similar manner, and therefore swim naturally. When a person falls intoTM deep water, he generally rises to the surface, and continues there if he does not elevate his lands; or should he move his hands under water in any manner he pleases, his head will rise so high as to allow him free liberty to breathe; and if he moves his legs as in the act of walking (or rather as if walking up stairs) his shoulders will rise above water, so that he may use less exertion with his hands, or apply them to other purposes. These few plain directions are recommended to the attention of those who have not learned to swim, as they may be the means in many instances of preserving life.

CESAREAN OPERATION.-Friday week, this operation was performed at Blackburn, on Betty Willock, of that town, by Mr. Bailey, surgeon, in presence of Dr. Martland, and Mr. Hardy, of Whalley, when two fine girls were extracted, who are still alive and likely to do well. The mother bore the operation with great fortitude, and her symptoms appeared very favourable until Saturday evening, when inflammation came on and terminated her existence in twenty-four hours.-Pottery Gazette. ORIGIN OF THE TERMS ATTORNEY AND SOLICITOR-In the time of our Saxon ancestors, says a work entitled Heraldic Anomalies, the freemen in every shire met twice a year, under the presidency of the shire reeve, or sheriff, and this meeting was called the Sheriff's Torn. By degrees, the freemen declined giving their personal attendance, and a freeman who did attend carried with him the proxies of such of his friends as could not appear. He who actually went to the Sheriff's Torn, was said, according to the old Saxon, to go to the Torn, and hence came the word attorney, which signified one that went to the Torn for others, carrying with him a power to act or vote for those who employed him. I do not conceive, continues the writer, that the attorney has any right to call himself a solicitor, but where he has business in a Court of Equity. If he chose to act more upon the principles of equity than of law, let him be a solicitor by all means, but not otherwise; for law and equity are very different things; neither of them very good, as overwhelmed with forms and technicalities: but upon the whole, equity is the best, if it were but for the name of the thing.

TRICKS UPON GAOLERS.-We had made our arrangements to dig a basin. The Emperor was dressed in a large pair of trousers and a jacket, with an enormous hat made of straw of Bengal upon his head, and a kind of sandal to his feet. I followed him as he proceeded to a party of Chinese, whom he had sent for to assist us in the completion of our Jabours. We saw them examining us, laughing, and becoming less noisy as we advanced nearer to them. What is the matter with thein? What amuses them? It is perhaps my dress,”—“ Probably, Sir, they are surprised to see you dressed as a workman, like themselves." We had joined them, and they set to work, and continued working for some time, until at last mirth prevailed, and became so general that it reached the Emperor himself. What is it? what do they say "-Not one of us understood the Chinese, so that we were unable to answer him." It must be my costume that causes their mirth, and it is indeed odd enough. But with all their laughing they must not be burnt up by the heat: every one of them shall also have a straw hat, as a present from me."-The Emperor left us, and bent his steps towards a clump of trees. We thought he had gone for the purpose of seeking a little fresh air, when we saw him upon horseback, followed by his piqueur. He rode up and down for a few minutes, and then starting suddenly, he galloped to Deadwood. Having reached the summit of the mountain, he stopped, pointed his glass, looked round him, and came back as quickly as he had gone. This simple excursion immediately became an affair of State. A horseman had been seen dressed like a Chinese: how had he made his appear

ance?-whence did he come ?-what was his business? The Governor could not possibly make it out. The Emperor, who was highly amused by his fears, took it into his head to increase them. For that purpose, he made Vignoli put on a dress similar to his own, gave him his horse, his piqueur, and his glass, ordering him to ride fast and appear to be making observations. The missionary went, was seen and noticed, and the tranquillity of the whole island was immediately disturbed. Signals were made; Hudson, Gorrequer, Reade, all instantly turned out and proceeded to Longwood. This was conspiracy-an attempt to carry off somebody......it was......Vignoli in disguise! The Governor confused, withdrew. I met him as he was going away. He came up to me, gave vent to his anger, and ended by declaring that the individual who thus laughed at his expense was only an Usurper." No doubt!" was my reply.-Last Days of Napoleon.

CITY, I O'CLOCK.-Conds for Account opened at 90; but have since been dope at 90. in the Foreign Market there is nothing of any montent to notice. Brazilian 34. There is an advance in Continental Bonds,

THE LONDON MARKETS.

