The jewell'd chaplet that adorns her brow,
Her spear, resplendent as the solar flame,
Her cheek, that shames the morning's purple glow,
The sovereign GENIUS OF THE EAST proclaim.
Not that dire spectre, who, in later days,

In Asia's courts rears high her pageant shrine,
Who spurns the martial plume, and loves to blaze
In waste of diamonds from Golconda's mine.
But she, of elder birth, whose righteous sway
Asia's undaunted sons exulting own'd,

When Liberty diffus'd her halcyon day,

And Virtue rul'd the helm, with Cyrus thron'd.

I know her by her lofty ostrich-plume,

That dreadful wav'd on Lydia's wealthy plain,
When tyranny at Sardis found a tomb,

And haughty Babel wept her myriads slain.
I know her by her rich emblazon'd shield,

Round whose vast orb the radiant signs are roll'd:
Here Mithra's lion spurns the blazing field,
There raging Taurus flames in sculptur'd gold.
In all the charms of martial beauty bright,
But still with brighter bays by Science crown'd,
The goddess bends to earth her rapid flight,

And consecrates to fame the hallow'd ground.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY will be read with peculiar interest by all who have paid frequent visits to that majestic repository of the illustrious dead. These lines on the fine monument of Roubiliac, in memory of Mr. Nightingale and his lady, particularly arrrest attention and admiration.

Hold, DEATH, thy hand; that threaten'd stroke forbear<

The stroke yon grief-struck husband would repel;

Whose eye distraction marks, whose front despair,

Whose veins in agonizing horror swell!

Mark, as the tide of ebbing life retires,

yon

Through fair form what well-feign'd languors creep:
While her fond, speechless lord in death admires,

And clasps her sinking in eternal sleep.

The Eastern Elegy of HINDA abounds with strokes of beautiful pathos, and is farther remarkable by its close and correct allusion to the images and objects of the country, Arabia, in which it is spuposed to be written. We shall say nothing more concerning the wellknown ODE TO MITHRA, than that it is as conspicuous for its sublimity, as THE SCHOOLBOY, written when the author was what he de

scribes, is for the vein of burlesque that runs through the whole

poem.

This elegant morceau we cannot possibly omit.

EPITAPH ON A BEAUTIFUL INFANT.

Bright to the sun expands the vernal rose,

And sweet the lily of the valley blows;
Sudden impetuous whirlwinds sweep the sky,

They shed their fragrance, droop the head, and die.
Thus this sweet infant, from life's storms retir'd,

Put forth fair blossoms, charm'd us, and expir'd.

The VERSES addressed to Dr. Johnson, Sir W. Jones, and Dr. Percy, on Ancient Minstrelsy, have each their appropriate merit, and will amply repay the trouble of perusal, as will some that succeed on more affecting subjects. We shall conclude with extracting two little pieces of this kind, which, in truly elegiac strains, record the singular catastrophe of the young and accomplished Dr. Lettsom, his amiable partner, and his beautiful sister, who, in little more than a year, successively sunk into the tomb, amidst the tears of their kindred, and the blessings of all who knew them.

EPITAPH ON JOHN MIERS LETTSOM, M. D.
Who died in the twenty-eighth Year of his Age,
On virtuous LETTSOM, in his manly bloom,
Resistless, Death's eternal shades descend:
While kindred love and friendship round his tomb,
In speechless agony, distracted bend!

Ah! what avails, above the vulgar throng,
To rise in genius or in worth to soar;

Impetuous rolls the stream of time along,

The bubble bursts, and LIFE's gay dream is o'er !

In every stage of varying life approv'd,

And still of toiling want the constant friend,

He pass'd his transient day,---admir'd,---belov'd ;---
ALL prais'd him living, ALL bemoan his end!

From Heav'n's high throne th' Almighty Sire look'd down,
Well pleas'd to view such worth below the skies;

He saw him ripe for an immortal crown,

And bade his soul quit earth for PARADISE.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELLIOT,

Wife of Dr. Elliot. and Sister to the above.
And must I to the Grave's dark bourn return,
To pour new sorrows o'er th' untimely urn!
Must I, a Brother's ashes scarcely cold,
Close by his side a Sister's corpse behold !---

The beauteous ELLIOT! in whose spotless mind
The loveliest virtues of her sex combin'd.
For ever must a parent's harrow'd soul
Hear the dire death-bell o'er his offspring toll;
In streams incessant must the gushing tear
Bathe, while it consecrates, the filial bier!
Must he, whose skill retards the wretch's doom,
And snatches thousands from the yawning tomb,
View baffled each fond anxious hope to save,
And all he loves swept headlong to the grave!
Is this, all-righteous Heav'n, the brilliant meed
Ta Virtue's toiling sons on earth decreed?
The high reward for many an orphan rear'd,
The widow cherish'd, and the stranger cheer'd !---
But, oh! my soul, these impious plaints forbear,
Nor chaunt the gloomy dirge of deep despair.
Though hard the task with rip'ning Worth to part,
Though buried Beauty rive the bleeding heart,
Yet let not rebel man reproach his God,
But prostrate bend, and kiss the chast'ning rod !---
The stroke that bids our hearts with grief o'erflow,
Bids their freed souls with joys immortal glow ;
Bids them to Being's boundless source return,
With Saints to mingle, and with Seraphs burn!

