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Our young and passionate spirits burnt away,
And flung their ashes on the winds of heaven!
Our love has perished like the sound that dies,
And leaves no echo,-like the eastern day
That has no twilight,-like the lonely flower
Flung forth to wither on the wind, that wastes
Even its perfume :-dead, Floranthe dead,
With all the precious thoughts, on which it fed,
And all the hopes which made it beautiful,-
Sound, light, and perfume gone-and gone for ever.

'And art thou come again!—it may not be!
---Oh, beautiful thou art!-but on thy brow
Sits the dim, shadowy thing which only haunts
Where hearts are wasted; and thine eye is sad
As moonlight, when it sleeps upon a grave;
And thy soft bosom-where my head has lain,
And dreamt youth's dream, heaves with unquiet motion !
And thou art weeping,-(there are those who weep
In joy, but then they never look as thou dost!)
Why hast thou come so late!-I waited long,
How very long;-and thou wert by my side,
Sometimes in dreams! (how sad it is to dream,
And play with shadows-flung, perhaps, from graves!
Why come by night, who may not come by day!
Why mock for moments, who were true for years!)
-How long and heavily, from day to day,
I hung upon the hope that grows from fear!
But thou hast come at last!-it is too late;
I cannot love again !-thou, still, art young,
And fair-but as a vestal! and the vow,
My pale Floranthe! is upon thy heart!

Thou can'st not love again !—'tis all too late!'--pp. 16—19.

The lines,

Our young and passionate spirits burnt away,

And flung their ashes on the winds of heaven!'

are evidently a plagiarism from the following sentence in the tale of Agatha,' which precedes this poem, and which Mr. Hervey must have had an opportunity, of course, of reading in the manuscript- My heart burnt itself out in that feeling,-there is nothing now alere flammam; the fire is not only decayed, but the very ashes are scattered to the four winds of heaven!-(p. 11.) There are other plagiarisms in the poem, which it is not worth our while to specify, as they must be obvious to every literary person. Still, considering the taste and depth of feeling which Mr. Hervey usually exhibits in his poety, we regret that so few of his contributions embellish the present volume.

4

The tale of Agatha,' which we have just mentioned, is written by the author of "Gilbert Earle." It is a masterly composition,

full of enthusiasm, mingled with a degree of pathos that reaches and agitates the soul. The incidents of the story are few, simple and domestic; but they derive great force and interest from the manner in which the author identifies his own feelings with them. Mr. Harrison's name is new to us, but if we may judge from his sketch, called The Last of the Family,' his assistance must be a valuable acquisition to such a work as Friendship's Offering.' His style is unaffected and graceful; and his subject, as well as his mode of treating it, remind us of that most bewitching of all village annalists, Miss Mitford. We shall extract the introduction to his tale, as a confirmation of our favourable opinion.

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'It was on a fine cloudless morning, in the summer, that I had strolled to the extremity of a little enclosed copse, when I observed a girl, with a small basket lined with vine-leaves, collecting the wild strawberries that grew, in great plenty and luxuriance, upon the bank which formed the outer base of the enclosure. She was the daughter of a yeoman in the neighbourhood, who, dying in impoverished circumstances, had left his widow with so slender a provision for herself and her child, that she was obliged to increase her scanty income, by letting part of her cottage to some of the many who resorted to that part of the country, for the benefit of its peculiarly salubrious air. Her dwelling had the advantage of being at some distance from the village, and in one of the most delightfully retired situations which can be imagined.

'I had frequently seen Mary Wildling at our village church, where the punctuality of her attendance, and the singular devotion and propriety with which she conducted herself, within its sacred walls, first engaged my attention. She had had some advantages, in point of education, not usually possessed by young persons in her rank of life; and nature, who makes not all her beauties for Almack's or the Opera, had dispensed her favours to her with no sparing hand. I know not to what order of forms she belonged, for, it would seem that there are orders in clay as well as in stone, but she was surpassingly beautiful; and, at the period of which I am now writing, she had scarcely attained her eighteenth year, when the freshness and airiness of youth were delightfully blended with the riper graces and more perfect symmetry of the woman. It is true, the roses were not lavishly strewn upon her cheeks; but their blush, slight as it was, was thrown into relief by the unsullied fairness of one of the most polished and beautiful foreheads in the world. The eyes of a beauty, it hath been settled, should be one of two colours :-her's were neither;nay, start not, gentle reader, they were grey: but many a fair proprietress of black or blue eyes might envy the expression in which those of the unpretending Mary were arrayed. Had her eyebrows been submitted to the hyper-critic in beauty, he might, probably, with his pencil, have given them a more mathematical curve, but he could not have imparted to them a deeper shade; and would have utterly marred the delicacy with which those beautiful lines were traced by the hand of nature. The raven's wing was many shades darker than her hair, but it was not more glossy; and though her curls were not arranged with the taste, nor decorated with the expense, which distinguish the ball-room, nature had compensated for the neglect of art, by making them perpetual, and imparting to them the

