The few whose cup with worldly wealth ran o'er,

With liberal kindness shar'd it with the poor,

And gave to others trifles made to please, Received with honest joy, and worn with

ease.

Capricious fashion did not here preside,
And taste and fancy knew no foreign guide.
O simple worth, and manners void of art,
Still, still your dear remembrance warms
my heart!

Still, still I see your cordial smiles adorn The heart's blest festival, the new-year's morn!

Felicia, when I hail this day's return, I feel my heart with warmer kindness burn. 0, were my hand from chill restraint as free,

What precious gifts would I select for thee!
Not ornaments of price to deck a face
Where Nature's self has lavish'd every
grace,

Or bind a form in fashion's varying zone,
That simple elegance has mark'd her own.
Taught to admire by thy enchanting song,
How fain would I repair blind Fortune's
wrong;

For all thy modest wants at once provide,
Nor leave one ardent wish ungratified.
O'er me the Power her iron sway extends,
And shuts me up in wishes for my friends.
Though powers are limited, yet thought is
free,

Then what, Felicia, should I wish for thee?
Say, must this languid, tuneless lay alone
For all my heart would fain bestow, atone?
Yet ere too rashly fortune we accuse,
Say, what has nature given, and what the

Thy opening youth with wholesome nurture rear'd,

By sacred truth enlightened, blest, and cheer'd,

Through no blind maze of wild conjecture ran,

Nor sought the wisdom from above to scan,
Thy duties' humble path content to know,
For all beyond is vanity and woe;
Yet rich in all the book of knowledge
yields,

Thy tuneful lay has traced Hesperia's fields,
Of Italy the classic haunts explored,
And from a mind with ancient learning
stored,

Pour'd light on fallen Grecia's sad re

mains,

Her desolated shores and ruined fanes, And with the music of thy plaintive strain, Recalled their banished deities again; Again bade Phoebus pour the flood of day, And Cynthia shed again her silver ray; Yet not by fancy's dreams from love beguiled,

Unheeding whether fortune frowned or smiled,

Thy early vows were given with glad accord,

To him thy youthful bosom's chosen lord, To both were truth, and love, and merit given,

And for the rest they safely trusted heaven, And safely still may trust. Those lovely boys,

Solace of care, and source of purest joys,
A tenderer care, a happier lot shall know,
Than fortune on its favourites can bestow.
Their parents sheltered in retirement's shade,
Where folly's motley children ne'er invade,
Safe in their peaceful shades shall leisure
find,

To pour the fresh instruction on the mind,
To mould to virtue every infant breast,
And teach them that the good are still the
blest,

So shall in ripen'd years their grateful love, Like guardian spirits round their parents

played,

The feeble aims of vanity to aid?
How limited must admiration be,

Since none, alas, admire but those who see! Thrice blest Felicia from the world retir'd,

Yet in seclusion by the world admir'd,
Thou need'st no costly carriage to display,
Round thee no jewels shed a needless ray,
Enough, that every pure and virtuous
mind,

Enrich'd by culture, or by taste refin'd,
A warm unenvying tribute pays to thee,
Exulting in thy growing fame like me.
Thy sex are proud of sister excellence,
Even lettered men ungrudging praise dis-

MODERN DECAMERON.
No. IV.

OUR two friends have been laid up with bad colds since their late nocturnal adventure, and we do not know when we shall again set eyes on them. They are wheazing old men, and we cannot expect to see much of them in this cold wet weather. But although we have not got them to rummage through our papers, or to enlighten us with their ingenious remarks upon them, we think it a duty to inspect our repositories ourselves, and to draw from

their dread abode" the stores of genius, which, for any thing we know to the contrary, they may contain. There are, there, we are well aware, many embryo poets supplicating to get into the light of day, and our heart really cannot any longer resist the pitiful voices, "Infantum animae flentes in limine primo," which burst upon us from so many dusty corners, whenever we open any of our drawers. To attempt to inspect these senile or juvenile performances with any thing of a critical eye, is quite out of the question; but we shall give our readers a pretty large specimen of them. They may take them