CORN EXCHANGE, MARK LANE, Aug. 1. Our arrivals of Grain last week were moderate, and this morning the fresh supplies of Wheat are tolerably good, but of other Grain not much has come up. Prime parcels of Wheat have been sold at 1s. and 2s, deduction from last week's prices, but other qualities cannot find sale, though offered from 2s. to 3s. lower than on last Monday. Barley is without any trade, but Beans continue to advance, being full 2s. dearer. Oats go off well at 1s. and 2s. advance on last Monday's prices,

42s 45s. 46s. 50s.

Scotch Flour

48s. 53s.

38s. 44s.

23s, 25s.

24s. 29s.

24s. 29s.

23s. 28s.

55s, 65s.

Beef

Mutton

Beasts

Sheep

Hay

To sink the Offal-per Stone of 8lbs. 4s. 4d. to 5s. Od. | Veal........... 4s.. 4d, to 5s. Od. Pork... Lamb 5s. Od. to 6s. Od. HEAD OF CATTLE THIS DAY.

2,537 Pigs 21,360 Calves....

The Average Price of Brown or Muscovado Sugar, computed from the Returns made in the Week ending July 27, 1825, is 38s. 2d. per Hundred Weight, exclusive of the Duties of Customs paid or payable thereon on the Importation thereof into Great Britain.

BRANDE'S PHARMACY. Just published, in 8vo. price 14s.

A MANUAL of PHARMACY. BY WILLIAM THOMAS BRANDE,
caries of the City of Loudon,
Esq. Professor of Chemistry and Materia Medica to the Society of Apothe-
Printed for T. and G. Underwood, 32 Fleet street.

SCURVY, SCROFULA, KING'S EVIL, &c.-FREEMAN'S ANTI-SCORBUTIC DROPS. These dreadful disorders in their most habit, or introduced by certain indiscretions, intemperance, or injudicious use inveterate stages, whether occasioned by acrimonious matter retained in the of Mercury, come particularly under the influence of this medicine, the reputation of which was firmly established in the successful and extensive practice of the late Dr. Freeman, for a period of more than forty years. For all diseases originating in obstructed perspiration or impurity of the Blood, these Drops will be found a sovereign remedy, at the same time the safest medicine that can be resorted to; they are also an excellent purifier of the blood, and are taken with great benefit in the Spring and Autumn.-Sold in Paul's; Savory and Co. 136 New Bond street, London; and by the principal Medicine Venders throughout the United Kingdom. Of whom may be had MORRIS'S BRUNSWICK CORN PLAISTER, an excellent remedy for eradi cating Corns, Bunions, &c. In boxes, at 1s. 1¿d. and 2s. 9d.

bottles, at 2s. 9d.; 4s. 6d.; 11s.; and 22s. by Butler, Chemist, 4 Cheapside, St.

BEAR'S GREASE.-This article, when genuine and procured from

the animal in its native climate, is easily known by those who have once used it. It penetrates sooner, retains its moisture longer, and on analysis is found materially varied from all other animal or vegetable oils.-JAMES ATKINSON, Perfumer, has the gratification to inform the Public, that the Bear's Grease, as imported by him, has given the most general satisfaction. Its peculiar properties for regenerating the hair being now proved to a demonstration, and he will only add that, independent of improving the growth, it is very pleasant for dressing the hair, making it beautifully soft and glossy; but as there are several imitations, it is necessary to observe that a bill is wrapped round each pot, with the Importer's signature, and the pot has the figure of a Bear burnt on the top (not printed) and no pot is sold for less than 2s. 6d. * Price in pots, 2s. 6d. and 4s.; in bottles, 3s. 6d. and 7s. 64.; and perfumed with Otto of Rose, extra price.-Sold at 44 Gerrard-street; and by appointment, by Messrs. Gattie and Peirce, 57 New Bond street; Sanger, 50, Grange, 126, Carter, 132, Smith, 98, Firth, 45, Langley, 31 Oxford street; Mintram, 7 Burs lington Arcade; Dobson and Mason, 38 Haymarket; Woodman, Piccadilly; Mattrass, Fleet street; Colley, 28 Bishopsgate street; Paterson, Gracechurch street; Marquis, Coleman street; Gibbins, 55 Fleet market; Wakefield, Lambs' Conduit street; and most Perfumers.

