There is also an agreeable blending of subjects in his work that makes it one of the most interesting productions of modern times, although we would not be thought to follow him in all his conclusions. It has, it is true, a great freedom of remark, but no licentiousness of purpose. His aim was honest and his course manly. George the IVth, from his pen, rises in consequence and dignity, with all the errors of his youth on his head. The thousand anecdotes of his profligacy in early days are "nothing extenuated, nor aught set down in malice," but told in honest truth, and his redeeming qualities are placed side by side with his faults. In this work the great machinery of English society is exhibited and explained with a fearlessness that does honor to the head and heart of the historian. His mo

narch is now his subject, and he treats him in a princely manner. It is the pride of the literary man that all ages and all classes of men, come at his wish, and are dismissed at his bidding. And who can question his authority?

It is difficult to speak of Moore without saying too little of his beauties or his faults. No man was ever more felicitous than he in his peculiar style of writing. He attacked the heart through the medium of the senses, and if his spells were not lasting, they were all powerful while they existed. His muse came not from Pindus braced with mountain air, but all redolent from the paradise of Mahomet, full of joy and enchantment, bordering upon intoxication. The young read his productions with avidity, and the old wondered at his power over words. His sweets never cloy, nor can it be said that he is ever vulgar, however sensual. His are Apician dainties, and therefore more dangerous. It

must be confessed that in his late poetical works he has atoned for the looseness of his earlier writings. It is to be regretted that he should ever have written the lives of Sheridan and Byron. These works can do no good. The exposure of the follies of these extraordinary men neither deter the rising generation from vice nor enlighten the minds of those who are out of danger from such examples. This high authority will induce many to drag into public view the faults of less distinguished persons, and the grave which formerly hid the sins of ordinary men may do so no longer. To say nothing of the dead, but what is good is too narrow a rule, but all the truth should not be spoken of every one, unless its publication can benefit the community. These liberties of the press destroy the respect with which the exalted in mind or station were formerly regarded. The follies and vices of these superior beings bring them down to the level of vulgar minds. One of the greatest ties of the social compact was the gravity and dignity that were attached to knowledge and experience. The philosophers proclaimed liberty and equality in France, in 1789, but the true spirit of it not being understood by the lower orders they caught the hatred to tyranny, and with the oppressors, swept away the philosophers also.

But to return to the poetry of Moore. He is now in his prime, and may woo the muse for many a sunny day, and more entirely redeem his early aberrations. But we beg of him to give no more lives in this style. If he would take up some holy man whose days had abounded in incident, and throw around him the rays of his poetical genius, he would make a work that would long and widely benefit mankind, but we have enough

of travels and bagnios of Circes and of Cyprians. The mind, after a while, even of those who had a strong appetite at first, turns with loathing from these offensive details, which in the life of Byron seem to occur as constantly as the seasons, and it makes no difference whether it be said by the living, or written by his departed subject. Fiction, however monstrous, is better than such truths, for there is always a lurking remembrance in the mind that it is fiction, and poor human nature is saved from the effect which might be produced if it had been treading over realities.

Moore has genius of a high order, and it is devoted to the public. Let him recollect his responsibility to that public, and take such subjects as will enlighten many, amuse all, and be constantly doing good.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

AIR-MAID OF THE VALLEY.

Go where glory waits thee;
But, while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee
Sweeter far may be ;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me.

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! then remember me.

Oft, as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its ling'ring roses,

Once so loved by thee:
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them;
Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee, dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let mem'ry bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee;
Oh! then remember me.

William L. Bowles holds a respectable rank in the republic of letters, but is now probably more known for his controversy with Campbell and Byron respecting the merits of Pope, than for any other production.

He is now an old man and probably will not make his appearance again as a poet or a controversialist.

TO TIME.

O Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay,
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away:
On thee I rest my only hopes at last:

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile.

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,
Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure.

The Rev. Henry Milman is one of the finest poets of England, whether you consider the genius, the taste, or the purity of the man. He has been, and probably now is professor of poetry at Oxford. In his college days he took all the prizes for poetry, or more of them than any other person in his way. He has written since he has been in the church with great power and elegance. Milman is in the prime of manhood, a sound believer, a good moralist, a splendid prose writer, and yields to no one in his wishes to do good. It is to be hoped that his productions will soon become as fashionable as those of Byron and Moore.