way. She describes in them the characters of a Mrs. Mansfield, and her two daughters, their occupations, their habits, and their tone of conversation so well, that the reader at once finds himself seated with them in a neat parlour in “our village." But then comes a tragical story of some poor boys being crushed to death by the fall of the sides of a chalk pit, beneath which they had taken shelter from the rain-and we need hardly say, that although 'a true story,' it was just as well told in the newspapers of the day. Miss Mitford, when she ceases to laugh in her sleeve, ceases to be in her natural humour. It gives a dimple to her style which no other emotion can produce.

If much of the prose of The Amulet' emulates, as we have seen the march of poetry, its verses, with very few exceptions, descend to the humble pace of prose. Indeed, though many names, not altogether unknown to fame, appear attached to a multitude of stanzas; there is not one of these that rises above mediocrity, if we except The Old Maid's Prayer to Diana,' by the late Mrs. Henry Tighe, which the editor informs us he received from one of that distinguished lady's nearest relatives. It is a very sprightly

effusion.

'SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree,
That Old Maid as I am, an Old Maid I must be,

O hear the petition I offer to thee—

For to bear it must be my endeavour:

From the grief of my friendships all dropping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found-
From the legacy-hunters that near us abound,

Diana, thy servant deliver.

From the scorn of the young and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away

By the pert ones who know nothing wiser to say,
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her:
From repining at fancied neglected desert,
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert,
From finical niceness or slatternly dirt;
Diana, thy servant deliver.

From over solicitous guarding of pelf,

From humour unchecked-that most obstinate elf-
unsocial attention to self,

From

every

Or ridiculous whim whatsoever :

From the vapourish freaks or methodical airs,

Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares,
From impertinent meddling in others' affairs,

Diana, thy servant deliver.

From the erring attachments of desolate souls,
From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles,
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkies, and owls,
Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever:

But chief from the love (with all loveliness flown)
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown,—
Diana, thy servant deliver.

From spleen at beholding the young more caressed,
From pettish asperity tartly expressed,
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest-
From all, thy true servant deliver:

Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot

Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient, if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,

Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.'-pp. 107, 108.

One of the prettiest plates in the volume is that of 'The Cottage Girl,' painted by H. Howard, and engraved by W. Finden. We should also notice in favourable terms the sketch and engraving of an Irish Holy-Well, though we must add, that Mr. Crofton Croker's accompanying narrative is by no means a good specimen of his legendary stores.

We now turn to the Forget-me-not,' and regret that we can by no means confirm the opinion which the proprietor and editor 'entertain of its superiority to all its predecessors.' Several of the plates we must set down as secondary productions, particularly those representing The Princess Elizabeth at Woodstock, and The Escape of Mary Queen of Scots, from Lochleven Castle. Of the other eleven, some are tolerably well executed, but on the whole, they have disappointed our expectations.

Sir Roger de Coverley, in love,' engraved by C. Heath, we do not look upon as well designed. The figure meant for Sir Roger, might be that of any other person in the world, and indeed, the whole scene has as much relation to the history of any man who has ever thought himself to be in that perilous situation, as to the history of the worthy knight.

The literary part of the volume is marked by a great variety of serious and pleasant matter, arranged evidently with a view to allure the reader from page to page, without surfeiting him with any particular subject. Yet, we do not think that there are many things in the whole collection which call for distinguished praise. There are, indeed, very few of the compositions that can be set down as contemptible, although we are much disposed to place all those signed Montague Seymour (heaven knows who he is!) under that head. There are also three or four other writers, whose names appear in this volume, such as John Luscombe, Esq., David Lester Richardson, Esq., Alexander Balfour, Esq., and David Lyndsay, Esq., of whose existence we must confess we had no previous knowledge, and of whose talents we have formed, from their present labours (perhaps erroneously) no very flattering opinion. But their contributions are doubtless of a friendly nature"-that is to say, they cost nothing; and they help, not only to fill up the volume,

66

but to serve as so many foils to the better names upon which its literary popularity must depend. Among these, we may mention, Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Bowditch, Mrs. C. B. Wilson, Miss Mitford, Miss Landon, and the Rev. Mr. Croly. We select a Dirge, written by the latter, which is full of the solemnity and fire of his fine genius.

