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exhibited; and when we beheld the splendid train of three hundred equipages sweeping round the base of the Calton Hill, and entering the city by the magnificent opening of Waterloo Place, we looked down with heartfelt gratitude to that now forgotten Palace, where the brave kings of Scotland once lived and struggled with a turbulent nobility and a barren soil, to maintain the freedom of their native land. But for their bold and unconquered spirit Scotland might have shared with Ireland the horrors of English conquest; and in place of exulting now in the prosperity of our country, and the assembled splendour of

our nobility, we might have been deploring, with them, an absent nobility and a ruined people. Amidst our gratitude for the past, let us not forget the means by which similar prosperity for the future is to be obtained; and if we would secure for this country the inestimable blessings of a resident and patriotic body of landed proprietors, let us seek to give to its metropolis the attractions which might otherwise draw our youth to distant countries; and teach them to look to its taste and refinement, for the means of acquiring the elegant accomplishments, as they have long done, for the more solid acquirements of life.

MA EDITOR,

DON JUAN UNREAD.

I composed the following poem on Tuesday-night last, between the hours of eleven and twelve o'clock, during a sound sleep, into which I had fallen while in the act of attempting to peruse Constable's Magazine. While I slept I was busily employed in versifying, and should, I am sure, have composed much more, but that I unfortunately threw the Magazine off the table upon my foot, which instantly awaked me. A half-hundred could not have descended with more weight, a circumstance which proves how very heavy the articles contained in that work must be; and I feel the effects of it yet. I send my lines merely as a psychological curiosity like Kubla Khan. It is a remarkable fact, that a poem of Mr Wordsworth's, “Yarrow Unvisited," bears a resemblance to this of mine; how to account for this coincidence I know not. I remain, Sir, your humble servant, M. N.

YARROW UNVISITED.

From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And, when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow Folk, frac Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming
Tweed

The Lintwhites sing in chorus ;

DON JUAN UNREAD.

Of Corinth Castle we had read

The amazing Siege unravelled,
Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour,
And with Childe Harold travelled;
And so we followed cloven-foot*

As faithfully as any,

Until he cried, "Come, turn aside
And read of Don Giovanni."

"Let Whiggish folk, frac Holland House,
Who have been lying, prating,
Read Don Giovanni, 'tis their own,
A child of their creating!
On jests profane they love to feed,+
And there they are-and many;
But we, who link not with the crew,
Regard not Don Giovanni.

"There's Godwin's daughter, Shelley's
wife,

A writing fearful stories;

There's Hazlitt, who, with Hunt and Keats
Brays forth in Cockney chorus ;

A recollection of the usual accoutrements of the prince of the air, to whose service the poem of Don Juan is devoted, will account for this epithet being applied to its author. +Italice for Juan, which is Hispanice for John.

Witness the subscription for Hone as a reward for parodying the Lord's Prayer, &c. in which list the Duke of Bedford, Lord Sefton, and many other Whig leaders, figured conspicuously.

There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow;
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a River bare
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."

There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad
Who sings of Rose and Fanny ;*
Why throw away these wits so gay
To take up Don Giovanni.
"What's Juan but a shameless tale,
That bursts all rules asunder ?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."

-Strange words they seem'd of slight and Strange words they seem'd of slight and

scorn;

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow; And look'd me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow !

66

"Oh! green," said I, are Yarrow's Holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.

"Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake.
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The Swan on still St Mary's Lake
Float double, Swan and Shadow !
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow:
Enough if in our hearts we know,
There's such a place as Yarrow,

"Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're there, although 'tis fair
"Twill be another Yarrow!

"If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;

'Should life be dull, and spirits low,
"Twill soothe us in our sorrow

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny Holms of Yarrow !”

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"Let Colburn's town-bred cattle snuff
The filths of Lady Morgan,
Let Maturin to amorous themes
Attune his barrel organ!

We will not read them, will not hear
The parson or the granny ;§
And, I dare say, as bad as they
Or worse, is Don Giovanni."

"Be Juan then unseen, unknown!
It must, or we may rue it;
We may have virtue of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured faith of days long past,
We still shall prize o'er any;
And we shall grieve to hear the gibes
Of scoffing Don Giovanni.

"When Whigs with freezing rule shall come, And piety seem folly;

When Cam and Isis|| curbed by Brougham,
Shall wander melancholy;

When Cobbett, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,
And all the swinish many,

Shall rough-shod ride¶ o'er church'and state,
Then hey! for Don Giovanni."