THE GRAVEL and STONE, LUMBAGO, &c.- HICKMAN'S PILLS are allowed to be the most successful preparation for effectually removing, and preventing the future recurrence of those disorders which arise from an imperfect action of the Urinary Organs, as Gravel and Stone, Lumbago, Pains in the Back and Loins, Suppression of Urine, &c. Composed of the most innocent ingredients, this truly valuable medicine relieves the suffering patient from the excruciating tortures of those diseases without any violence or injury to the constitution, and requires no confinement or restraint of diet during its It is one of the oldest public medicines extant; and its peculiar virtues. and efficacy have uniformly maintained the highest reputation.-Sold in boxes, at 28. 9d. and 11s. by Butler, Chemist. 4 Cheapside, St. Paul's; Savory and Co. 136 New Bond street, London; and by the principal Medicine Venders throughout the United Kingdom. Of whom may be had BUTLER'S CAJEPUT Affections, Palsy, Stiffness, and Enlargement of the Joints, Sprains, Bruises, &c. OPODELDOC, strongly recommended in Chronic Rheumatism, Spasmodic In bottles, at Is. 14d. and 2s. 9d.

use.

VELLUTI TO HIS REVILERS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following verses were occasioned by the ungenerous personalities which two or three writers in the public journals allowed themselves to vent against Signor Velluti, on his arrival in England. The author, who is on the Continent, heard such interesting accounts at Florence of that unfortunate and accomplished person, of his amiable manners, his disinterestedness, bis pensive turn of mind, and his possession nevertheless of that willingness to please and be pleased, which gives so generous a character to melancholy, and renders it so superior to the ordinary weakness of misfortune, that he felt his sympathy very forcibly excited. He cannot but agree with the writers in question, that it would be better to have no more singers of this kind There is but one opinion on that point throughout England; but circumstances have shown (at least if the reports that reach the author at this distance be true) that the new cruelty of treatment with which they are threatened, is not the best mode of preventing their re-appearance. This good end might have been consulted to greater advantage by a behaviour at once firm and kind; by meeting the new come with an equal display of hostility to his public performance, and justice to his character. The time for this mode of proceeding seems now to be past. To load him personally with abuse, was no less impolitic than unfeeling. Gibbon said, in a note to his history, that there never was a better time for the abolition of the office of Poet Laureat, than when the holder of it was a man of genius: alluding to Thomas Warton. Upon the same principle it might be said, that there never was a better time to put an end to the re-appearance of Farinellis and Senesinos, than when the singer deserves all the tenderness that can be shown to his condition, and is sensible to the mortifications of it. But then the delicacy with which the good is effected, ought to be in proportion. A proper remonstrance might have had all that weight, both with Signor Velluti and his patrons, which by a contrary behaviour is thrown into the scale of their endeavours in his behalf. The best way perhaps of proceeding now is to afford him every possible facility, and to resolve that he shall be the last singer of his kid that shall have it. For the next we shall be better prepared. What is said, in the poem, of Signor Velluti's having been twice on the brink of ruin in his fortunes, is true. Nor is the mode in which he is represented as speaking of his faithful servant, less so. This person has been with him many years. On the second occasion, he was the salvation of his master's property. An English gentleman, in a conversation with Signor Velluti, telling him that he understood he had an excellent servant, who had been of great use to his affairs, "He ought not to be called a servant," said Velluti: "he is my friend." When a man of this nature is at a disadvantage with the rest of the world, who that deserves the common title of human being does not yearn to make it up to him?

The verses are just what they pretend to be,-an effusion of the feelings at a moment. They deprecate comparison, both on this and other accounts, with more leisurely works of art. The triplets and Alexandrines, introduced with an abundance not common now-a-days, (though highly deserving attention at all times) appear to the author emphatically to belong to productions of this nature, in which impulse is every thing; and he was at no pains to baulk them, when they came in his way.

VELLUTI TO HIS REVILERS.

