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And if he cry, “ My arms 1 yield,”.
Try not those deadly arms to wield :
Let prudence check this mad desire,

They're pregnant with celestial fire.'-pp. 190.--192. Miss Browne we have already had the honour of introducing to our readers, heralding her with due sounds of praise from our critical trumpet. We are sorry to find her writing, or rather publishing so rapidly, because we fear, that before she arrives at the age of maturity, she will have already begun to exhibit the sere and yellow leaf of her poetical fame. Young ladies, aye and old ones too, will however have their way, and so Miss Browne will write and publish on, until she gets married, the only event we know of that can clip the wings of her imagination.

As usual, Miss Mary Ann is in the lugubrious strain. Why does she not take up a tambourine, and dance about her drawing room for a week or two, to shake off the clouds that hang for ever upon her beautiful brow? We say beautiful, although we have never seen the said brow, nor any feature belonging to the young lady; but if we be wrong, she at least will be too happy to excuse us. Her present volume begins with repentance, and ends with a dear little boy.' We have therefore some hopes that our fair minstrel will think of our suggestion about the tambourine. Upon this condition, we shall indulge her, and haply some of our readers too, by extracting two pieces from her present collection, the first of which she entitles “The hopes of my life.' Hope of my

childhood ! what wert thou ?
That I might roam on the mountain's brow:
That when I awoke to the morning's light,
The day might be serene and bright;
That I might be first to find out where
The violet scented the soft spring air ;
That I might track the wilding bee
To his home in the trunk of the hollow tree :
Such were the simple things that first
The spirit of hope in my bosom nurst.
• Hope of my youth !-thy intensity
Was like the glow of the summer sky;
Thou wert a dream of loveliness,
Fixed in my bosom's inmost recess;
That I might be gazed on tenderly,
By the eyes that were as heaven to me;
That the heart I loved might pour again
Its love on mine, like the summer rain ;
That that spirit might melt in affection's power :
Such were the hopes of my youth's warm hoar !
Hope of my summer! wild and vain
Wert thou, although my fevered brain
Cherished thee with that mad desire,
Whose wild flaines are like a lava fire,

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That my name might blend with many a name
That is uttered by the voice of fame ;
Oh, how I tried my heart to deceive !
Even as when a sweet dream doth leave,
We try and long, and long in vain,
To sleep, and dream it o'er again.
Hope of my age !—and what art thou?
Oh, not on fading things below
Is thy foundation, -thou art no dream,
To melt away like the summer beam.-
I have known some hopes that looked most bright,
Perish like dreams in Truth's morning light.
I have known others as blossoms fair,
Wither like them in the blast of Care;
But thou, thou can'st not be faded or riven,

For thy spring is Truth-thy source is Heaven.'—pp. 20–22. Miss Browne's mother will not be made less happy, we flatter ourselves, when she sees in our pages the verses addressed to her by her daughter.

My mother! now the gladsome spring

Is smiling o'er the earth;
And butterflies on painted wing,

In sunny light go forth.
Though all spring

days most lovely be,
All fair and full of mirth,
One, one is dearest far to me,

The day that gave thee birth ;
It was a day with joyance fraught,
It is a day for deepened thought.
My mother! I remember well,

When thou wast not as now;
Remember when Time's shadow fell

Less darkly on thy brow.
I can remind me of the time,

When in life's summer glow,
Thy years had hardly passed their prime,

And scarce one flower lay low;
But clouds thy heaven have overcast,
Since those bright days of pleasure past.
• Mother! thy step is not so firm

As it was wont to be,
For secret blight and open storm

Have done their work on thee;
Thy hair turns grey, and I can see

Thy hand more tremulous,
And thy dark eye hath lost its glee,

Save when it turns on us,
Thy children-then it hath a joy
And light that nothing can destroy.

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Yet weep not, mother! for the days

Passed by, we'll not regret ;
The star of Hope, with all its rays,

Is only dimmed, not set.
Fixed o'er thy path it shall remain,

And never more deceive,
And it shall sparkle out again,

To light thy quiet eve;
Flinging a radiance o'er past years,
And brightening all thy fallen tears.
Mother! perhaps the poet's wreath,

May ne'er be twined for me;
Perhaps I was not made to breathe

In lofty poesy:--
Yet still I know thy tender love

Will think it melody;
Thy partial ear will still approve,

However weak it be ;
And thou wilt love the words that start,
Thus from the fulness of the heart.'—pp. 65–67.

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The reader will find many other pieces in this volume, which will please his fancy, should he happen to have a quiet mind, and chance to be seated under a shady tree, and near some stripling of a brook that sings in unison with Miss Browne.

Bravo, Mr. Deakin! we never by any chance heard of thy odd name before, but whatever thy verses may be, thy preface is at all events original. Here is a young varlet of a poet, who tells us that

it is the practice of some authors, by an affection (sic) of frankness and a half-anticipating condemnation of themselves in initio, to attempt to disarm the wrath of the critic, and the irreverence of the reader; I humbly beg to be excused doing either-it would be an overweening piece of superciliousness--a species of mock modestya harlot attired in the garments of innocence,' &c. &c. After all this, and a Latin quotation to back his effrontery, he says, and it is with moral confidence that I have the honour of concluding my Preface to the Public ! As to the honour of concluding his preface, we know not where that was found; but when he speaks of moral confidence, we must presume that he means confidence in his morality, in which he is sufficiently justifiable. His strains are very much akin to those of Miss Browne; like her, he is given to what may be called the amiabilities of piety and sentiment, and writes in limpid and agreeable style. We have the honour of transcribing from his collection one poem, which will afford a specimen of the rest.

