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that affecting passage in the Polish annals, where KOSCIUSKO fell, and was supposed by all Warsaw to have been dead, bear their own high encomium with them:

THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping,
And a voice of sorrow now,
For the hero who is sleeping,
With death upon his brow;
The trumpet-tone will waken

No more his martial tread,
Nor the battle-ground be shaken,
When his banner is outspread!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where inoonbeams smile;
Sisters, let our solemn strain,
Breathe a blessing o'er the slain!

There's a voice of grief in Warsaw,
The mourning of the brave,
O'er the chicftian who is gathered
Unto his honored grave;
Who now will face the foeman?

Who break the tyrant's chain?
Their bravest one lies fallen,
And sleeping with the slain.
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,

Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile;

Sisters, let our dirge be said
Slowly o'er the sainted dead!

There's a voice of woman weeping,

In Warsaw heard to-night,
And eyes close not in sleeping,
That late with joy were bright ;
No festal torch is lighted,

No notes of music swell;
Their country's hope was blighted,
When that son of freedom fell!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile:

Sisters, let our hymn arise
Sadly to the midnight skies!

And a voice of love undying,

From the tomb of other years,
Like the west wind's summer sighing,
It blends with manhood's tears;
It whispers not of glory,

Nor fame's unfading youth,
But lingers o'er a story
Of young affection's truth.
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile:

Sisters, let our solemn strain

Breathe a blessing o'er the slain!

We should be pleased to present passages from 'The Maid of the Temple,' an extended poem, imbued with some of our authoress' best characteristics, as well as from one or two pieces of kindred length, as 'The Bewildered Knight,' ' A Legend,' etc., written in the west; but neither the connection, nor our limits, will permit. To the beauty and feeling of the subjoined, many a bereaved spirit will make


THEY led me to a darkened room, with noiseless step, where lay
The last of what had shone on earth, like some bright thing of day;
There were quiet mourners o'er the dust, that still was passing fair,

Though the wreathing, rose-like smiles were gone, that had shone brightly there.

There was one, who o'er the sleeper bent, and breathed a saddening lay,

A brow from which the light of joy had faded long away;

A dewy cheek, and long dark hair, above a neck of snow,
That told, not age had brought to her this bitterness of wo.

I listen'd to her words, and there was something in the strain,

Which woke a fountain in my heart, I cannot still again;

I'll breathe them in my song, and they may catch some feeling eye,
While young light hearts, that know not grief, may pass them idly by.

'A last, a dreamless, dreary sleep, is thine, thou faded flower!
A sleep that knows no sunrise fair- no joyful waking hour;
Not such as oft-times I have seen, steal o'er thine eye of blue,
As fleecy clouds enshroud the moon, that shines in glory through.

'I've walk'd the world, through lonely years of sunshine, shade, and gloom,
And seen the fairest blossoms fade, in the morning of their bloom;
I've seen the wreck of all that's good, and bright, and glorious here,
My weary days are numbered, and the closing hour draws near!

'I've seen the sun of joy go down on many a human brow,
But I never saw the spoiler seize so fair a thing as thou!

Spring wreaths are round thee! dewy flowers, to fade with thee, my child!
Just such as in the past, bright hours, amid thy tresses smiled.

These faded cheeks are stained with tears, from many a trial past,
But the bitterest drops are shed for thee, the bitterest and the last;
For something tells me I shall sleep thy silent sleep ere long,
And we shall meet again my flower, all freed from worldly wrong.'

Unknown, unnumbered are His ways, who sends the grave its prey,
And human love must still weep on, to find its treasure clay,
And learn to lose its clinging hold and strong affections here,
For hopes that have a resting place, with nothing earthly near.

