586 The Pocket Books. [DEC. 



" Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, 



Or the wolf to batten o'er thee ; 

 Or the coward insult the gallant dead, 



Who in life had trembled before thee." 



Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth 



Where his warrior foe was sleeping, 

 And he laid him there in honour and rest, 



With his sword in his own brave keeping. 



The " Amnl' t" of this year- (the next in order we believe)- -contains pieces in 

 prose and verse by most of its old contributors ; with several new names, which 

 form an addition to its strength. Some of the plates do great credit both to the 

 selection of the editor and the talent of his artists. Among the best may be ranked 

 " The Shepherd Boy," engraved by Rolls, from a beautiful painting by Mr. 

 Pickersgill; " The Lady of Ilkdale" (a portrait, we rather think), from a picture 

 by Jackson; " The Gipsey Child," by Howard; and " Strafford and his Secretary," 

 from Vandyke's picture, in the collection of Lord Fitzwilliam. The Autographs 

 of Guy Fawkes and the rest of the conspirators in the gunpowder-plot, too (with 

 the superscription of the letter to Lord Monteagle, which disclosed the conspiracy), 

 form a unique and interesting document. The literary portion of the " Amulet" 

 is not inferior to the embellishments; and the volume is "brought out" superbly : 

 the printing, binding, and indeed the embellishment in general, are of the most 

 costly order, and in the most admirable taste. As our limits will only allow one 

 extract, we select a short poem, by our popular and delightful friend, Mrs. Hernans. 

 And, by the way, we really think that the ladies alone ought to write these Annuals 

 among them, without the aid of the grosser sex at all : they are quite competent to 

 it. Or, at least, they should have a Pocket Book of their own ; published for their 

 particular benefit, and in which no writer shewing a beard should be allowed to 

 interfere. 



THE WAKENING. 



How many thousands are wakening now 1 

 Some to the songs from the forest-bough, 

 To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane, 

 To the chiming fall of the early rain. 



And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, 

 To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, 

 As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 

 That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 



And some oh ! well may their hearts rejoice - 

 To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ; 

 Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, 

 When from the board and the earth 'tis gone. 



And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 

 And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 

 And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 

 Which tells that a field must e'er night be won. 



And some, in the gloomy convict-cell, 



To the dull deep note of the warning-bell, 



As it heavily calls them forth to die, 



While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 



And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 

 And some to the sounds from the city borne ; 

 And some to the rolling of torrent-floods, 

 Far 'midst old mountains, and solemn woods. 



So are we roused on this chequer'd earth, 

 Each unto light hath a daily birth, 

 Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 

 Be the voices which first our upspringing meet. 



But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call, 

 Which from the dust shall awake us all ! 

 ONE, though to sever'd and distant dooms 

 How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ? 



