Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine

Oh! such an eve is sorrow's balm,
Yon lake the poet's Hippocrene :
And who would ruffle such a calm,
Or cast a cloud o'er such a scene!
'Tis done!-and nature weeps thereat,
Thou boisterous progeny of Watt!

Wast thou a grampus, nay, a whale,
Or ork one sees in Ariosto:
Went'st thou by rudder, oar, or sail,
Still would'st thou not so outrage gusto!
But when did gusto ever dream
Of seeing ships propelled by steam?

Now blazing like a dozen comets,
And rushing as if nought could bind thee,
The while thy strange internal vomits
A sooty train of smoke behind thee;
Tearing along the azure vast,
With a great chimney for a mast!

Satan, when scheming to betray us,
He left of old his dark dominions,
And wing'd his murky way through Chaos,
And waved o'er Paradise his pinions;
Whilst Death and Sin came at his back,
Would leave, methinks, just such a track.

Was there no quirk,--one can't tell how,

No stiff-necked flaw-no quiddit latent,
Thou worst of all sea-monsters thou!
That might have undermined thy pa
tent,

Or kept it in the inventor's desk-
Fell bane of all that's picturesque ?

Should Neptune in his turn invade thee,
And at a pinch old Vulcan fail thee,
The sooty mechanist who made thee
May hold it duty to bewail thee :-
But I shall bring a garland votive,
Thou execrable locomotive!

He must be long-tongued, with a witness,

Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion, It sorts with universal fitness

To make yon clear, pellucid ocean,
That holds not one polluted drop,
Bear on its breast a blacksmith's shop.

Philosophers may talk of science,
And mechanicians of utility;
In such I have but faint reliance:
To admire thee passeth my ability;

My taste is left at double distance,
At the first sea-quake of thy pistons.

It may be orthodox and wise,
And catholic, and transcendental,
To the useful still to sacrifice,
Without a sigh, the ornamental;
But be it granted me, at least,
That I may never be the priest!

Magazines, newspapers, reviews, have teemed, do teem, and will teem, with extracts from Mr Watts's Literary Souvenir. We have given these two poems, both for their own great merit, and because we have nowhere seen them quoted. We should suppose there are not fewer than eighty articles in the volume, in prose and verse-not many of them below mediocrity-most of them extremely good, and a few of first-rate excellence. The volume is indeed everything that it ought to be in composition and in embellishment.*

The "Amulet, or Christian and Literary Remembrancer," is of a somewhat different character from the others, hav ing more of a religious spirit. The editor explains his views very judiciously in a well-written preface:

"It has appeared to the publishers of the present volume, that a work which should blend religious instruction with literary amusement was still a desideratum; -for the influence of Religion is always most powerful when she is made to delight those whom it is her office to teach; and many, who would perhaps shun her in the severer garb in which she sometimes appears, may be won to her side by the attractions of a more tasteful attire. The work, however, is to be considered as a religious publication only so far as that every article tends to impress some moral lesson. It depends for its success equally on its literary merits. The nature of the contributions, and the excellence of the embellishments, will sufficiently prove that no expense has been spared to render the volume worthy of the advanced state of literature and the arts.

"It will be at once perceived, that individuals of various religious denominations are among the contributors. This

But who wrote the story to accompany Newton's Lovers' Quarrel? The Monthly Review is mad, or rather idiotic upon it-lauding it to the skies as if it were absolutely a Tale written by some Great Unknown. Now we pledge our critical character on the truth of the following sentence :-" It is a piece of vile cockney slang, sufficient to turn the stomach of a horse."-C. N.

will be accepted as a pledge, that all entrance on the debateable ground of theology has been carefully avoided. Nothing, it is believed, will occur, either to disturb the opinions, or to shock the prejudices of any Christian: the editor, therefore, indulges a sanguine hope that the volume will prove generally acceptable."

It is long since we have read anything more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans. The engraving by Charles Heath, from a drawing of Westall's, (a beautiful work of art,) and the poem, delightfully illustrate each other :

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So pass'd they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd,
The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold.-But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,
Turn'd from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song-“ Alas!" she cried,

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted!
Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

And thou,-will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child?—will He not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will HE not guard try rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child!

Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me,
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime :

THE TRUMPET.

The Trumpet's voice hath roused the land,

Light up the beacon-pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire!
A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast,
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past!

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!

The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye;—
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crown'd,

The lover quits his bride!

And all this haste, and change, and fear,

By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

We do not remember to have seen before the name of the writer of the verses, entitled "Emblems." They are written with much feeling, and may be said to be even beautiful :

And shall these pass away, and be

A wreck of what they were,Shall birds, and flowers, and earth, and sea,

And yon proud ship, and boy so fair, Be blasted with the tempest's rage, Or worn with poverty and age, Till all of life and hope shall seem A heart-deceiving, feverish dream !

Yes!-and 'tis but few years we need,

With retrospective eye,
In their repeated tale to read

Our own home's history:
We know their end-to us, to all-
They are but blossoms, and they fall;
But yet young life, the sun, the flowers
Are sweet as they were always ours:

For they are emblems to the heart

Of things it cannot see,— Emblems which have their counterpart In heaven's eternity;

And though their day be short, or done With our lost hours and setting sun, They are, within their moment's flight, What there shall be for ever bright!

Some of the prose tales are very interesting, especially the Vicar's Maid, by Miss Mitford, Infatuation, by Mrs Hofland, and the Sailor's Widow, by

L. A. H. This last tale seems to be written by no very practised hand, and the parts are not well proportioned; but there are some touches in it of simple and homely pathos, that go to the heart. The embellishments are in general excellent. Next to the Hebrew Mother, of which we have spoken, the Dying Babe is, in our opinion, the best. Nothing can be more affecting. On the whole, the Amulet is a very pretty, and a very agreeable, and a very instructive little volume. It contains, besides poetry and tales, some serious essays of merit; and indeed its prevailing character may be said to be sweet solemnity, that unostentatiously distinguishes it from all similar publications.

The "Forget me Not" is little, if at all, inferior in what may be called personal charms to the fairest of its rivals. It is indeed most beautifully got up. Contemplation, the Bridge of Sighs, the Child's Dream, and the Cottage Door, are all exquisite. Many of the compositions in prose and verse are excellent-witness the following exquisite lines, by the Rev. G. Croly:

THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS.

Oh thou Atlantic, dark and deep,
Thou wilderness of waves,
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep
In their uncrowded graves!

The sunbeams on thy bosom wake,

Yet never light thy gloom; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb!

Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear,
Thy secrets who hath told ?-
The warrior and his sword are there,
The merchant and his gold.

There lies their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm; And he, the feaster on them all, The canker-worm.

Yet on this wave the mountain's brow
Once glow'd in morning beam;
And, like an arrow from the bow,
Out sprang the stream:

And on its bank the olive grove,
And the peach's luxury,
And the damask rose-the nightbird's
love-
Perfumed the sky.

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted!
Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child ?—will HE not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me,
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime :

THE TRUMPET.

The Trumpet's voice hath roused the land,

Light up the beacon-pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire!

A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast,
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past!

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!

The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye;-
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crown'd,
The lover quits his bride!

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

We do not remember to have seen before the name of the writer of the verses, entitled "Emblems." They are written with much feeling, and may be said to be even beautiful:

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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Bind 19