"Come, tell me, says Rosa, as kissing and kissed," &c. and "Sweet Fanny of Timmol," with many other equally edifying little pieces.

+Scotice for-I do not exactly know what but it signifies something pleasant, comfortable, knowing, snug, or the like.

Peter, to wit.

Vulgariter for grandmother, not that I mean to assert that Lady M, is a grandmother, but to insinuate, that as she is old enough to be one, she has a fair claim to the title. Rivers, on the banks of which certain Universities much indebted to the learned jurisconsult mentioned in the text for his kind attention to their interests, are seated. "We shall ride roughshod over Carlton House."-Speech of all the talents through the mouth-piece of Lord on hearing of the assassination of Mr Percival.

FANCY IN NUBIBUS.

A SONNET, Composed on the Sea Coast.

O! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or bid the easily persuaded eyes

Own each strange likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bowed low,

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks, and then a traveller go

From mount to mount o'er CLOUDLAND, gorgeous land!
Or listening to the tide with closed sight,

Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand,

By those deep sounds possess'd with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea!

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No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo

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No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo

som'd stranger!
3.

"The hands of the Moor

In his wrath do they bind him?

Oh! seal'd is his doom

If the savage Moor find him.

More fierce than hyenas,

Through darkness advancing,

Is the curse of the Moor,

And his eyes' fiery glancing!

Alas! for the white man! o'er deserts a

som'd stranger!
6.

"He launch'd his light bark,
Our fond warnings despising,

And sail'd to the land

Where the day-beams are rising.
His wife from her bower

May look forth in her sorrow,

But he shall ne'er come

To her hope of to-morrow!

Alas! for the white man! o'er deserts a

ranger,

No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo

ranger,

som'd stranger!

som'd stranger!"

P. M. J.

THE RECTOR.

A Parody on GOLDSMITH's Country Clergyman, in the "Deserted Village."

Near where yon brook flows babb'ling thro' the dell, From whose green bank those upland meadows swell;

See where the Rector's splendid mansion stands,
Embosom'd deep in new enclosed lands,
Lands, wrested from the indigent and poor,
Because, forsooth, he holds the village cure:
A man is he whom all his neighbours fear,
Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe;
And starving with a thousand pounds a-year.
Midst crouds and sports he pass'd his youthful prime,
Retirement had with him been deem'd a crime;
When the young blood danc'd jocund through his
veins,

'Tis said his sacred stole received some stains.
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour,
By friends, or fawning, he lays claim to pow'r;
For three fat livings own his goodly sway,
Two wretched curates starve upon his pay.
Celestial Charity, that heavenly guest,

Could ne'er find entrance to his close locked breast:
The common vagrants pass his well known gate,
With terrors hasty step, and looks of hate;
For well they know the suffering poor he mocks,
Their wants are promis'd, bridewell or the stocks:
The soldier seam'd with honourable scars,
The sailor hasting from his country's wars.
In vain to him may tell their wo-fraught tale,
Their wounds, their eloquence, may not prevail;
Tho' by their valour, he in peace remains,

His heart withholds the mite to sooth the wanderers pains.

Thus to depress the wretched is his pride,
His seeming virtues are to vice allied;
Backward to duty, hateful to his ears

Sound the church bells to summon him to pray'rs,
And like the wolf that stole into the fold,
And slew the sheep in woolly vestments roll'd:
Still bent on gain, he watcheth night and day,
To rend and make God's heritage his prey.

Call'd to the bed where parting life is laid,
With what reluctance is the call obey'd;
A few brief pray'rs in haste he mutters o'er,
For time is precious, and the sick man poor;
Fancy e'en now depictures to his eye
Some neighbour's pigs forth issuing from the sty,
Whose wicked snouts his new-form'd banks uproot,
Close in the ditch, and lop the hawthorn shoot.
Full many a luckless hog, in morning round,
He drives, deep grunting, to the starving pound;
When in the church, that venerable place,
A sullen frown o'er preads his haughty face;
A preacher's frown conviction should impart,
But oft his smile should cheer the drooping heart.
He blunders through the pray'rs with hasty will-
A school-boy would be whipt who read so ill-
Then mounts the pulpit with an haughty mien,
Where more of pride than godliness is seen;
Some fifteen minutes his discourse will last,
And thus the business of the week is past.
The service past, no friendly rustics run
To shake his hand-his steps the children shun;
None for advice or comfort round him press,
Their joys would charm not, nor their cares distress s
To notice them they know he's all too proud,
His liv'ried lacqueys spurn the village crowd.
When for the mourner heav'd his breast the sigh?
When did compassion trickle from his eye?
Careless is he if weal or wo betide,

If dues and tithes be punctually supplied.
Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath giv'n,
To be the guide of humble souls to Heav'n;
To preach of Heav'n he'll sometimes condescend,
But all his views and wishes earthward tend.
Like a tall guide-post tow'ring o'er the way,
Whose letter'd arms the trav'llers route display,
Fix'd to one spot, it stands upon the down,"
Its hand still pointing to the distant town.
Actat, 17.