VELLUTI, the lara heart, the sexless voice,
To those who can insult a fate without a choice.
You wrong your manhood, critics, and degrade
Your just disdain of an inhuman trade,
When, in your zeal for what a man should be,
Yon wreak your shuddering epithets on me.
Scorn, as you will, the trade; you cannot err;
But why with curses load the sufferer?
Was I the cause of what I mourn? Did I
Unmake myself, and hng deformity?
Did I, a smiling and a trusting child,

See the curst blow, to which I was beguil'd?
Call for the knife? and not resist in vain,
With shrieks convulsive and a fiery pain,
That second baptism, bloody and profane?

O fate! what was I then? A rosy boy, Trusting in all things, radiant at a toy. What am I now? A shadow with lorn eyes; A toy myself, to hear and to despise.

I own I felt a reverential fear

Of English thoughts, when I was venturing here.
In Italy, my friends know well, it took
Strong hold upon me, nor in France forsook:
But most I felt it, when I cross'd the sea,
That awful sphere of English mastery.
The skies were misty; and there hung in air
Behemoth shapes, and phantoms with huge hair;
Antediluvian things, as though they stood
Once more alive, and guarded the old flood.
Wonder not at these thoughts in me: I've read
Old bards; and mine has been a suffering head.
As I look'd round upon the awful shows,
While the rains bicker'd, and mad winds arose,
And the sea dealt us its disdainful blows,

I felt my soul look grave, and said-Are these
The gods and playmates of the British seas?
Aud have I, venturing with my fittle store,
A song to please the lords of such a shore ?

I know not :--but I whisper'd-Manly thought
Stands by me still, and serves me as it ought.
I can behold these waves, with awe, 'tis true,
But yet with something of th' exulting too.
Not mean have I been held, not void of soul;
No hollow friend, nor servile o'er the bowl.
Free songs have I bestow'd, best quitted then;
Free pleasures have exchang'd with nobler men ;
And in my song, when manly verses come,
The thought, no stranger, finds my heart at home.
I scorn not praise, I own; what can I scorn,
That makes this heart a little less forlorn?
I dare the public eye: my very shame
Would fly for refuge in the arms of fame.
But witness, all my friends, how cheap I hold
What makes the powerless powerful, even gold.
I waste it not; but 'tis not in my thought:
Twice has my purse to its last weight been brought;
And were it not for a brave servant (nay,
Call him my friend) were pennyless this day.
Not pow'r I seek, but prouder sympathy:
A song and a sweet smile are all to me.
If I came hither not for fame alone,
Let honest natures judge me by their own.
Liberal and rich may still be found in one:
In English ground the glorious mixtures run.
England, my patrons told me, is a place
Where honest men soon know each other's face;
Where to be just, is all; and a wrong blow
Must light on none, and least on the laid low
There, said my friends with exultation, there
The men are manly, as the fair are fair:
There you will find true knowledge there a mind
Made to partake all good with all mankind.
If England warn you from the public view,
"Twill be to shame your lot, not injure you.
Go then, Veliuti, no ungenerous name,
And get what happiness you can, with fame.
Icame: I stood not in the public eye:
I needed urging, e'en for company:

I said, I will not, in a land so kind,
Risk a wrong wonder in the public mind;

I will not hurt one humbler innocence;

I'll stay where I am known, and bar offence,

I did so. Manly were the men indeed,
And fair the fair, that bade my song proceed:
And yet the storm burst in upon me there,
And with amazement bow'd me, and despair.

What have I done? Could not these men have shown
Kindly my fault, and let my soul alone?
Perhaps 'twas wrong to venture my disgrace,
However spared, in any crowded place.
Fame may be food unlawful for my sect,*
An odious cast whom no one may protect;
Doom'd to withdraw their being from remark;
And shut, were tears the deluge, from the ark.
Perhaps 'twas wrong; but why not warn me off
With kindly signs, at least without a scoff?
Why not have said,-Velluti, you will find
Too great a pity for a generous mind;
Hearts. moved too much to hear that hapless tone,
And doubting, e'en by praise, to please your own.
With tears I would have thank'd them; yes, with tears
Used to my eyes, and not unworthy theirs.
But they mistake. I'm not the veriest stain
On manhood; nor are they the perfect men,
External men, and statues cold and void,
Never had eye like theirs a look that was enjoyed.
They share their honours with the inferior kind :
My sex is human still, and of the mind.
Go, sorrier tramplers of a sorry frame;
Boast of your prowess to the lovely dame;

Say (for you can say) how, with your high frown
And manly parts, you put the warbler down;
And want the noblest in a woman's eye,
The best, and manliest, generosity.