Oh, didst thou ever gaze upon the deep rich crimson bloom
Of Evening, when she sheds around her shadow and perfume,
When scarce a silken zephyr sighs, and not a sound is heard,
Save tinkling fountain welling near, or voice of lonely bird,

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When twilight draws her line of light along the vesper sea,
And stars ! those barks of bliss above, with sails are swelling free.
And tranquil murinurs musing steal beneath the deep red sky,
And all is peace where'er we turn the contemplative eye?

In such a holy hour as this, when the hush'd heart is still,
And the crimson tide within flows like a coral rill,
"Tis sweet to wander then and watch the starry realms above,
When love is all we look upon, and all below is love :
When no cloud is on the heart, and ro cloud is on the sky,
And sweet sounds whisper to the soul from seraphs shrined on high,
That calm intense that speaks and tells more eloquently far,
Than were the shouts of millions raised and rolld from star to star.
• A calm that almost makes us pray; a holy calm of prayer,
That prompts the soul, like fount, to fing its waters on the air ;
And all the darker feelings ebb, like ocean's gloomy tide,
Or into placid beauty turn, as clouds the moon beside.
O wander forth with me, my love ! O wander forth with me,
And launch the vessel of thy thoughts on yonder crystal sea :
Look through the purple gloom of Eve, unto the zenith bright,
For whilst thou look’st on heaven thyself, thou’rt heaven unto my sight.

See, how I pluck this crimson flower ! 'tis bathed in vesper dew,
It sparkles like thy blushing cheek with rich and modest hue:
And oh ! the liquid on its leaf so frosty that appears,
'Tis like thy cheek of beauty too, when pearld with sorrow's tears.
And see this glow-worm in thy path, that flings its radiance wide,
'Tis like thy brow of pleasantness in summer's glowing pride.
And hark! the lyrist of the Eve, whose pausing notes we hear ;
They're like thy tones, most musical that revel in the ear!
• O come with me and gaze on stars, and scent the dewy flowers,
And listen to the waterfalls that lull the lapsing hours:
Come watch with me yon river glide, " like happiness away,”
And how yon mountain peak almost anticipates the day:
O come with me beneath the shade of yonder dusky wood,
Nay--closer cling unto my heart, nor fear its solitude;
For, though the settled sun has shed a deeper darkness there,
Its
very stillness communes with the heart that throbs with

prayer

! • Then come with me, thou cherish'd one, and I to thee will tell Where angels plume their diamond wings, where cherub, seraph, dwell, Who through yon jewell'd shrine of night, that spreads its fane above, Rolls orb on orb in glory forth, in plenitude of love : Who in his clasped hand upholds the sun's majestic sway, Who says unto the night, “ Go forth--go forth unto the day! O come with me, my cherish'd one, there's peace unto us given, The prayer is pausing on our lips ! let's waft it up to Heaven !!

pp. 118-224. The Author of the “ Portfolio of the Martyr-Student,” has been, he says, in Germany lately, and he tells a romantic tale of the manner in which he came by the poems which he now publishes. The writer of them, he would have us believe, was a German youth of intense poetical feeling, who, upon his removal to a university, was

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so ambitious of distinguishing himself in his pursuits, that he fell a martyr to them. This, of course, is a fiction, intended merely to inform us that the poems were produced by a second Byron, a man who knew not how to cool the fires that burned in his breast. The compositions which we have before us do not always indicate the presence of a muse; at the same time it may not be denied that they merit a high rank in the scale of minor poetry, as the following example will sufficiently prove.

"When tender feelings fondly twine

Themselves around another's breast,
And 'neath all skies that frown or shine,

Seek there and there alone to rest :-
When they have clung so firmly there,

Like ivy to the forest tree,
That he who would their tendrils tear

From thence must make them cease to be :
When they have thrown their beauty round

Some sightless soul, deform'd, and rent,
And been what flowers are to the ground,

Its covering and its ornament:
Oh! when they thus so truly cling,

And find their fondest clasps betray'd,
And feel the poor, the worthless thing,

Though leafless, sapless, and decay'd
With puny efforts, strive to shake

Their warm fidelity away,
And bid them, with their fondness, make

The whirlwind and the storm their stay:
No wonder that they droop and die

No wonder that their days are o'er-
That, trampled on by scorn, they lie

To bloom in life and light no more !'-pp.157, 158.
Our Scottish brethren, who are the most numerous among the
minor poets, will doubtless be delighted with the Pilgrim of the
Hebrides. We are neither pleased nor displeased with this versi-

' fied tour; we stand with relation to it in a state of happy indifference. It neither shook us with laughter, nor melted us to tears. We wish the Pilgrim a happy journey. He philosophizes and rhymes with so much facility, that we can easily imagine him carrying on a soliloquy for two or three successive days upon the beauties of a biscuit, or some such equally arid affair.

A much more interesting traveller have we in Mr. Maude, whose lay comes before us with the imprimatur of no less an authority than that of Moore. Upon the compliments of poets to each other, we are aware little value is to be placed. Mr. Maude's verses, however, really do deserve to be read; they have been written, or at least revised, with classical care as well as taste. They tell us of the author's feelings on quitting England, where

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