clustering luxuriance of the grape, in the vintage time. Her ancle was not clothed in silk, nor was her foot compressed in satin; such adornments could not have added to the symmetry which the cotton-hose, and somewhat homely shoe, were unable to conceal; and her fingers, as they plucked the strawberries from their green bank, were of the fairness and delicacy of the lily.

'There was nothing uncommon in the circumstance of a village girl gathering the wild strawberry; and, but for its frequent recurrence, it would not have excited my particular attention. Observing her, however, at the same spot, and at the same employment, for many successive days, I ventured, upon one occasion, to inquire her motive for an occupation whence she could derive little profit, and which must, necessarily, interfere with her domestic duties. She replied, with some hesitation, that she gathered them for a sick person, who could scarcely relish any thing else; adding, that she feared she should collect but few more, as she had nearly exhausted the crop which grew upon the bank. I told her, that she would find abundance within the enclosure; and, presenting her with the key of a little wicket, which opened into the copse, I bade her avail herself of the supply it afforded, whenever she had occasion. She received the permission, (which, although not the proprietor, I was authorised to grant), with expressions of gratitude altogether disproportionate to the favour conferred, for it would have been readily conceded to any well-ordered person, who had chosen to solicit it. I, frequently, observed her availing herself of the opportunity thus afforded to her: on some occasions, I could perceive her countenance lit up by the indications of hope and confidence; while, at other times, it was pale, anxious, and dejected: but, whatever were her feelings, she did not relax in the diligence with which her charitable occupation was diurnally resumed.'-pp. 23-26.

These strawberries were collected it appears for an invalid young gentleman, who occupied part of her mother's cottage, and the tale proceeds to describe the usual effect, which the affectionate assiduities of the beautiful girl produced on her own heart. But her patient declined every day, until his feeble lamp expired: and in the moral, we see the pious resignation of the maid, who was unconscious of her feelings, until the object of them was no more. We would strongly recommend Mr. Harrison to persevere in this department of composition, and to study Miss Mitford strenuously, not for the purpose of imitating her unrivalled sketches of rustic life, but of acquiring the principles of taste, by which she has been enabled to describe the humblest occupations, the meanest objects, in all their native truth and homeliness, and at the same time to invest them with all that profusion of charms, which beguile us in the pictures of Teniers or Wilkie.

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Is not The Rosicrucian' borrowed from the German? If we mistake not, it is nothing more than a translation, or at least a free imitation, of a tale published some time ago in that language. Of this, however, we must say, that we are not quite certain, and as we do not happen to have the story to which we allude within reach, we beg to be understood as only asking for information. If

it be original, it speaks well for the author of that very promising romance-Sir John Chiverton. It is mysterious, as every tale whose scene is laid in Germany, should be, and at the same time a little extravagant in its plot, as perhaps we may also expect in all such cases. Another sketch, which we also suspect to have been borrowed from the German, is that entitled The painter of Munich.' It is anonymous, but if it be not an original composition, the real source from whence it has been derived, ought in candour to have been stated.

Had we not lately been so much indebted to Miss Mitford's talents for the embellishment of many of our pages, we should have been strongly tempted to transfer to them her Hay Carrying.' It is a picture of village love, such as everybody may have witnessed in his time, touched in her happiest style. Her genius seems perfectly inexhaustible in the production of these sketches. No one of them resembles another, and yet they are all the very mirror of nature.

