too young for me?"-"I do." "A plain-spoken young person that!" she observed in a tone of pique!

This young man was frequently at the house, and was as polite and attentive to the old lady, when she was present, as the rest of the family; but, like them, he was ever ready to indulge in a laugh at her credulous simplicity, and especially at her continually expressing her belief, as well as her hopes, that they were all beginning to think less of the present world, and more of the next; and as Lawrie, as well as the Livingstones, possessed no inconsiderable power of mimicry, they exercised them with great effect on the manner and tones of her whom they called the over-dressed saint, unrestrained, alas! by the consciousness that she was their present, and would, as they expected, be their future benefactress.

That confiding and unsuspecting being was meanwhile considering that, though her health was injured by a long residence in a warm climate, she might still live many years; and that, as Cecilia might not therefore possess the fortune which she had bequeathed to her till "youth and genial years were flown," it would be better to give it to her during her lifetime. "I will do so," she said to herself (tears rushing into her eyes as she thought of the happiness which she was going to impart), "and then the young people can marry directly!"

She took this resolution one day when the Livingstones believed that she had left her home on a visit. Consequently, having no expectation of seeing her for some time, they had taken advantage of her long vainly-expected absence to make some engagements which they knew she would have excessively disapproved. But though, as yet, they knew it not, the old lady had been forced to put off her visit; a circumstance which she did not at all regret, as it enabled her to go sooner on her benevolent errand.

The engagement of the Livingstones for that day was a rehearsal of a private play at their house, which they were afterwards, and during their saintly friend's absence, to perform at the house of a friend; and a large room called the library, in which there was a wide commodious screen, was selected as the scene of action.

Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and other theatricals as much as their old friend herself, was to have no part in the performance;

It was to be a dress rehearsal; and the parties were in the midst of adorning themselves, when, to their great consternation, they saw their supposed distant friend coming up the street, and evidently intending them a visit. What was to be done? To admit her was impossible. They therefore called up a new servant, who only came to them the day before, and who did not know the worldly consequence of their unwelcome guest; and Cecilia said to her, "You see that old lady yonder; when she knocks, be sure you say that we are not at home; and you had better add, that we shall not be home till bed-time;" thus adding the lie of CONVENIENCE to other deceptions. Accordingly, when she knocked at the door, the girl spoke as she was desired to do, or rather she improved upon it; for she said that her ladies had been out all day, and would not return till two o'clock in the morning.""Indeed! that is unfortunate;" said their disappointed visitor, stopping to deliberate whether she should not leave a note of agreeable surprise for Cecilia; but the girl, who held the door in her hand, seemed so impatient to get rid of her, that she resolved not to write, and then turned away.

The girl was really in haste to return to the kitchen; for she was gossiping with an old fellow-servant. She therefore neglected to go back to her anxious employers; but Cecilia ran down the back-stairs, to interrogate her, exclaiming, "Well; what did she say? I hope she did not suspect that we were at home." "No, to be sure not, miss;-how should she?

for I said even more than you told me to say," repeating her additions; being eager to prove her claim to the confidence of her new mistress. "But are you sure that she is really gone from the door?"-"To be sure, miss.""Still, I wish you could go and see; because we have not seen her pass the window, though we heard the door shut.' "Dear me, miss, how should you? for I looked out after her, and I saw her go down the street under the windows, and turn . that I saw her turn into a shop." But the truth was, that the girl, little aware of the importance of this unwelcome lady, and concluding she could not be a friend, but merely some troublesome nobody, showed her contempt and her anger at being detained so long, by throwing to the street-door with such violence, that it did not really close; and the old lady,

yes, I am sure