We regret to be compelled to close our extracts with the following; but it is all for which we can find room. The volume is replete with poetry, upon various themes, equally touching and beautiful; and we can only hope that a new edition of the work before us, with the subsequent productions of the writer in addition, will ere long enable our readers to judge of the correctness of the estimate which we have placed upon the writer's genius. The stanzas are entitled 'The Orphan's Smile:'

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In all the relations of daughter, wife, and mother, Mrs. SMITH well sustained her part, 'linking all goodness with affections dear,' and dying, left behind her, in the warm memories of surviving friends, the best memorial to her many virtues.

A CHRONICLE OF LOUISIANA: BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE WARS OF DON DIEGO ROSA, called 'He of the Iron Arm,' the last Catholic Governor of that Province. In one volume. pp. 87. New-York: LINEN AND FENNELL.

CHARLES LAMB somewhere says, that he should like, as a matter of curiosity, to see the greatest ninny that ever lived. ELIA died too young; for here is a person, without a solitary qualification for the arduous task, who has sat deliberately down to write what do you think, curious reader? why an imitation of IRVING'S History of New-York! And such an imitation! We feel, in the very beginning, malgré the abundant pomposity and affectation, that the writer has nothing to say; and his performance fully justifies the presentiment. We know not when we have seen a volume which displays so much silliness and pretension. We submitted to yawn over it to the very last line, and must truly and honestly declare, that in our judgment, more dismal trash was never printed in a book. A good copy of what is excellent, is generally preferable to original mediocrity; but stupid imitation is of all things the most insufferable. From first to last, there is not a gleam, a scintillation, of humor; and yet it grieves us to say so, for never did an author labor so hard. Cumbrous and obscure description divides the palm with the weakest original conception; insomuch that, after all, one is in doubt whether the volume be not less calculated to excite ridicule than compassion. We are duly grateful for the kind wishes of the anonymous author, who sends us his volume accompanied by his 'high and sincere regard;' but were he the warmest of bosom friends, we could conscientiously say no less, nor help regretting that his Ms. did not sleep in the centre of Gibraltero,' (meaning 'Gibralta,' doubtless, since the Spanish is affected,) the resting-place of the great Rosa, whose exploits it assumes to record. The true

son of genius to whom the work is dedicated, if he should chance to read the volume, will be doing injustice to his friend the author, if he do not advise him, that if he has, in sober earnestness,

'set up for a wit,

The very best thing that he can do,

Is down again to sit!"

We agree with some of our contemporaries, that it is truly melancholy to see fine paper, beautiful printing, and respectable wood-cuts, worse than thrown away, in the production and illustration of such irredeemable nonsense.


POEMS BY GEORGE LUNT. In one volume, 12mo. pp. 160. NEWMAN. WITHOUT attempting a review, (for weighty reasons, elsewhere stated,) of this little volume, the unbound sheets of which have been laid before us by the publishers, we would at once commend it to our readers, as containing much good poetry, that will satisfy the imagination, and find a ready way to the heart. We beg the reader to rely upon this summary judgment of the work, until we have leisure and space to prove its correctness; and in the mean time, we offer the following from the lesser attractions of the book, as security for our appearance at court,' when Mr. LUNT'S trial comes uppermost on our calendar:

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THE HUGUENOT. A TALE OF THE FRENCH PROTESTANTS. By the Author of 'Richelieu.' In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 525. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THESE volumes are named in this place, because we would keep the reader advised of the prominent works of fiction, as they issue from the press, and not for the purpose of review; since the demands of illness-stalking like a grim shadow through a small domestic circle, and pulling each member by the ears, as the quaint THOMAS BROWNE hath it-have left us no leisure for its perusal. A friend, however, in whose literary judgment the reader may implicitly confide, has been more fortunate than ourselves. He has perused the volumes, he informs us, with unabated interest to the last; and gives it as his opinion, that no previous work of the author will effect more for his reputation.



