IHM.2 



Domestic and Fureian. 



417 



t 



ing on the earth, and condemns them to 

 inibllc abhorrence. Such subjects iis these 

 are worthy tlie attention of the immortalized 

 Peel — not on account of the individual in- 

 stances enumerated in the book before us, 

 but because they are the ramifications of 

 great abuses in institutions for tlie benefit 

 of the poor — the existence of which excites 

 discontent and mistrust of the governraentj 

 from a belief thatjustice is withheld. 



We trust that tills pamphlet will be widely 

 circulated, since too much publicity cannot 

 be given to such proceedings ; at tlie same 

 time we must say, that we have selilom 

 mud of such a horde of disgusting barba- 

 rians as form (with scarcely an exception) 

 the diumatis personse of this book. The 

 details of dead-houses, hosi)itals, dissecting- 

 rooms, and the deeds of resurrection- men, 

 are too honid to insert^ we therefore refer 

 the reader, who wishes for such informa- 

 tion, to the pamphlet. 



Songs of a Stranger, fry Louisa Stuaut 

 CosTELLO. — This volume reflects uncom- 

 mon praise on the taste, talents, and infor- 

 mation of the writer. The subjects chosen 

 by her are not common-place, nor treated 

 in a common-place manner. The feeling 

 displayed throughout the work is tender 

 without being weak, such as we delight to 

 find in woman, and which would Confer 

 honour on our o^vn sex. 



The true poetical feeling displayed in tlie 

 following song will fully justify the enco- 

 mium we have sincerely paid her as her due. 

 SONG 

 Thy form was fair, thine eye was bright, 



Thy voice was melody ; 

 Around thee beamed the purest light, 



Of Love's own sky. 

 Each word that trembled on thy tongue. 



Was sweet, was dear to me ; 

 A spell in those soft numbers hung, 



That drew i^ soul to thee. 

 Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now 



As beauteous and as fair ; 

 But though still blooming is thy brow. 



Love is not there. 

 And though as sweet thy voice be yet, 



I treasure not the tone : 

 It cannot bid my heart forget — 

 Its tenderness is gone ! 



The stanzas. To my Mother, are touch- 

 ing and very natural. The Song to the 

 Crew of Diaz, on the Discovert/ of the Cape 

 of Good Hope, or the Cape of Storms, is 

 worthy of any poet of the day, and is a spe- 

 cimen of simple poetic power, which would 

 have been quoted and more known if it had 

 been written by Byron or Campbell, in- 

 stead of being composed by a young wo- 

 man. We cannot quote the whole, but the 

 following stanzas, not superior to the others, 

 are very unlike the stamp of poetry too 

 often lauded. 



Whore no sail has ever wandered. 



Beneath that troubled sky. 

 Frowns the stalely Cape of Storms, 



O'er the drear immensity ! 



M.M. New Series— Vol. I. No. 4. 



AlKive whose hoary summit. 



Where ciptive thunders sleeps 

 Three huge black clouds for ever 



Their dreadful station keep. 

 We Iiave gaied on what no other 



Has ever gazed upon — 

 We have braved the angry spirits. 



And our victory is won. 



The Si/lph's Song wc must, in duty, 

 quote, since it upholds our high estimation 

 of these poems, and proves Miss Costcllo 

 to possess a fine and poetical imagination, 

 which only requires the fostering approba- 

 tion of others to soar yet higher, and gain 

 for herself honour, while slie bestows plea- 

 sure 00 others. 



SYLPH'S SONG. 

 Fly with me, my mortal love ! 



Oil ! haste to realms of purer day, 

 Where we form the morning dew. 

 And the rainbow's varied hue ; 



And give the sun each golden ray ' 



Oh ! stay no more 

 On this earthly shore, 

 Where joy it sick of the senseless crew; 

 But t.Tste the bliss we prove. 

 In the starry plains above. 

 Queens of the meads of ether blue. 

 When the moon is riding high. 



And trembles in the lake below,— 



Then wc hover in its ray. 



And amid tl>e sparkles play. 

 While rippling waves of silver (low. 



As pure and bright 



As that gleaming light : 

 We watch the cddyuig circle's bound. 



And within those lucid rings 



We dip our shining wings. 

 And scatter showers of radiance round. 

 When softly falls the summer Aower, 



Fresh'ning all the earth with green. 

 From the cup of many a flower. 

 While the purple shadows lour. 

 We drink the crystal tears unseen. 



Then come away ! 



No more delay, — 

 ' Our joys and our revels haste to share. 



Behold, where near thee wait. 



As subjects of our stale. 

 The shadowy spirits of the air. 



It has been lately said, that since the 

 death of Byron our poetry is at a lo^v ebb. 

 It is an error. Let us look at the band of 

 women who still live, and write, and reflect 

 honour on our age, and prove its intellec- 

 tual refinement. Their names must grace 

 our pages : Joanna Baillie — Dacre — 

 Fanshawe — Hemans — Mitford — Cos- 

 tello. The authoress of" The Veils," and 

 that splendid epic " Coeur de Lion," has 

 only lately winged her way to a liigher 

 world. Miss Porden's epic has been neg- 

 lected. Every noble whose ancestors 

 fought in the Holy Land is bound in ho- 

 nour to see their deeds recorded ; and when 

 they have been nobly sung by a woman, let 

 chivalry save her poetry from perishing un- 

 noticed and unknown. There are more, 

 and among our poets, Montgomery — Camp- 

 bell — Rogers — Maiden — Crabbe — and 



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