520 To a Dead Leaf. [MAY, 



character lit to figure in the legitimate drama. We presume not to 

 4f say what is natural or not natural in such a passion as revenge." And 

 thus he states his objections very humbly, qualifying the whole with 

 " But this may be a mistake of ours, or a misconception." 



It is a mistake of Mr. Wilson's, if he supposes that this species of 

 criticism will be received as heretofore. Let Mr. Wilson be reminded, 

 that he is not so young as he was twenty years ago j and that since his 

 time, a new race of men has sprung up, who will neither be exalted by 

 his flattery, nor intimidated by his wrath. His day is going by or if he 

 think that he can still wield the knout as vigorously as ever, he may per- 

 chance find, to use a vulgar saying, that " that is a game at which two 

 can play :" and if he will not learn wisdom for the time to come, he 

 may, perhaps, be taught moderation, if not be chastised into humility. 



With Miss Kemble a word or two, and we have done. Let her not be 

 elated by the empty praises of these professors. We beg to inform her, that 

 a few years ago, these were thought like the " old masters/' and wore 

 the bays with much complacency : but where is their reputation now ? 

 " Their sound is gone out," and will not " be back again presently." 



Miss Kemble possesses talents and capabilities which demand much 

 care, and require more cultivation. Let her relinquish the conversation 

 and company of literary lords and ladies, and 



" The mob of gentlemen who write with ease." 



Let her pursue steadily, and for its own sake, the great object of her 

 ambition ; and she may at last, perhaps, succeed/ But we implore her to 

 despise, as something worse than unkindness, and far more fatal than 

 splenetic hyper- criticism, the fluent praise, the empty admiration, the 

 shall we be plain ? the canting humbug of the Quarterly Review and 

 Blackwood's Magazine. 



SONNET. 



TO A DEAD LEAF. 



WAN leaf, that on yon broad umbrageous tree, 



Erst in a dark and sunless solitude, 



Mid choking weeds and branching underwood, 



Wert doomed unnoticed and unknown to be ; 



How do our fortunes and our fates agree; 



My destiny, how clearly understood, 



When, in the day-dream of a pensive mood, 



I, fondly sad, compare myself with thee. 



The sun hath never reach'd thee, thou hast hung, 



Ev'n thine own light and shadow, unreliev'd ; 



The biting worm thy tender fibres wrung 



Untimely, and thine early bloom bereav'd ; 



And now thou 'rt dead, and shaken back to ea,rth, 



This moral of thy fate is all thy worth ! 