A misprint probably for Embro', the Scotch pronunciation of the name of our modern Athens. By the way, what has become of the Parthenon and its eloquent advocate?-SCRIBL.

disposed to say "something too much of this," we promise them that we shall abstain from cleansing our Augean stable till the return at least of another year. In the mean time, we request our poetical friends not to inundate us with Helicon or Loch Katrine, till towards the end of next December, for we positively shall not publish any of those innumerable pieces of poesy which we are in the habit of stuffing into our den without ever reading them, if they come to torment us before our time. At present, we shall show ourselves very impartial, for we shall draw out from the mass whatever comes uppermost, and if, as in a lottery, there are more blanks than prizes, apparent, rari nantes in gurgite vasto,"our readers must e'en take what they find. In consequence of the mention of Loch Katrine, we shall merely give the precedence to two little effusions connected with that classical and poetic scene. We do not expect, indeed, that they will outlive the Lady of the Lake, but certainly they are specimens of very uncommon poetry:-the first, on the model of the never-enough-tobe-admired Sternhold and Hopkins,

the second, in the more modish strain of the imitators of Burns, who are ever catching something of his language and melody, but very little either of his sense or sentiment. TO A LADY, WITH THE MUSIC OF THE

LADY OF THE LAKE.

THE bright touch of genius
Can hallow a spot,
And lend it a beauty

That lives but in thought.
The wild or the desert

Around it will bloom;
Its blossoms are lovely,

Though decking the tomb.
How rich then the splendour
Encircles the scene,
Where Genius and Nature
Together have been
In heart-felt communing;
Together have given
The rapt wondering gazer

A foretaste of heaven.-
Such lately I looked on,

'Tis near to thy home,
Ah! oft to its precincts
My spirit will roam!
"Twas the temple of Nature,
Its worshipper 1;
Its altar the mountain,
Its roof the blue sky.

Beneath the Pine Banner,"

Led on the foray ;

All, I oft made to echo
Again with the strain,
An Alice" or "Norman,"
First woke on the plain.

66

These lays" of the " Minstrel," Where'er they are sung,

Are touching and lovely;

But O! when among
The straths, glens, and mountains,
That prompted each thought,
They are trilled,-with new beauty
And power they seem fraught.
By these scenes is thy home,
And the place of thy birth,
(A spot of more beauty

Blooms not upon earth!)
Then take from the stranger
Who sojourned a while
'Mong the warm-hearted plenty
And mirth of Auchyle,
This token of friendship;
When he's far away,
It perhaps may remind you
Of one happy day.

Once more at thy bidding,

The Trosach's dark glen

Will be cheered with the "boat-song" Of Roderick's men ;

And placid Loch Katrine

Shall echo the flow

Of Roderick Vich Alpine
Dhu, Ho iero !"

Glasgow, Sept. 1820.

T. A.

Now follows Helen Dhu--But here we must break off, as we know our readers will have much more delight in reading the following account, which has this moment come to hand, of Barry Cornwall's new tragedy, Mirandola, just performed with infinite applause at Covent Garden,-with a quotation or two, extracted from the Literary Gazette.

MIRANDOLA.

"THE story of Mirandola is exceedingly simple: the incidents are

Coir nan uriskin; or the Goblin's

Cave on Benvenue.

VOL. VIII.

very few, and those on which the catastrophe hinges are even commonplace; yet such is the skill with which the whole is wrought, so fine is the taste of the texture, and so many are the gems of poesy with which the web is studded, that every thing but admiration is forgotten as it is unfolded to the view. It has no pomp of style, no majesty-but the majesty of nature; it has no ornaments, no laboured graces-but the brief sweet breathings of a poetic mind; it has no affecting wonder, no road to the heart-but the deep pathos of truth, under circumstancess of human affliction, and the pourings out of souls wounded by disappointment, stung by treachery, blighted by ingratitude, infuriated by jealousy, and maddened by despair. And this is genuine inspiration: these are the real glories of verse, which would force us to overlook as nothing a hundred-fold greater blemishes than any that can be detected in Mirandola. But to the proof.

