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ORIGINAL POETRY.

A LAST ADIEU.

ADIEU, my loved parent, the trial is o'er, The veil o'er thy couch of forgetfulness spread;

Thy kind heart shall grieve for my follies

no more,

Nor the suppliant tear for thy wanderer be shed.

Long over thy head has the tempest blown fell,

But riches, unknown, were unvalued by thee; In the wild wast thou born, in the wild didst thou dwell,

The pupil of Nature, benevolent and free: And never, in all her uncultured domain, Was nourished a spirit more genial and kind; Chill poverty could not thy ardour restrain, Nor cloud thy gay smile, or the glow of thy mind.

When winter-wreaths lay round our cottage so small,

When fancy was ardent, and feeling was strong,

O how I would long for the gloaming to fall, To sit by thy knee and attend to thy song! The song of the field where the warrior bled; The garland of blossom dishonoured too

soon;

The elves of the green-wood, the ghosts of the dead,

And fairies that journeyed by light of the

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And there, from the rue and the rose's perfume,

His dew-web of dawn shall the gossamer won; And there shall the daisy and violet bloom, And I'll water them all with the tears of a

son.

Adieu, my loved parent! the trial is past Again thy loved bosom my dwelling may be; And long as the name of thy darling shall last,

All due be the song and the honour to thee! H.

THE PAST.

How wild and dim this Life appears!
One long, deep, heavy sigh!
When o'er our eyes, half-clos'd in tears,
The images of former years
Are faintly glimmering by!
And still forgotten while they go,
Dissolves at once in snow.
As on the sea-beach wave on wave
Upon the blue and silent sky
The amber clouds one moment lie,
Though beautiful the moon-beams play
And like a dream are gone!
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away
We scarce believe it shone !
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell,
And we wish they ne'er may fade
They cease! and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never played.
Dream follows dream through the long
night-hours,

Each lovelier than the last

But ere the breath of morning-flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past.
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Whose smiles of love and kindness speak,
Glides by us on this earth-
While in a day we cannot tell
Where shone the face we loved so well
In sadness or in mirth.

THE MOSSY SEAT.

THE landscape hath not lost its look ;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;
Nor hath the gloominess forsook
These granite crags that frown for ever,
Still hangs around the shadowy wood,
Whose sounds but murmur solitude:
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining,
In mingled echoes steal along :
The setting sun is brightly shining;
And clouds above, and hills below,
Are brightening with his golden glow.

N.

It is not meet-it is not fitThough Fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, While on the very stone I sit Where first we met, and last we parted, Y

That absent from my mind should be
The thought that loves and looks to thee!
Each happy hour that we have proved,
While love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our progress tended-
Still brings my mind a soft relief,
And bids it love the joys of grief!

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest, and now is broken!
I cannot-Oh! hast thou forgot
Our early loves this hallowed spot!
I almost think I see thee stand;
I almost dream I hear thee speaking;
I feel the pressure of thy hand;
Thy living glance in fondness seeking-
Here all apart-by all unseen-
Thy form upon my arm to lean!

Tho' beauty bless the landscape still, Tho' woods surround, and waters lave it, My heart feels not the vivid thrill, Which long ago thy presence gave it ; Mirth, music, friendship, have no tone Like that, which with thy voice hath flown! And Memory only now remains, To whisper things that once delighted: Still-still I love to tread these plains, To seek this sacred haunt benighted, And feel a something, sadly sweet, In resting on this mossy seat.

1.

POUR thy tears wild and free,
Balm best and holiest ;
Fallen is the lofty tree,
Low as the lowliest !
Rent is the eaglet's plume,
Towering victorious;
Read on the hero's tomb

The end of the glorious.
2.

Lean on that shivered spear,
It threatens no longer;
Snapt like its high compeer,
The willow is stronger.
See on its dinted edge

The last day-beam flashes,
If thine be the soul to stand
And number its gashes.
3.
Press not that hallowed mould,
In darkness enshrouded,
Ashes, yet scarcely cold,

Beneath it are crowded : Thy feet o'er some noble heart May stumble unheeding; O'er thy familiar friend

Perchance may be treading. 4.

Oh! ye were scattered fast, Sons of the morning! Triumph, but seen and past, Your proud brows adorning, After such mortal toil

To slumber so soundly, Can aught to the heart of man Speak so profoundly?

June, 1815.

B.

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-The blent, but soon selected, call
Of man, who loves and blesses all,
With kingly accent, sweet though high,
Completes the full-toned harmony.