Winter Quarters,' by the author of "The Subaltern," is an affecting tale of the late war. It is written with that minuteness of local description, and that ready susceptibility for every charm of nature that mingles with the scene, which so eminently characterize all this agreeable writer's productions. The story here is of a Scotch officer, who, during the war in the Peninsula, had occasion to quarter himself for the winter with a Spanish family, in a retired village, that had, by some good fortune, escaped the ravages of the soldiery. The family consisted of Don Fernando Navarette, and his three daughters. To one of these the Scotchman made himself agreeable, but at the moment their tale of love was wound up to its highest interest, an attack was made on the village by the French, and the Scotch officer perishes in defence of the chateau that contained his mistress. Of course she survives him only a few hours, and the lovers are united in the same grave. We shall detach from the tale, a description of the hero, as we think it exhibits the picture of all that a British officer ought to be.

'Norman was an only son; indeed, an only child; yet he went with his mother's hearty benediction, at the early age of fifteen, to join the army. Gifted, by nature, with a constitution capable of enduring the severest hardships, and accustomed, even from the nurse's arms, to be abroad, in all weathers, and at all hours,-privations, under which others sank, were to him as nothing. He would wrap himself in his cloak, in the coldest night, and sleep as soundly, upon the frozen earth, and under the canopy of heaven, as if he rested upon a bed of down, and within the walls of a palace. If provisions were scanty, no one appeared to suffer less their scantiness, or digested, in better humour, his insufficient meal. On the longest march, Norman was never known to knock-up, or fall into the rear: indeed, it was his ordinary custom, to lighten, by turns, such of the soldiers as exhibited most manifest symptoms of weakness, by carrying their arms, and, occasionally, even their knapsacks; and then, when it came to

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the final issue, when man was opposed to man, and all the pomp cumstance of war were abroad, Norman was in his element. Cool and undaunted, whilst he cheered others forward, he himself never forgot the real duties of an officer; his senses were under no circumstances confounded; nor did he ever suffer the enthusiasm of the moment so far to gain the ascendancy, as to cause a neglect, on his part, of a single precaution which the circumstances of the case seemed to require.

'Such was the general character of Norman M'Leod, as far as military qualities are concerned in forming a character. He was a complete soldier, or, as the dispatches express themselves," an officer of great promise, respected by the profession in general, and an ornament to his Majesty's service." But Norman was something more than a soldier. Endowed with principles of the strictest and most unbending honour, Norman was likewise generous, frank, liberal, and open-hearted. His brother officers loved, as well as looked up to him; the private soldiers adored him. There was not a man in his corps, who would have refused to follow, when he led, or who would not have cheerfully put his own life in the most imminent hazard, in order to insure Norman's safety. And Norman well deserved all this. His manners were, at once, manly and gentle: he never employed a harsh expression to attain an object, where a mild expression would avail; and he found, as those who act upon his theory will always find, that he was much more readily attended to, and much more faithfully obeyed, than others who thought fit to follow a different course.

It can hardly be expected that Norman was either a professed scholar, or a very accomplished gentleman. He had entered the army at an age too early to permit his attaining to the first of these characters; and he had embarked upon active service, too soon afterwards, to give leisure for his acquiring the last. But Norman was neither ignorant nor unpolished. His natural abilities were of a high order; and what he once read, he never forgot. Nature had, moreover, gifted him with a turn for music and drawing: both of these arts he sedulously cultivated, as often as circumstances would allow; and, in both, he accordingly made considerable progress. With the French language he was familiarly acquainted, from his childhood; and he had good sense enough to apply himself, as soon as he reached the Peninsula, to the study of the Portuguese and the Spanish. For the practical branch of mathematics, again, that branch which was connected with the science of his profession, he entertained an extreme fondness. He never passed through a strange country, without examining it with an officer's eye, and taking sketches of such districts as appeared to him adapted for the prosecution of military operations of every fortified place, near which he chanced to be stationed, he failed not to provide himself with an accurate plan; whilst, during the inactive season of winter, it proved one of his favourite amusements, to construct redoubts, after the fashion of Uncle Toby, in the sand; to open trenches before them, and to go through the whole process of a siege. But a soldier, who is so far master of three foreign languages, as to speak them with ease and fluency; who is well versed in the mathematics; not unacquainted with the history of Europe, and a tolerable proficient in music and landscape-painting, is not, as men go, to be accounted an ignorant person.'-pp. 186-189.

The best thing which we have yet seen, from the pen of Miss E. Roberts, is The White Wolf, a Guard Room tale of the

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