3G2 



Mo7itMy Review of Literature, 



[Nov. 



That these, my tearful glances, dwell 

 On thy young grace's virgin priilc ; — 



Bright Lady! 'tis not Beauty's spell, 

 That chains me, breathless, to thy side ; 



For Woman's voice, and Woman's eyes 



Have lost their power to make my sighs. 



My heart is grown too cold with care ; 



And all the gifts that now remain 

 From Love, who once was worshipped there. 



Are wild regrets, and sorrowings vain — 

 Sad relics in a mouldering urn 

 Where inceuse long has ceased to burn. 



But o'er thy brow a quick light past, 



As summer airs the waters curl. 

 That gave me as I viewed it last, 



Tlie image of an Englisli girl, 

 With look, like thine, 'twixt smile and tear. 

 And graceful as the forest deer. 



And thoughts, that long had buried lain. 



In crowds before my memory rise, 

 I press those gentle lips again. 



And gaze into the deep blue eyes. 

 Whose stealing glance could once oontroul 

 The sternest passions of my soul. 



She comes once more! the breezing sighs 

 Of her young voice are whispering near. 



Like the old native melodies, 

 Breatlted in a home-sick exile's ear — 



And my wild bosom's throbs reply. 



She was too fondly loved to die! 



"Tis past — the passionate vision fades — 



And, Lady, though thy face be fair. 

 That nameless grace, which woke the shades 



Of memory, rests no longer there ! 

 The charm is gone — the spell is o'er. 

 And I can look on thee no more I 



J. R. C. 

 The plates are of the very first class of 

 beauty and execution — the Idol of Memory, 

 especially, not looked at too nearly, and the 

 Blandoline, with features so sweetly regu- 

 lar, so unruffled by care or excitement, so 

 ready to receive your plaudits, without ela- 

 tion as a customary tribute — her due. An 

 engraving from Jan Stein, by Lizars, is 

 very remarkable for the strong and effective 

 strokes of the graver. 



Forget-me-not, 1830. — Ackermann's 

 Forget-me-not has a larger proportion of 

 prose than usual, and fewer i ontributionsfrom 

 the magnificos of the literary world. The 

 reason assigned is decisive — the best writers 

 contribute the worst pieces — a reason appli- 

 cable, the editor himself declares, to both 

 prose and verse, but more especially to the 

 verse. Supported by the opinions of friends 

 of indisputable taste and judgment, the edi- 

 tor accordingly has clipped the poetry part of 

 the volume ; and we take upon us to recom- 

 mend a still farther clipping another year 



there is no danger — it is not the current 

 coin of the realm. Like almost all the 

 poetry of the Annuals, it is all strain and 

 affectation, half Byron and half Moore, with 

 little music, and less thought. A few lines 



on Solitude, by James Kenncy, Esq. are 

 among the simplest the volume affords. 



There is a time when tears will flow. 



To soothe the throb of care ; 

 When the gaunt eye of hollow woe 



Looks up and mocks despairl 

 'Tis where the breeze has no controul. 



Where pine trees darkly nod. 

 And Silence yields the gasping eoul 



To nature and to God ! 



Good spirits there a healing charm 



On wounded bosoms shed ; 

 And Virtue nerves the languid arm. 



And lifts the drooping head ; 

 And then we deem a time will come, 



When tyrant wrong shall fly. 

 Or fondly dream uf martyrdom. 



And how the proud ones die! 



Under the blue and boundless sky, 



Couch'd on the bright green earth. 

 Oh ! then we smile for vanity. 



And feel Life's only worth ; — 

 We trim no coronet for wealth, ' 



For fame nor honour sigh ; 

 We pray to God to live in health. 



In love and charity. 



And he whose cares in ruthless troops 



Come thronging day by day, 

 To sap liis heart, and make his hopes 



A slow and inchmeal prey. 

 Shall here, the legion to defy. 



Inhale a heavenly power ; 

 Breathe Resignation's balmy sigh. 



And bless that silent hour! 



The curiosities of the volume are the 

 first lines known to have been written by 

 Lord Byron, and some of JVancis Jeffery's. 

 The first are duly attested by the lady to 

 whom they were written, and were commu- 

 nicated by Miss Mary Ann Cursham, who 

 also contributes some mystifications of her 

 own, called the Destinies, apparently on the 

 subject of Lord Byron and her friend, but 

 we do not undertake to decide. Of the 

 tales, the Red IMan, by a " modern Pytha- 

 gorean," is by far the best managed piece- 

 nobody can anticipate the solution of the 

 mystery. 



Among the engravings, the Flower Girl, 

 by Gaugain, is most distinguishable — it is 

 a beautiful face, fuU of intelligence, and with 

 a gleam of archness, but still the figure has 

 too much ease and nonchalance for a flower 

 girl, and is as little like one, as can well be 

 imagined. The Orphan Family is a good 

 group, but the boy is too young for the 

 story — indeed we have often observed the 

 stories do not fit the pictures. The Death 

 of the Dove is remarkable for the girl's eyes 

 — the fire and fright conspicuous in tliem, 

 are more forcibly expressed than anything 

 of the kind we remember to have seen. 



The Aimdet, 1830 The Amulet, edited 



by Mr. S. C. Halls, is distinguished by the 

 epithet of Christian as well as literary re- 

 membrancer ; but the reader need not anti- 