O woman, by thy nature kind and good;
With bosom for the bird, howe'er pursued;
Whom I must love, unduly as I may ;

Whom I must thank, whate'er the world may say ;
O lost (not all, for thou hast tears) to me,

Let them not, pitying sweetness, unsex thee!

Women are never ignorant as men,

For more or less they surely taste of pain:
Of pain they taste, and bashful secrecy,
And thus they learn to pity one like me..
My censurers say, they play a shameful part:
I say, they're right, and they rejoice my heart.

If in their pity some ideas intrude

That force a thought of joy, 'tis fair and good:
No tear of mine shall wish the comfort less;

Love put the knowledge there, and grief shall bless.

A dim desire, a sweetness hard to bear,

Hangs ever on me, like a charmed air.

'Tis beauteous; 'tis a woe. My languid eyes
Look dimly through, and mourn their destinies.

Yet what is on the other side, I know

But faintly only a sweet voice, and low;

A woman's form; a beating heart like mine;
The rest runs off in tears, and even they're divine.
Oh God of heav'n! what is this thought, and this,
Made
up
of weak and strong, of anguish and of bliss?
Tears can shine sweetly, looking on a smile;
Not so, when what we look on mourns the while.
How often have I wept the dreadful wrong,
Told by the poet in as pale a song,
Which the poor bigot did himself, who spoke
Such piteous passion when his reason woke!-
To the sea-shore he came, and look'd across,
Mourning his native land and miserable loss.-+
Oh worse than wits that never must return,
To act with madness, and with reason mourn!
I see him, hear him; I myself am he,
Cut off from thy sweet shores. Humanity!
A great gulf rolls between. Winds, with a start,
Rise like my rage, and fall like my poor heart;
Despair is in the pause, and says" We never part."
'Twas ask'd me once (that day was a black day)
To take this scene, and sing it in a play!
Great God! I think I hear the music swell,
The moaning bass, the treble's gibbering yell;
Cymbals and drums a shatter'd roar prolong,
Like drunken woe defying its own song:

Sectam meam exsecuta. See the poem of Atys, in Catullus. If the word is objected to, I am willing to shelter myself under the etymology which Doering considers fanciful.-Editio Lips. 1788.

+ See the poem of Atys, above-mentioned. Gibbon says, it is enough to fill a man with pity, an eunuch with despair."-In what sex are we o place those who feel neither like the one nor the other?

I join my woman's cry; it turns my brain;
The wilder'd people rise, and chase me with disdain!
O let me still some little seeming know,
Some fancied pride:-my life is but a show.
Something should pay me for what fate has done;
Some little lustre for my darken'd sun;
Some gift unenvied (none can envy me)
Wherewith to solace my heart's poverty.
And something surely 'tis, on some great stage,
When overtures have read their fiery page,
While taste and wit quicken the sparkling rounds,
And beauty sits expecting beauteous sounds,
Something it is, to issue on that scene,

With clapping hands receiv'd, and shouts between,
And lose myself, and live in the charm'd ear
Around me, in some generous character.
Something it surely is, to give and take
That pleasure and that pride: to keep awake
Beauty's bright eye; to fill it with sweet fears,
Tears glad as smiles, and smiles as soft as tears;
To make the Graces vocal; to rejoice

Through the round raptures of an easy voice,
Uttering such meaning. far beyond the verse,
As was the speech in Eden, and occurs
Now only in the depth of poet's books,
Or failing language when it flies to looks.
Then win I up my way, like lark to heaven,
With happy shudders, quivering, quick, and even,
Catching at every strain a nicer height

Of cordial subtilty and rare delight.

While yearning eyes, and words cut short, below,
Witness delicious wonder, as I go:

Till, with the passion pierc'd as with a dart,

I feel the headlong impulse at my heart,

And struck at once, down sliding, more than dove,
Drop in the bosom of the general love.

O music, solace made for the bereav'd;
Giver of gentle answers to the griev'd;
To labour, rest; to tiresome wealth, employ;
Companion whom the loneliest may enjoy,
Ev'n if with nothing left him to rejoice
His sorrow with but his own sorrowing voice;
Whate'er is graceful in calamity,

And wise above disdain, finds balm in thee;

And all whose wretchedness would fain divide

Their aching thought with some sweet thought beside.