Its thorns are in my breast-yet still I love this Earth with all its ill! Though lone and heartless in the strife, I dread the long fatigue of lifeAnd none to whom 'twere sweet to say, "These heavens how bright! this earth how gay!"

With meeting soul and kindred mood
Endear the charms of solitude
Though every hour has on its wing
A sadder tear, a sharper sting-
And balm and blessing were in vain-
This friendless heart was formed for pain.

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And, O!-though cold and silent now, He feels that land still strong to bow

The pilgrim's heart with reverential dread!

2.

But where are they-the Men of yore-
Whose deeds of fame that may not die,
Bade rise upon their native shore
The home of holy Liberty?.
O! rouse Ye at my voice of pain!

O! rise and look on Græcia now!
Reft of the gifts Ye gave-in vain,

The servile neck behold her bow, And hug, with trembling hand, the chain The Tartar binds around her brow!. 3.

Oh! bowed to earth-and crushed-and lone

Greece to my pensive eye appears

A widow desolate, with quenchless tears Weeping her gods and all her heroes gone Alas! o'er all this lovely clime

In heart and soul by slavery wrung,
The dastard sons of sires sublime
Scarce know the land whereon they
sprung;

And feel of all its glories gone,
Or weak regret or memory none !

4.

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But, ho!-the tomb's dark thraldom breaking,

At length, Immortal Slumberers, waking, Arise-arise! whose mighty story

Shall live while nature's self endures!O come arrayed in all your glory,

And Greece may live and yet be yours! And, hark! the slave hath burst his chain, And Triumph's raptures shares again! New-born, he feels a Spartan's soul sublime, And thrusts the Tartar from his sacred clime! 6.

But ah! in vain the voice of grief
Is raised where all is desolate !
No answering sound affords relief

To hearts that wail the wrongs of fate;
Death broods o'er these abandoned plains,
And horror's frozen silence reigns!
Alas! the dream that soothed his soul
Too fleetly fled the minstrel mourns ;-
Alas! when past th' infernal gaol

No demigod to earth returns! And hark! while here my voice of woe Is raised around their dwellings lowRepeating many a hero's name With Sparta's linked-or Athen's fame,-A turbaned Turk with sacrilegious blow Lays the last column of Minerva low !

J. F.

REVIEW OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Private Memoirs, which, with the Work of M. Hue, and the Journal of Clery, complete the History of the Captivity of the Royal Family of France in the Temple. Translated from the French, with Notes by the Translator; 12mo, pp. 138. London, Murray; Edinburgh, Blackwood.

THERE is something interesting even in the title of this little publication. Sovereigns and princes are so far removed from the observation of the rest of mankind, that public curiosity has always been directed with peculiar eagerness to their private history. We feel a very natural desire to "enter within the vail," which ceremony in terposes between them and their subjects; to see them lay aside the overpowering lustre, which prevented our near approach and our steady gaze; and to observe how far they, who never ap peared to our imaginations but in the full meridian of felicity and of power, approach in their retirement the level of humanity, and are influenced by the common motives and feelings of men. The memoirs of princes, therefore, are always read with avidity, even though there be nothing very extraordinary in their details. We contemplate with interest any portrait, which exhibits the minds of such exalted personages without the disguise of court costume: we have a secret pride in comparing them with ourselves; and in observing how completely their superiority vanishes, when they are viewed apart from those external advantages, which threw around them an adventitious glare.

The abatement of admiration, however, which such memoirs generally produce, is amply compensated by the better feelings which they excite.We enter with full sympathy into the joys and sorrows to which we see royal hearts equally accessible with our own. The familiarity into which we seem admitted with them is repaid with a proportionate degree of amity.-Their faults, estimated by their temptations, are scanned with a very indulgent eye; and their virtues derive additional lus tre, not only from the extent of their

influence, but from the difficulty of maintaining them amidst the innumerable facilities afforded to vice, by.. the obsequiousness and flattery of servile dependents. Their happiness appears so far above all ordinary competition, that we view it without envy; and over their miseries, perpetually contrasted in our minds with the brighter aspect of their lot, we shed a tear of unmingled compassion.

