བ་ THE LION'S HEAD Is quite overwhelmed by the liberal offers of Sophronia. Her Sonnet on the Iron Bridge is too like Wordsworth's in the subject. The Moral Essays, in the manner of Pope, are too chaste in style for the readers of this age. The Nativity is not a good subject for a Tale; and an Essay on Platonic Love would not be fairly treated by her. The Echo we fear will not answer. H.'s Captivity is in some parts pathetic; but in others he has allowed himself to be tempted into a strain that accords but ill with its melancholy : Ah me, it is the worst of wretched things, When men are pinioned and have got no wings; And gaze with envy on a freestone wall. Night brought me hither and reliev'd my pains Alien is foreign to his subject. We think prose a good vehicle for Telemaque, and should be sorry to see him reduced to feet even of the Heroic measure. Senex-is he 81 in the shade? appears to have suffered by the dry weather. Perhaps his aftercrop will be better. H. is completely mistaken in his theory-but if he will call on Mr. Thorn➡ ton, No. 59, Great Street, (he knows where) the author of the article will give him a satisfactory answer. "It is pleasant to be immortal," says a Correspondent signed S., "if it is only for a season." Marry, here is a fellow that discounts Eternity! Anacreon, in his foolish Greek manner, entreated one of the Royal Academy of Antiquity (some Sir Thomas Lawrence of Teos) to paint his Mistress, and though he desired effects which were sufficient to poze the acutest brush, he still did not (to use Mr. Egan's fanciful phraseology) "render the features perfectly unintelligible." A Chelsea Anacreon submits the following directions to the R. A.'s of this age. Whether they are capable of execution we leave to the painters to determine-but the lines have an originality about them which seems to hold out its own protection. We should like to see Mr. Shee or Mr. Phillips working to this pattern. COME, take thy pencil-paint my love, A heartsease smile behind each tear, &c. &c. Of sunbeams trembling on the ocean; Lay her white fingers on a harp Of gold the pow'r of gloom to warp, And if thou cans't, in its eburn nest Paint, paint the heart beneath her breast; Nor snap one of its thousand strings; Sweet tale of love, &c. &c. &c. The following are (to use a tender word) rejected :-The Exile's Lament; Fanny Faddle; Sonnet on a Cluster of Snowdrops; Lines written on a height overlooking Spithead; The First Kiss; G.- Sonnet on the Death of Buonaparte; Pensive on the Doctor's Pantaloons; Aliquis; A. S. M. Answers for others are left at our Publishers'. THE London Magazine. N° XXXI. JULY, 1822. VOL. VI. VOL. VI. WANDERINGS IN JUNE. THE season now is all delight, Grey evening with her silver moon,- While waking doves betake to flight While Nature's locks are wet with night, How sweet to wander now! Fast fade the vapours cool and grey; The red sun waxes strong, And streaks on labour's early way Serenely sweet the Morning comes And calmly breaks the wakening hums What rapture swells with every sound What healthful feelings breathe around! Each tree and flower, in every hue B How strange a scene has come to pass The artless daisies' smiling face And clover heads, with ruddy bloom, Ere Autumn's fading mornings come Life's every beauty fades away, That Death's eclipsing hand denies The open flower, the loaded bough, Reflection, with thy mortal shrouds To think of summers yet to come, That I am not to see! To think a weed is yet to bloom The misty clouds of purple hue And ruddy streaks, which morning drew, The sun has call'd the bees abroad, Wet with the early hour, By toiling for the honey'd load Ere dews forsake the flower. O'er yonder hill, a dusty rout Less pleasing is the public way, And sweet are woods shut out from day, The woodbines, fresh with morning hours, The ivy spreading darksome bowers, Left there, as when a boy, to lie Their silence answers me. While pride desires tumultuous joys, ' The shady wilds, the summer dreams, The whispering voice of woods and streams How sweet the fanning breeze is felt, From distant sheep and cows! The rapture reigning there. To me how sweet the whispering winds, Such silence oft be mine to meet Peace visits us in every calm, Health breathes in every wind. Now cool, the wood my wanderings shrouds, 'Neath arbours Nature weaves, Shut up from viewing fields and clouds, And buried deep in leaves; The sounds without amuse me still, Mixt with the sounds within,— The scythe with sharpening tinkles shrill, The cuckoo's soothing din. The eye, no longer left to range, Is pent in narrowest bound, Yet Nature's works, unnamed and strange, My every step surround; Things small as dust, of every dye, That scarce the sight perceives, Some clad with wings fly droning by, |