"EARTH to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,

Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid
In one silent bed are laid;
Here the vassal and the king
Side by side lie withering;
Here the sword and sceptre rust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Age on age shall roll along
O'er this pale and mighty throng;
Those that wept them, those that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep.
Brothers, sisters of the worm,
Summer's sun, or winter's storm,
Song of peace or battle's roar,

Ne'er shall break their slumbers more.
Death shall keep his sullen trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

But a day is coming fast,

Earth, thy mightiest and thy last!
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil,
It shall come in empire's groans,
Burning temples, trampled thrones :
Then, Ambition, rue thy lust!
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the KING shall shine;
Flashing from Heaven's golden gate,
Thousand thousands round his state,
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on our sight,
Earth be turned to living light,
Kingdom of the ransom'd Just-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!'

Then thy mount, Jerúsalem,

Shall be gorgeous as a gem;

Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise ;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God!
Till are dried the martyrs' tears
Through a thousand glorious years!
Now, in hope of HIM we trust-

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust."'—pp. 3, 4.

The Outlaw,' and The Enchanted Castle,' which are also written by Mr. Croly, may be mentioned as among the most successful poetical pieces in the whole collection. We regret that we have not room for both; of the two we take the longer, which contains a magnificent sketch from Claude Lorraine's celebrated picture.

THE sun is on his western throne;
The heaven is like a crimson zone;
The crimson cloud lies deep and still,
A crown upon the mighty hill;
The ancient forest, down its side,
Gleams like a rolling crimson tide,
Till fade its fires in misty gray
Where the deep vale winds far away.

But, from the centre of the lake

Back shoots the splendour, flake for flake;
There, girt with tower and crested wall,
Stands in its pomp a palace-hall.
But all is proud, pale, desolate,
As smitten by the hand of fate-
As if some potent voice had said,
"Be thou the palace of the dead!”

Before its portals sits alone
A woman, pale, and fix'd as stone!
You would have said, some mighty hand,
Some vex'd enchanter's sudden wand
Had, when, the highest of the high,
Her heart beat full of sovereignty,
Laid the dark curse upon her brow
At once, and that wild moment now.
She sits, high, haughty, unsubdued,
In majesty of solitude;

Yet, breathing, beautiful, and young,
As when the princes round her hung.
Still from her eyelash, deep and dark,
Flashes the light-a diamond spark;
Her cheek-the ruby of the morn;
Her lip-like loveliness in scorn;
All, all the beautiful disdain,

That makes us hate, yet bless, the chain.

She sits, the very witchery
That bade her lovers gaze and die.
On the wild weed she sits alone,
Yet looks a sovereign on her throne.

Deserted now, her brave and fair
Long slumber with the things that were :
The deer beside her crops the bloom;
The bird beside her shuts the plume;
The wild duck, from the waveless flood,
Leads round her feet the unscared brood.
A hundred years have sun and storm
Past o'er this monumental form-
For wrath and power were in the spell
Which on that haughty lady fell;
And till has struck the fated hour
Shall cling the spell of wrath and power.

No barge shall stem the azure lake;
No minstrel bid the bowers awake;
No eye do homage to the rose
That on her cheek of beauty glows;
No banner glitter from the wall;
No princely footstep tread the hall:
But all be silent, strange, and lone,
Till the deep vengeance is undone-
Till, past the punishment of pride,

She smiles a sovereign and a bride.'—pp. 295–297.

We have seldom perused a more affecting tale than that of 'Amba, the Witch's Daughter,' by Mrs. Bowditch. The scene is laid in Africa; and the narrative is not less remarkable for the elegance of its style, than for the fidelity with which it preserves the costume, the manners, and the very turn of thought, which are known to prevail among the swarthy tribes of the western coast of that country. The whole of the tale is too long for quotation, and to detach from it a passage or two would only injure its effect. We therefore proceed to Miss Mitford's excellent story of Grace Neville,' with which it is impossible to doubt that the reader will be quite as much delighted as we have been. It is in her happiest style.

'Two or three winters ago the little village of Ashley had the good fortune to have its curiosity excited by the sudden appearance of a lovely and elegant young woman, as an inmate in the house of Mr. Martin, a respectable farmer in the place. The pleasure of talking over a new comer in a country village, which, much as I love country villages, does, I confess, occasionally labour under a stagnation of topics, must not be lightly estimated. In the present instance the enjoyment was greatly increased by the opportune moment at which it occurred, just before Christmas, so that conjecture was happily afloat in all the parties of that merry time, enlivened the tea-table, and gave zest and animation to the supper. There