5'Z6 
No longer steel-clad warriors ride 
Along thy wild and willow’d shore. 
Where’er thou wind’st by dale and hill 
All, all is peaceful, all is still, 
As if thy waves, since Time was born, 
Since first they roll’d their way to Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherd’s reed, 
Nor started at the bugle horn. 
Unlike the tide of human time, 
Which, tho’ it change in ceaseless flow, 
Retains each grief, retains each crime, 
Its earliest course was doomed to know. 
And darker as it downward bears, 
Is stain'd with past and present tears. 
Low as that tide has ebbed with me, 
It still reflects to memory’s eye 
The hour my brave, my only boy 
Fell by the side of great Dundee. 
Why, when the volleying minstrel play’d 
Against the bloody Highland blade, 
Why was not I beside him laid r 
Enough ! he died the death of fame, 
Enough ! he died with conquering Graeme. 
LORD NELSON. 
I visited Lord Nelson relative to my 
History of the War. On the Neapolitan 
subject he was as impetuous in language 
as in gesture, two or three times clap¬ 
ping his hand on his sword, and once 
drawing it half out. When he had 
calmed himself on his questionable 
conduct in that business, I directed the 
discourse to the battle of the Nile, and 
becoming tranquil, he drew on a sheet 
of paper, a sketch of the positions, and 
entered minutely into a description of 
his manoeuvres. I thought the sketch 
curious, and begged to be allowed to 
bring it away.* 
A MODERN MAZARINADE. 
Cardinal Mazarine retired for a time 
from the helm of state, but it was only 
to devise the means of evading odium, 
and by his underhand encroachments 
and machinations to render his power 
more secure. The adroitness displayed 
by the wily churchman in those,'his 
systematic attempts, seems to have 
been copied, in some measure, by Mr. 
Pitt, when lie permitted his friend Mr. 
Wilberforce to move for a specious in¬ 
quiry into his own conduct! 
* Of this curious document we have 
judged it worth while to present our read¬ 
ers with a facsimile , perhaps the most 
accurate ever made ; and it is just to say, 
that we are indebted for its perfection to 
Mr. I. Greig. ’ - 
[ J an. 1. 
The DUCHESS of PORTLAND. 
On the proposal of parliament to pur¬ 
chase the Bulstrode papers, her Grace, 
with characteristic public spirit, ad¬ 
dressed the following handsome letter 
to the Speaker, which is now printed 
from the-original:— 
To the Right Hon. Arthur Onslow , 
Sir, 
As soon as I was acquainted with the 
proposal you had made in the House of 
Commons, in relation to my father’s 
collection of manuscripts, I informed 
my mother of it, who has given theDuke 
of Portland and me full power to do 
therein as we .shall think fit; though I 
am told the expense of collecting them 
was immense, and that if they were to 
be dispersed they would probably sell 
for a great deal of money, yet as a sum 
has been named, and as I know it was 
my father’s, and is my mother’s inten¬ 
tion that they should be kept together, 
I will not bargain with the public. 1 
give you this trouble, therefore, to ac¬ 
quaint you that I am ready to accept of 
your proposal on condition that this 
great and valuable collection shall be 
kept together in a proper repository, as 
an addition to the Cotton Library, and 
be called by the name of The Harleian 
Collection of Manuscripts. 
I hope you do me the justice to be¬ 
lieve that I do not consider this as a 
sale for an adequate price; but your 
idea is so right, and so agreeable to 
what I know was my father’s inten¬ 
tion, that I have a particular satisfac¬ 
tion in contributing all I can to facili¬ 
tate the success of it. I am. Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
M. Cavendish Portland, 
mother of the late and grandmother 
of the present Duke of Portland. 
April 3, 1753. 
PERSIAN VERSE translated into 
ENGLISH PROSE. 
I saw my moon-like beloved in the 
garden, gathering roses; the thorn 
wounded her hands, but she only 
smiled. I asked the cause of her 
laughter; in answer, she cried, the 
rose from envy of superior charms has 
w ounded my hands. 
VERSIFIED. 
Lovely as the moon my fair 
Cull’d roses bath’d in dew— 
The thorns her snowy fingers tear— 
Breathless to her I flew. 
She only smil’d, and yes, she cried, 
The triumph of my charms : 
Angry to see themselves outvied. 
The roses fly to arms. 
NOVELTIES 
Stephensiana. —iVo. IK. 