The dark'ning King sat on his throne, and felt

At thy caress his fiery eyeballs melt.

With thee the Bard in his blind orbs withdrew; †

The winds of Paradise his organ blew,

And rais'd him to the angelic choirs, to hear
Heav'n's homage trav'lling to the eternal ear.
He too, in nature kindred as in wrong,
The master of the earthly heav'n of soug.t
While in the public gaze he sat, and led
The poet's wail for Samson's rayless head,
Felt thy soft touch on his benighted eyes,
And wept with his deploring harmonies.
Benignant art! and must I blush to join
One genius more from thy own land and mine?
O blow to redden priestly dust with shame!
From the curst rack with injur'd hands he came ;
With injur'd hands the starry Seer, whose eyes
Had left their sacred vision in the skies.
From the pale villany he came, and found
His generous lute, and tried a feeble sound:

A shake of his grey head confess'd the anholy wound.
I blush again, thinking of men like these,

To name with their's my very miseries:
And yet I know not: few and stout were their's;
Their name a blessing, mine a mockery wears;

Nay, and there's dignity in desperate cares.

Alas! 'tis slavery to excuse thee so:

Arise, my heart, and claim no second place in woe!

I talk of triumphs in the theatre:

The rottenest part of all the core is there.

How, when admir'd on the resounding stage,
My pulses high, my song in all its rage,
When the proud notes, demanding a rich death,
Ran down my voice, and lavish'd glorious breath,
How often when they thought, ears, arms, and sight,
Drew to my heart one deluge of delight,
Was the most lofty triumph of the air
But its own mockery and a high despair!
No soul, thought I, in all this ample round,
Weighs me for more than what I am, a sound:
No soul regards me, loves me, is my own,
Will look me in the face, when these are gone;
And say, and fold me to her dancing breast,
"Dearest, 'tis late, and all our birds at rest.'
And yet (would I continue) here, e'en here,
Some one may sit, that might have held me dear;
Here may she sit, fair, gentle, wise, apart,
A pleasurable eye, a pilgrim's heart;
One that perhaps may know no fitting lot
Of wedded sweetness, because I must not :-
Oh! how I turn'd, as if to wipe that tear,
And sung, and sacrificed my soul to her!

Alone! alone! no cheek of love for me,
No wish to be wherever I may be

(For that is love) :-no helpmate; no defence
From this one, mortal, undivided sense
Of my own self, wand'ring in aching space;
No youth, no manhood, no reviving race;
No little braving playmate, who belies
The ruffling gibe in his proud father's eyes;
No gentler voice-a smaller one-her own-
No-nothing. "Tis a dream that I have known
Come often at mid-day.-I waked, and was alone.

Not on the stage, not amidst heaps of eyes-
Half kind-half scornful, my true comfort lies;
But where 'tis humblest of humilities.

Lo! in the church the pomps of this world meet
To lay their service at the sufferer's feet:
Prostrate they bend: all love the meek distress:
The draperied pomps adore that nakedness:
Thither the odour breathes, the tear aspires,
And seraph tapers waste with yearning fires.
Then stirs the organ, and with gusty roar
Sweeps like a storm from some etherial shore;
And through the sphery volume and stern noise
Takes its meek way the imploring human voice.
Is it a voice most meek, most full of wants,
One, that the ear with strange compassion haunts?
"Tis mine. Mine also is that voice of tears,
When the dark casket of the grave appears,
A diamond in it. See-she came-she's gone-
The only bride for me; and I am still alone.
O death too hard! Yet O still harder death,
Borne by the virgin with no dying breath,
When in their veils the living ghosts come round,
And gather one soul more, and void her place is found.
Once at that sacrifice I sat apart,

And seem'd in weltering tears to weep away my heart.

Go forth, my thoughts. Breathe me a little ease,

Ye blowing airs; and take me, noble trees,

I am not

To your old arms, out of the crowd, and let
My lonely soul taste of a pleasure yet.
Alas! my heart goes with me.
What I would fain become, a point, a mote,
A thought or intuition, a blind air
Gathering some faint sensation here and there;
Much less the calm superiority

Of some angelic, intellectual eye,
Looking on all, and loving all, but still
Out of the pale of passion and weak will.

