248 Don Miguel, and the Stale of Portugal. QSept. 



of Great Britain, and execrate, to a man, the commercial treaty of 

 1810, which, they allege, struck a fatal blow at their commerce and 

 manufactures, and led to the separation of their immense transatlantic 

 possessions. We heartily wish that we could persuade ourselves that 

 this opinion is altogether founded in error. Portugal owes nothing 

 to England but her national independence ; a boon, which, if we well 

 reflect on the course the political events of that distracted country have 

 taken since the defence of Torres Vedras, she may justly deem un- 

 worthy of her gratitude. Should the constitutional party, therefore, 

 become predominant, we may prepare ourselves for a vigorous system 

 of exclusion to every thing English. We do not urge as a necessary 

 consequence of this view of the subject, that we should seek to conci- 

 liate the present ruling party in Portugal ; the foreign policy of this 

 country should be founded on nobler principles than tlie sordid views 

 of commercial advantage. But in the name of political consistency — if 

 such a virtue does really exist — why do we hesitate to recognize Don 

 Miguel? We have recognized Louis Philip, who is seated on the 

 throne of the family, in whose cause we lavished so much blood and 

 treasure. We have recognized, again, the Revolution of Belgium, whose 

 union with Holland we were chiefly instrumental in cementing. But 

 by a refinement of political inconsistency, we refuse to recognise the 

 present ruler of Portugal, who holds his throne by the self-same tenure 

 as both Louis Philip and Leopold — a tenure, we admit, arising from a far 

 less pure and elevated principle of action than that which produced the 

 French and Belgian Revolutions — held, too, by a prince for whom no 

 man can entertain the slightest personal sympathy ; but which, never- 

 theless, emanates from the same source, the legitimate source of all 

 right — the will of the nation. 



THE MAGIC OF NIGHT. 



Maiden, arise from the darkness of sleep. 

 The night is enchanted, the silence is deep ; 

 Open thine eyelids — awake to a gleam 

 Brighter than ever yet burst on a dream. 



Sweet though thy vision be, fair as a star. 

 Here is a vision more exquisite far. 

 Oh ! look at yon hill, while the blue mist above 

 Is wreathing ai'ound it — an image of love. 



Now glance below o'er the sparkling bay. 

 And the ship that severs its star-led way ; 

 And the moon that stops, like a beautiful bride. 

 To look at her face in the tranquil tide. 



And mark how far the heaven is strewn 

 With courtier-clouds that worship the moon ; 

 While others lie snowy and still through the night. 

 Like a myriad wings all ready for flight. 



Earth seems an Eden unstained by crime. 

 So pure is the scene, and so holy the time ! 

 Tempest is now with the winds upcurled. 

 And Nature and Night arc alone in the world. 



The numbered sands of time seem run. 



And Earth and her Heaven are mingling in one. 



The light, like love, is silent and deep — 



Maiden, is this an hour for sleep ? B. 