"Mirandola is a chaster Parisina. The Duke, under the supposition of his son Guido's death, and unknowing of their original loves, weds Isidora, the sworn bride of Guido. The letters between the parties have been intercepted and suppressed by Isabella, the Duke's sister, (whose ambition seeks the throne for her son,) and her agent Gheraldi, a monk, whom she has seduced by the promise of a Cardinal's hat. Guido returns to Mirandola-is informed of his hopes-and yet, as far as a broken heart can be reconciled, is reconciled to his father and to Isidora. But the plotters of evil take care to fill the breast of Mirandola with jealousy, against which his nobler sentiments strive to shield him in vain. The sight on his hand of a ringpledge of his love, obtained from his Duchess and conveyed to Guido as a token of her friendship, fills him with the bitterest suspicions; to allay which Guido resolves to abandon Mirandola for ever.

He declares he will not see Isidora again, and after a fine scene, his father bids him farewell. Unhappily, however, Isidora, through their mutual friend Casti, implores an interview, to procure the restoration of the ring; to which Guido assents. Meanwhile Casti discovers the treachery of Isabella and Għeraldi, from the dropping of some papers by the latter in his cell, and rushes forth to expose the traitors to the Duke.

I

He is too late. In the interim Mirandola has been guided to the final interview of the lovers in the garden; and thus convinced of his falsehood, dooms his son to instant death. He is led out to execution; Casti comes, and shows the villany of Isabella; the crisis arrives, and the agonized parent, imploring in mercy that his cruel or ders may be prevented, hears the sound of the musquetry which seals the fate of his only child, and his own desolation. Nature struggles through a few throes, and he expires.

"The first scene, in which the Duke and his young wife appear, exquisitely opens out his impetuous and suspicious, though generous character; and the boundless joy of its close prepares us for the coming of sorrow and Guido. Mirandola thus speaks:

Guido. Thou thou knew'st all-my love. Thou busy priest→→→

Gher. My lord.

Guido. Thou pander to my father's wish, (He is no father-I disown him.) Thou Thou busy meddling monk.

Gher. My lord, my lord, This is not well!

Guido. Away! my mother? Oh! my
mother was

As pure as purity. I will not talk
Of her who is yet oh! what pity 'tis
That one so fair should now be full of blots,
And that a face which love had breathed
upon

Should now be scarred all over.

"The first interview between Guido and Isidora is of a similarly affecting character, and we cannot resist an example from it.

GUIDO enters.

Guido. (after a pause.) Madam, I come to pay

My duty to you.

Isid. Welcome; you are welcome. Guido. I come to sec how well her bridal dress

Becomes the Duchess of Mirandola.
Isid. You have been well, I hope?
Guido. Since when?
Isid. Since you-
You and I parted.

Guido. That's a long time, now,

I have forgot: how is't that you remember?

Isid. I-I-Oh! pity me! Guido. Weep, lady, weep. Tears (yet they're bitter) purify the soul, But yours is fair!-1 know they case the

heart.

Guido. Listen to me, then. When you were young

You are young still, and fair-the more's the pity:

But in the time I speak of, you were just Bursting from childhood-with a face as fair

As tho' you had look'd in Paradise, and caught

Its early beauty: then, your smile was soft,

As Innocence before it learns to love.
And yet a woman's passion dwelt within
Your heart, as warm as Love.—But I am
wrong?

Isid. Oh! no. I loved
Guido. Indeed!
Isid. Indeed, indeed!

Guido. Well! There was one who loved

you too. He said

That every hope he had rested on you.
He worshipped you, as Idols are adored
In countries near the sun. He gave his
heart

So absolutely up, that had he thought Then, that you would desert him, he'd have slain

Himself before you. You were his home, his heaven,

His wealth, his light, his mind, and life substantial,

But then he went away to the fierce wars, (His honour was pledged for it,) and he left You, with an oath upon your soul, behind.