Epigrams, in two Books. By William Barnes Rhodes. 12mo. pp. 84.
Miller.

"Good, bad, and indifferent," was the judgment of Martial on his own works of this description, to which he added, Aliter non fit, avite, liber, and it seems very probable that no book, entirely composed of epigrams, will ever be written without these varying qualities. Of the former class, perhaps, in the present collection, are these:

Tom's fruitful spouse bestow'd a yearly child,
And he was happy whilst the bantlings smil'd:
Three years ago he join'd a martial band,
And sought for laurels in a distant land;
Yet such the force of habit, Nell, they say,

Still has her yearly child, though Tom's away.

Here rests my spouse; no pair through life

So equal lived as we did;

Alike we shar'd perpetual strife,

Nor knew I rest till she did.

P. 25.

P. 8.

Cries Nell to Tom, 'midst matrimonial strife,
"Curs'd be the hour I first became your wife.”
"By all the pow'rs," said Tom, "but that's too bad,
"You've curs'd the only civil hour we've had."

P. 32.

To have afforded man half an hour's relaxation from care, is not to have lived wholly in vain, and to this praise Mr. Rhodes is justly entitled.

Leopold; or the Bastard. 2 Vols. 12mo. 8s. Highley.

Of all the literary manufactories that are continually at work in this great metropolis, none is more active, or more fertile, and, at the same time, less beneficial to the morals, the taste, and improvement of man or woman kind, than that which has so long and so vigorously been carried on in the novel line. Less beneficial, we say, because novel-writing seems to resemble nothing better than the web-weaving of spiders, both being things alike useless to any but their authors; this catching flies, that pence. To proceed with our simile, we are in truth compelled to confess, that, worthless even as a spider's web appears, yet is it, when it falls into expert hands, capable of being converted into silk: so is novel-writing, when undertaken by men whose moral rectitude keeps pace with their genius, in no slight degree powerful in the promotion of the advantages of instruction and delight. The writer of Leopold, though not at the head, ranks very respectably on this meritorious list. For the idea of the character of Leopold, whose bastardy is the perpetual torment of his mind, our author appears to have been indebted to Old Nick, the title of a popular satirical story, one of the principal persons of which, Keppel von Hein, labours under the same mental affliction, which, producing a cheerless gloom of soul, "embitters all his days." This feature is here ingeniously dilated, and the interest, conduct, sentiments, and language of the tale are such as deserve our present praise, and warrant our future expectation.

A Tour through South Wales and Monmouthshire; by J. T. Barber, F. S.A.

AFTER a very appropriate and scientific introduction, the tour commences in the neighbourhood of Bristol, whence a voyage is made in a Welch hoy to Swansea, exhibiting a humorous display of local character. Swansea town, castle, and manufactories, are severally treated, together with an account how liberally the charms

of Cambrian beauties are there exhibited, in the salutary exercise of sea bathing. Several remnants of baronial fortresses grace this vicinity; on leaving which, the author traverses the commanding height of Pembree-hill, and, after noticing the very picturesque ruin of Kidwelly castle, reaches Caermarthen. There observing, that the work of scavengers was performed by young women, while, "in the same point of view, seated behind a counter, a brawny fisted fellow, was folding up ribbands and laces;" he launches into reflections that will hardly be acceptable to men-milliners and haberdashers. Many beautiful ruins, picturesque towns, odd customs, and well-told adventures, occupy the work, until Pembroke, with Milford Haven, and other interesting objects in its vicinity, oblige a pause over superior attractions.

The tour then traverses the Precelly mountain, and along the western coast of the principality, to Cardigan, describing, in its progress, the episcopal decay of St. David's, and several druidical relics. Near Cardigan, Kılgarran Castle appears to possess very high claims to picturesque grandeur. Hence the route continues near the coast to Aberistwyth, a pleasant watering place, well adapted for bathing, and much to be approved, for the propriety of its regulations. Now skirting the northern confine of South Wales, the remarkable scenery of the Devil's Bridge, and the grand falls of the Mynach, call forth an animated description, which we shall give in the author's own words.

"The cataract that is here formed by the falls of the Mynach, saluted us with its thundering roar, long ere we approached it; but as we drew near, the strong verberation, rebellowed by surrounding cavernous rocks, seemed to convulse the atmosphere! We hastily put up our horses at the Haford Arms, a solitary inn, and in a few paces, found ourselves on the bridge, suspended over a gulph, at which even recollection shudders. This bridge bestrides a lane of almost perpendicular rocks, patched with wood, whose summits are here scarcely five yards aşunder. At a terrific depth in the glen, rages unseen the impetuous Mynach, engulphed beneath protruding crags, and pendant foliage: but, on looking over the parapet, the half recoiling sight discovers the phrenzied torrent, in one volume of foam, bursting into light, and threatening, as it breaks against the opposing rocks, to tear the mountains from their strong foundations; then, instantly darting into the black abyss beneath, it leaves the imagination free to all the ter rors of concealed danger. With emotions of awe, nor without those of fear, we climbed down the side of the rock, assisted with steps that were cut in it, and with some peril, reached the level of the darkened torrents, where, standing on a projecting crag, against which the river bounded, immersed in its spray, and deafened by its roar, we involuntarily clung to the rock. The impression of terror subsiding, left us at liberty to examine the features of the scene. Nearly over our heads, appeared the bridge attributed to the handy works of the Devil; but a less