Never have the best of these feelings been more powerfully awakened in our own breasts, than by the perusal of this journal. Nothing, indeed, can be conceived more interesting than the circumstances in which it has appeared. It is continued to the day of the dauphin's death, and of course contains much information which Clery and Hue, in their journals, could not give. It is composed from notes, either made by stealth at the mo ment, with pencils which the princess had found means to conceal from her persecutors, or added immediately after her release from prison, and has therefore an air of simplicity and nature, which the feeling of the moment alone could impress. It was written without any view to publication, and therefore represents, without disguise or concealment, the miseries and the conduct of the ill-fated captives. It is written by the Orphan of the Temple, whose restoration to her former dignity af fords some compensation for her protracted sufferings; and who, by her virtues and her heroism, has com manded the admiration of the world, and proved how much she had profited in the school of affliction. This interesting little work is not accompanied by any name, but it is avowed at Paris; and it is impossible to read one page of it, without being convinced that it is the genuine production of the illustrious personage to whom it is ascribed.

The narrative commences from the 13th of August 1792, when the king and his family were committed to the Temple. They were accompanied to this melancholy abode by the Princess de Lamballe, of the house of Savoy, widow of Louis de Bourbon, Prince of

Lamballe. Her attachment to the queen was enthusiastic. The preparations for the journey to Montmedy separated them for a time; and Madame de Lamballe sought refuge in England; but when she heard of the queen's recapture, no earnestness of entreaty, or fear of danger, could prevent her from rejoining her royal friend, whom she accompanied and cheered during her dreadful trials, with unequalled magnanimity and affection. The unfortunate queen was not long permitted to enjoy the soothing conversation of this generous companion. The tyrannical mandate of the Commune de Paris forced Madame de Lamballe from the Temple, to expiate the crime of her devoted attach ment to the royal sufferer, by a death attended with circumstances of atroci ty, "unparalleled even in the annals of France.' This barbarous event was communicated to the unhappy family in the Temple, in a manner which strongly marked the brutality of the Revolutionists. "At three o'clock, (3d of September) just after dinner, as the king was sitting down to trictrac with the queen, (which he played for the purpose of having an opportunity of saying a few words to her unheard by the keepers,) the most horrid shouts were heard. Several officers of the guard and of the municipality now arrived the former insisted that the king should shew himself at the windows; fortunately the latter opposed it; but, on his majesty's asking what was the matter, a young officer of the guard replied: "Well, since you will know, it is the head of Madame de Lamballe that they wish to show you." At these words the queen was overcome with horror;-it was the only occasion in which her firmness abandoned her. The noise lasted till five o'clock. The prisoners learned that the people had wished to force the door, and that the municipal officers had been enabled to prevent it only by putting across it a tricoloured scarf, and by allowing six of the murderers to march round the tower with the head of the princess, leaving at the door her body, which they would have dragged in also. When this deputation entered, Rocher (the gaoler) shouted for joy, and brutally insulted a young woman, who turned sick with horror at this spectacle. This Rocher was (to adopt again the emphatic words of the

journal) "the horrible man who had broken open the door of the king on the 20th of June 1792, and who had been near assassinating him. This man never left the tower, and was indefatigable in endeavouring to torment him. One time he would sing before the whole family the Carmagnole, and a thousand other horrors; again, knowing that the queen disliked the smoke of tobacco, he would puff it in her face, as well as in that of the king, as they happened to pass him." Such were the indignities to which they were daily exposed: but the horror of the picture is relieved by the devoted affection of this amiable family for each other, which seemed to beguile them of the sense of their individual misery-to console them for all they had lost-to support them under all they had to suffer, and to fortify them against all they had to fear. The health and education of the dauphin was their principal care. For the sake of his health, they went every day to walk in the garden, though Louis never failed to be insulted by the guards. The king taught him geography; the queen, history, and to get verses by heart; and Madame Elizabeth gave him little lessons in Arithmetic. But of the hope which mingled with these soothing employments they were soon to be deprived. On the 22d of September the republic was proclaimed; and one evening in the beginning of October, the king, after he had supped, was told to stop; that he was not to return to his former apartments; and that he was to be separated from his family. At this dreadful sentence the queen lost her usual courage; and the officers were so much alarmed by her silent and concentrated sorrow, that they allowed her and the other princesses to see the king, but at meal times only, and on condition that they should speak loud, and in good French. At length, on the 11th of December, the king was summoned to the bar of the Convention. The anxiety of his family during his absence may be easily conceived. The queen, to discover what was going on, condescended for the first time to question the officers who guarded her-but they would tell her nothing. On his return in the evening, she requested to see him instantly, but received no answer. Next day she repeated her request to see the king, and to read the newspapers, that

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