I sit sometimes within the woods, and feign

A spirit comes to soothe me in my pain;

Nymph more than spirit, and of mortal birth;

Something of shapely warmth, 'twixt heav'n and earth. I clasp her band at meeting, and embrace;

The day before us dances in her face;

And we sit down, and read, and play on lutes

Past thinking of, and feed on rosy fruits,
And wander by untrodden paths, and lead-
Oh, such a life! No young Elysian-mead
Ever held sweeter; no poefic nest.
Took disappointment to a balmier breast.
Yet when our bliss is greatest, when the sense
Of one another's hearts is most intense,
When each grows wild to vent its gratitude

For love so high, so graceful, and so good,
And in the depths of our commingling eyes
We see, upcoming, the dark ecstasies,-
Sudden the landscape fades; my wits forlorn
Deal her, instead of love, some dreadful scorn;
And her poor lover, torn with self-rebuke,
Dies of the pardoning sweetness of her look.

Oh curst be (not my parents, for they knew
Surely no better, yet they lov'd me too!)
But curst be their effeminate souls, who first
Found out the way to make their betters curst.
What tasks they put them to, what impious cares,
How Tantalus's fate was heav'n to theirs,
Better be told by any pen but mine:-
My headlong soul would burst along the line.
Once and away the slave has sprung, and rid
His scorners' necks, as dire Eutropius did;
Once and away has won a glorious name,
Like Narses, by outstripping manly fame,
And saving Rome her very self from shame:
But mostly, blighted in the stirring bud,

The wheel undone that whirls the strenuous blood,
Shorn of his strength for sweetness or for strife,
The quavering eunuch is a child for life:

In all a child, as in his beardless chin;

In all but the warm heart, that grows within.
Darkling it grows, and wonders, and in vain
Calls for the cup that should have eased its pain,
And so with tears and infant gentleness,
Gathers meek patience for its great distress.
Nature will find some comfort, first or last;
The wither'd warbler weeps not for the past;

But young in age, as he in youth was old,
Dies like a singing child, and quits his gentle hold..
Peace with the critics. What must be, must be:
One common gift is mine, mortality;

And 'twixt my grave and this, pardon, ye sounds

Of peace and love, and in your wonted rounds

Take me again, and be to me whate'er

Love would have been, and peace, and honourable care.

I lean my cheek against ye, though ye be

But air; for 'tis supporting air to me,

My world, my wings, my rest, my shore at even,

From which launch my thoughts, and dream, and glide to heaven

Oh! though denied my birthright, and shut up

In my own heart and with this thirsting cup;
Though bound for life, and the sweet drink denied,
Which glad and loud makes every heart beside;
Yet as the bird who, in his prison born,
Never knew tree, or drank the dewy morn,
Still feels a native sweetness at his tongue,
And tow'rds his woodland shakes a glittering song;

So the sweet share of nature left in me
Yearns for the rest, but yearns with harmony;
And through the bars and sorrows of his fate
Hails his free nest, and his intended mate.
Love's poorest voice shall loving still be found,
Though far it strays and weeps,-a solitary sound.

THEATRICAL EXAMINER.

ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.

We know not whether we ought to make a brief article, simply to advert to the launch of a new operetta, under the title of Who's at Home? In truth, it is a very cock-boat; but we cannot affect the monstrous solemn tone of reproof of some of our contemporaries; for mirth-exciting it certainly is, although we will by no means take upon ourselves to assert, that the laughter may not occasionally be of that order which is produced by unexpected absurdity. Still we laugh; and laughter is one of the distinguishing characteristics of the human race divine. The story is briefly told: two lovers, Captain Stupely and the Widow Soluce, quarrel at Swansea, and the lady runs up to town, and the gentleman in pursuit of her. Their servants, who are also lovers, are respectively employed to hire apartments for them; and making up a silly story to the landlady, they actually engage the same apartments for both, with a view to bring them together; and the joke consists in each deeming the other a visitor. A silly old uncle is thrown in to produce a discovery; and the piece concludes with the absolute necessity of a marriage, to keep up the respectability of the lodging house. WRENCH acted the swain with his usual whimsicality, and Miss KELLY, the maid-servant to the life. The widow was too meagre a part to afford much opportunity to Miss GRAY; and to poor BARTLEY was assigned the part of a prudish old