Great is our delectation, on behalf of our readers, that through the kindness of an attentive correspondent in London, whose means are equal to the suggestions of a generous will, we are now made, and shall continue to be made, the earliest recipients on this side the water, of copies of whatsoever is rich and rare in the literary novelties, whether of books or periodicals, of the prolific 'trans-Atlantines.' In addition to the original 'Monthly Record of Foreign Literature,' collected up to the latest possible period, by our capable contributor, and embracing, beside, all the imporant works in progress of publication, we shall not unfrequently be favored with early extracts from volumes in the London press, which are likely to prove attractive to American readers, and in one or two instances, with early sheets from the best of the magazines; so that we may safely promise an ample variety of matters, damp from a foreign press, or fresh from the pen of a resident correspondent, to mingle, in due proportion, with the domestic productions of our review and 'table' department. In the case of GRANT's amusing 'Sketches in London,' the copious extracts from our advance copy were widely circulated in the various journals of the United States, long before the book was on sale here, and even while it was yet a novelty in the London catalogues of new works; and we have now before us, through the same agency, a couple of volumes, even more entertaining than the one in question, which has not yet reached the American literary mart, and from which we purpose to draw liberally, for the entertainment and amusement of the reader.

'Music and Friends, or Pleasant Recollections of a Dilettante,' by WILLIAM GARDINER, is the work to which we allude. The 'Music of Nature,' by the same author, has made the writer favorably known to the musical public. Though the present work is sadly deficient in aim and method, without chronological order, or any thing like regular arrangement in any respect, it is nevertheless a light, lively, and amusing fanfaron, wherein the writer has compressed and brought together the floes of all subjects with which the ocean of society wherein he moved, by reason of his musical taste and abilities, was overspread. SIR WALTER SCOTT once said, that he never remarked one who was exclusively attached to his own profession, who did not become a great twaddler in good society: this is undoubtedly true, and yet your professional twaddler may be an acute observer; and with a good memory, his brain soon becomes like a pawnbroker's shop, full of other men's intellectual goods; here a scrap of information, picked up casually on the road, and there a sprightly anecdote, gleaned at a dinner in good society. Here a composite joke, it may be, of the Joe Miller school, and there a profound disquisition, by some one eminent in science, upon a momentous theme. With all this, in the present instance, there is mixed up, is true, a superabundance of musical leaven. Full often does 'the conversation turn chiefly on music;' and the most striking thought suggested to our author by the battle of Waterloo, where a hundred thousand combat. tants were engaged for eight hours, with all the horrid implements of war, is, what a great pity it was, that BEETHOVEN could not have been there, to seize upon the long roll of the artillery, the yells of mangled thousands, and the clash of arms, as a grand climax to his celebrated battle symphony! The still more sublime war of the elements,

when the author was approaching the mountainous coast of Scotland, during a violent storm at sea, suggested no idea so forcibly, as that the 'low roll of the thunder was formed of the lowest sound in the musical scale.' The writer was at Hull, when the emigrants (principally priests, with their eyes sadly cast on their breviaries, and clad in their soiled monkish habits, which they had no time to throw aside,) from the Low Countries fled before the French into England; yet this sad spectacle was entirely merged in the melancholy reminiscence, that 'Hull was the most unmusical place he ever visited.' Let us pass, however, to our extracts, which we shall commence with an anecdote of a celebrated English chevalier :

