Well, I have read

Florian's "Bathmendi," and I own have been
Much pleased so far, and shall be, if my head
Contain the incidents till I have seen

The tale's conclusion.-Of the "Surf," what's said Can be but little; it awaits some day

When I've a relish for "Phenomena.'

Oh, thou, who from the bridge called Waterloo,
("J. R." are thy initials I perceive,)
Didst take a keen and comprehensive view,
My grateful thanks I pray thee to receive;
Nay, no reluctance, they are but thy due,
As they are due to all who thus can give
Amusement and instruction,-crowning these
With truth that elevates, and charms that please.

The "Anecdote and Wit" I read aloud;
"The Moralist" I pondered over long;
"The Horse" was spirited, and Julia vowed
'As sweet a thing as any in the throng;'
"Remarks on Oratory" did convince a crowd
Of patient listeners that Gilmour is wrong;
"Domestic Misery" claimed the ready tear
That falls o'er pangs so sudden-so severe.

"Hora Dramatica" was pretty well,

And none the later for the "Upas Tree;" Fie! Mr. Editor.-You should not tell

What would have passed unmarked, at least, by me; "On Novel Reading" might not be nouvelle,

But may be true as far as I can see ; "On the Desire of Fame" is clever, Skinner Of admiration is a constant winner.

We laughed a little at "The Travelling Peas,"
Which seemed more full of fun than likelihood;
Then gathered wisdom from the "Sentences,'
Which were selected well, and very good;
Most of the "POETRY', had power to please,
As aught that is poetic ever should,
Of course excepted are, and ever shall be,
Those "Stanzas" that are signed“ J. W. Dalby.”

Forgive me, gentle writers, that I thus
For once have ta'en up a Reviewer's pen;
It is not petulant or furious,

Or keen and drenching, like this morning's rain; You see it loves to offer praise, and does

Not mean to give offence---dear gentlemen,
And dearer ladies, of all kinds and ages,
Whose bright effusions glorify the pages

Of this well-known and pleasant Magazine,
Since ye have passed before me in review
I'll say but see! the weather grows serene,
And so I'll say no more just now to you;
A little exercise brings health I ween,

I'll therefore brush my hat and tie my shoe,
And for three quarters of an hour repair
Into Hyde Park to taste of the fresh air.
July 2, 1821.

J. W. DALBY.

ЕРІТАРН.

THE flower that lies in yonder tomb
Had budded, and begun to bloom,
And promised beauty, till the breath
Of sickness closed its folds in death:
The bloom is filed we gazed upon,
The flower is shrivelled, cold, and wan;
But let the mourner comfort prove,
That flower will blow in realms above.

S. R. J.

GUILT AND INNOCENCE.

WHEN Guilt within the bosom lies,
A thousand ways it speaks;

It stares affrighted through the eyes,
And blushes through the cheeks.
But Innocence, disdaining fear,
Adorns the injured face;

And while the black Accuser's near,
Shines forth with brighter grace.

May 2, 1821.

M. G.

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON LEAVING SHEFFIELD.

FAREWELL, dearest Sheffield, though every feeling
Of nature and friendship 'gainst duty rebel;
Though the sigh frequent heard, and the tear downward
The anguish of parting too openly tell : [stealing,
Thou place of my heart's ever dearest connexions,
Thou fostering nurse of the social affections,
Whence Memory stores all her sweet recollections
Of rapture and bliss, desrest Sheffield, farewell.
And farewell to thy hills, with dark wood boldly shaded,
Whence the eye roams at ease o'er the wide spreading
[braided,
And beholds the vast landscapes, with hedge-rows fair
And the ear listens pleased to the linnet's sweet tale.
Over those hills with delight have I bounded,
While the valley tilt-hammers' loud echo resounded,
Or the voice of thy bells far away sweetly sounded,
Borne in triumph along on the wings of the gale.
And farewell to the vales, clad in picturesque beauty,
Whose streams over wheels are tumultuously hurled,
Where thy artisans, urging their manifold duty,

vale;

Prepare their bright wares for the mart of the world. There at eve's tranquil hour thy bold beauties exploring, I've roamed, and have watched the rocks high o'er me soaring,

Or have listened, well pleased, to the fire's awful roaring,
Till the moon o'er creation her mantle unfurled,
And farewell to that grand work of Nature,* so near
Where rocks rise on rocks, an astonishing pile; [thee,
Whence, though deeply retired, one distinctly may hear
Intensely employed on the art of thy toil. [thee
"And shall I repine at my hard destination?" [tion,
Have I mused "whilst the Power that inspired the crea-
Everlastingly good, e'en appoints thee thy station?"
And have seen how diminutive self was the while.
Yet the dread, dearest Sheffield, of sorrow before me,
In a land amongst strangers along as 1 stray,
Too often in prospect resistless creeps o'er me,
And embitters the thoughts of the sad parting day.
Alluding to a place called Little Matlock, about three
miles from Sheffield.

Yet why, coward-like, should I shrink from the measure
Of duty and care, weeping over lost pleasure,
No! virtue exalted has always her treasure

New joys to create, though from home far away.
Then, Sheffield, since thee I must leave for a season,
Though a sigh of deep sorrow my heart may expand,
Yet I will not revolt against conscience and reason,
But calmly resign thee at duty's command.
And when the long season of absence expiring,
Permits me once more to regain thee admiring,
Far away from my heart its late sorrows retiring,
I'll elect thee, sweet Sheffield, my dear dwelling land.
So farewell for awhile to my dearest connexions,
Yea, those hearts with my own in kind sympathy swell,
And full oft will I turn with enrapt recollections

To the land that I love, where my relatives dwell. And farewell,charming hills,over which I have bounded, Farewell, smiling dales, by those high hills surrounded, Farewell, awful rocks, and ye bells that sweet sounded, And lastly, my home, dearest Sheffield, farewell. Newcastle-on-Tyne. S. WASS.

MY FAVOURITE CAT.

WHILE some of fair-ones prate and boast,
And some of friendship talk,

Their fair-ones are not worth a toast,
Their friendship's all a baulk.

"My favourite it is dumb," 'tis said,
Well, and what matters that?
For still I'll praise the choice I've made,
My charming Pussy Cat!

When up a book I take to read,

My cat jumps on my knee,

And while I eat stale cheese and bread,

She purs and looks at me :

And should my cupboard by a chance
Have visits from a rat,

That rat would lead a Tyburn dance,
His Jack Ketch-Pussy Cat!

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

L. W. W.

THE BOGLE OF ANNESLIE. A SCOTTISH FRAGMENT.

"AND ye winna believe i'the bogle," said a pretty young lassie to her sweetheart, as they sat in the door of her father's cottage on a fine autumn evening. "Do hear that, mither? Andrew will no believe i'the bogle."

you

"Gude be wi' us, Effie," exclaimed Andrew, a slender. and delicate yeuth of about two-and-twenty, "A bonnie time I wad hae o't gin I were to heed every auld wife's clatter."

The words "auld wife" had a manifest effect on Effie, and she bit her lips in silence. Her mother immediately opened a battery upon the young man's prejudices, narrating that on Anneslie heath, at ten No. 45.

M