1828.) 
ing of one of the Duke of Bedford’s chil- 
dren among the best. 
Mr. Malcolm’s poem was pointed out to 
us by a lady as inter ignes luna minores— 
we quite agree with her— 
THE SPIRIT’S LAND. 
The Spirit’s Land! Where is that land 
Of which our Fathers tell? 
On whose mysterious, viewless strand 
Earth’s parted millions dwell! 
Beyond the bright and starry sphere, 
Creation’s flaming space remote ; 
Beyond the measureless career, 
The phantom flight of thought. 
There, fadeless flowers their blossoms wave 
Beneath a cloudless sky ; 
And there the latest lingering tear 
Is wiped from every eye; 
And souls beneath the trees of life 
Repose upon that blessed shore, 
Where pain and toil, and storm and strife, 
Shall never reach them more. 
And yet, methinks, a chastened woe 
E’en there may prompt the sigh— 
Sweet sorrows we would not forego 
For calm, unmingled joy ; 
When strains from angel harps may stray 
On heavenly airs, of mortal birth, 
That we have heard far, far away, 
Amid the bowers of earth. 
Ah, then, perchance, their saddening spell, 
That from oblivion saves, 
May wander, like a lone farewell, 
From this dim land of graves ; 
And, like the vision ofa dream, 
Shed on the disembodied mind 
Of mortal life a dying gleam, 
And loved ones left behind. 
Yes—yes, I will, I must believe 
That Nature’s sacred ties 
Survive, and to the spirit cleave, 
' Immortal in the skies ; 
And that imperfect were my bliss 
In heaven itself, and dashed with care, 
Tf those I loved on earth should miss 
The path that leadeth there. 
4 What could prompt the Editor to print 
an old stale ode of Southey’s, on Queen 
Charlotte ? Never surely was such maudlin 
stuff—concluding thus— 
Long, long then shall Queen Charlotte’s name be 
dear; 
And future Queens to her 
As to the best exemplar look. 
Who imitates her best 
May best deserve our love. 
The New Year's Gift, and Juvenile 
Souvenir ; 1829.—This is a new thing, 
_ edited by Mrs. Alaric Watts, wholly ap- 
; iated to children of from six to twelve. 
, it is extremely well got up, put into a stout 
binding that will bear rough handling, and 
matches, nevertheless, well with the more 
adult publications. The Editor describes 
her aim to have been to make each piece 
convey some moral truth. Giants, ghosts, 
ata ah tee 
Domestic and Foreign. 
535 
and fairies are all carefully excluded—and 
why ? because they tend to enervate the 
infant mind, indispose it for wholesome 
nutriment, and nourish superstitious terrors. 
Mrs. Watts is herself too sensible a woman 
not to feel that any such effect will depend 
much more upon the general bringing up 
than the tales themselves. With a sounder 
judgment, Mrs. W. excludes, also, stories 
of exaggerated sentiment, “ which forms,” 
she says, ‘‘the staple of nursery literature, 
and are worse than the giants and fairies.”’ 
The only romance admitted is that of “‘ His- 
tory and Real Life.”” Some of the regular 
annualists have been pressed into the ser- 
vice. Wiffen tells the story of Edward 
IV.’s hapless sons, in prose; and, in verse, 
gives a new version of the Children in the 
Wood; and somebody else the Death of 
Prince Arthur. Miss Mitford plays another 
match of cricket—and gives “pride a fall.” 
Montgomery extols the virtues of short- 
hand, and Delta indites a Blackbird’s Pe- 
tition for release. Mrs. Hoffman, in her 
manner, tells a story of a Stolen Child 
among the American Indians, and Derwent 
Conway, very agreeably, a little French 
tale. Mr. Alaric has some agreeable lines 
to a “ Dear Little Boy’—much too good 
for the occasion; and A Little Boy’s Ad- 
dress to his Rocking Horse, involyes some 
allusions, which Mrs. Watts ought surely, 
in consistency, to have excluded. We 
quote this, for the remarkably easy flow of 
it— 
A LITTLE BOY’S ADDRESS TO HIS 
ROCKING-HORSE. 
BY M. J. J. 
There was Pegasus, famed in old story, 
A dragon, too, turned by a screw; 
What were they, and their wonderful glory, 
Compared, wooden Dobbin, with you? 
You need neither manger nor bin; 
You are shod without shoes to your feet ; 
You starve, and yet never grow thin; 
You work, and want nothing to eat! 
My father has steeds in his stable, 
Worth hundreds and hundreds of pounds ; 
And oh! very often at table 
Their worth and their praises he sounds: 
There is Wildfire, and Wagtail, and Wager, 
And many another beside; 
But racer, and hunter, and stager, 
Are nought to the one that I ride. 
Yet if I should wish for a buyer, 
J fear a long while I might stop ; 
For I can’t trace your pedigree higher 
‘Than up to the carpenter’s shop. 
Never mind ;—for when asked for your points, 
E’en a jockey of honour may say, 
That if you are stiff in your joints, 
It keeps you from running away. 
If I give you a cruel hard smack, 
No dread of your rearing before ; 
If I happen to fall from your back, 
No fear of a kick on the floor :~-- 