At one of the music-meetings, in St. Martin's church, for the benefit of the Leicester Infirmary, I noticed a tall, handsome man, in a scarlet coat, with a gold button-hole in a black collar, the fashion of the day, moving with a gentleman-like air. This person proved to be the notorious Barrington, the pickpocket. In going up the middle aisle, he was invited into the mayor's pew, and sat between Miss St. John and Mr. Ashby, of Quenby, our late Member of Parliament. One of the plates was held at the door by this lady and gentleman, and when Mr. Barringtou laid his guinea upon the plate, he was kindly thanked by his new acquaintance, and passed on with a graceful bow. The gentry who held the plates retired into the vestry, to add their contributions, and when Mr. Ashby would have placed his ten guineas on the plate, to his utter astonishment, they had flown from his pocket. After considerable amazement, the mystery was explained by one of the company remarking that Miss St. John's pocket was turned inside out; and that the elegant gentleman who sat between them had helped himself to the subscription he had put on the plate, and something beside. It is said that Barrington facilitated his operations by instruments, which he had made for the purpose. I recollect a circumstance of this kind. He waited upon a surgical-instrument maker, and ordered a pair of scissors, of a curious form; a few days afterward, he called for them, liked them, and paid two guineas, which the maker charged. After he had left the shop, the cutler's wife said, 'My dear, as the gentleman seemed so pleased with the scissors, I wish we had asked him what use they were for he might recommend us-do run after him! The cutler scampered out of the shop, and, overtaking the gentleman, hoped he would excuse him, but would he tell him what use he intended to make of the scissors ? Why, my friend,' said Barrington, catching him by the button of his coat, and staring him in the face, 'I don't know whether I can tell you it's a great secret.' O, pray do. Sir-it may be something in our way.' Upon which, Barrington pressing hard upon his shoulder, whispered in his ear, They are for picking of pockets! In the utmost consternation, the scissors-maker ran back, and the moment he got into the shop, My dear,' he cried, will you believe it? - they are for picking of pockets!' Yes, my dear,' cried the wife, 'but what is the matter with your clothes? The cutler looked, and presently discovered that the scissors had extracted the two guineas he had just received for them!'

The reader will remember GOLDSMITH'S account of a clerical dinner which he once attended in England, where he anticipated a rich intellectual banquet, from the attrition and conversation of some fifteen or twenty country 'lights of the church.' Being ushered into the apartment, he was greatly surprised and scandalized, when, after a long pause, a prominent divine broke the expressive silence which had mused their praise, by observing, that 'a sow in his parish had recently had fifteen pigs at a litter!' We have always fancied that this scene was something of a caricature; but if such things as the following are seen 'in the green tree,' what may we not expect from 'the dry? Our author is at Cambridge, searching for a young clergyman, a fellow townsman of his. At length, says Mr. GARDINER:

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'I found his rooms; the door was fast, but through the window I discovered his cap and gown, lying on the floor. In the dusk of the evening I went again, and seeing a disconsolate man pacing the dark cloisters of that monkish place, I gently stepped behind him, and asked if he could tell me where Mr. B was? Starting from his reverie, he replied, Yes, Sir; he is coaching it in the next quadrangle!' 'Pray. Sir, what is that?' I said. Why, don't you know what coaching is? He is dining out, Sir; follow me, and I will show you where he is.' As I mounted the stairs, I heard sounds of revelry. Surely, said I to myself, B- cannot be here; the demure, sanctified B-3 I had to pass through a dark room, and poked my way to the door, directed by bursts of laughter within. I rapped gently; a loud voice cried out, Tumble in! Opening the first door, I found myself between two. There was no retreating on tapping at the second, the invitation was repeated louder than before, with some addition, Tumble in, and show your ugly face! I instantly found myself in the company of three fine fellows, who showed signs of having spent a glorious day. In the midst of my odd entanglement, a thundering voice shouted, Red or white, red or white?' I stood amazed; still louder the demand was repeated, Red or white, Sir? I paused for a moment, and catching a portion of their sanctified humor, I stoutly answered, Red!' and sat me down. Not another word was spoken: fresh wine and clean glasses were brought; we drank round, and in silence I bowed to my new friends. After a short pause, I begged to express my good fortune in falling into such civilized company, as I had never dreamed of finishing the day so much to my mind. I told them I was wandering about in search of a townsman of mine, one John B, of Leicester, whom I could not find, but had little to regret on that score, since my inquiries had brought me into the present party. Upon which one of my jovial friends got up, and pointing to the floor, cried out, There he lies! there he lies, Sir! The Rev. John B, Bachelor of Arts, and like one of the profane !' There he lay; the saint-like B, dead as Bacchus, under the table!'

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