J. P.

CHARACTER OF SIR THOMAS BROWN AS A WRITER.

MR EDITOR,

It is well known to those who are in habits of intercourse with Mr Coleridge, that not the smallest, and, in the opinion of many, not the least valuable part of his manuscripts exists in the blank leaves and margins of books; whether his own, or those of his friends, or even in those that have come in his way casually, seems to have been a matter altogether indifferent. The following is transcribed from the blank leaf of a copy of Sir T. Brown's Works in folio, and is a fair specimen of these Marginalia; and much more nearly than any of his printed works, gives the style of Coleridge's conversation.

SIR THOMAS BROWN is among my first favourites. Rich in various knowledge; exuberant in conceptions and conceits; contemplative, imaginative; often truly great and magnificent in his style and diction, though, doubt less, too often big, stiff, and hyperlatinistic; thus I might, without admixture of falsehood, describe Sir T.

G. J.

Brown, and my description would have this fault only, that it would be equally, or almost equally, applicable to half a dozen other writers, from the beginning of the reign of Elizabeth to the end of the reign of Charles the Second. He is, indeed, all this; and what he has more than all this, and peculiar to himself, I seem to convey

This is a fact. A certain reverend clergyman, who enjoys a plurality of livings in various parts of the country, but whose residence is near town, used frequently to amuse himself by performing the duty of Pindar.

to my own mind in some measure, by saying, that he is a quiet and sublime enthusiast, with a strong tinge of the fantast; the humourist constantly mingling with, and flashing across the philosopher, as the darting colours in shot silk play upon the main dye. In short, he has brains in his head, which is all the more interesting for a little twist in the brains. He sometimes reminds the reader of Montaigne; but from no other than the general circumstance of an egotism common to both, which, in Montaigne, is too often a mere amusing gossip, a chit-chat story of whims and peculiarities that lead to nothing; but which, in Sir Thomas Brown, is always the result of a feeling heart, conjoined with a mind of active curiosity, the natural and becoming egotism of a man, who, loving other men as himself, gains the habit and the privilege of talking about himself as familiarly as about other men. Fond of the curious, and a hunter of oddities and strangenesses, while he conceives himself with quaint and humorous gravity, a useful inquirer into physical truths and fundamental science, he loved to contemplate and discuss his own thoughts and feelings, because he found by comparison with other men's, that they, too, were curiosities; and so, with a perfectly graceful interesting ease, he put them, too, into his museum and cabinet of rarities. In very truth, he was not mistaken, so completely does he see every thing in a light of his own, reading nature neither by sun, moon, or candle light, but by the light of the fairy glory around his own head; that you might say, that nature had granted to him in perpetuity, a patent and monopoly for all his thoughts. Read his Hydrostaphia above all—and, in addition to the peculiarity, the exclusive Sir Thomas Browness; of all the fancies and modes of illustration, wonder at, and admire, his entireness in every subject which is before him. He is totus in illo, he follows it, he never wanders from it, and he has no occasion to wander; for whatever happens to be his subject, he metamorphoses

;

all nature into it. In that Hydrostaphia, or treatise on some urns dug up in Norfolk-how earthy, how redolent of graves and sepulchres is every line! You have now dark mould; now a thigh-bone; now a skull; then a bit of mouldered coffin; a fragment of an old tombstone, with moss in its hic jacet; a ghost; a winding-sheet; or the echo of a funeral psalm wafted on a November wind: and the gayest thing you shall meet with, shall be a silver nail, or gilt anno domini, from a perished coffin top!-The very same remark applies in the same force to the interesting, though far less interesting treatise on the Quincuncial Plantations of the Ancients, the same entireness of subject! quincunxes in heaven above quincunxes in earth below; quincunxes in deity; quincunxes in the mind of man; quincunxes in tones, in optic nerves, in roots of trees, in leaves, in every thing! In short, just turn to the last leaf of this volume, and read out aloud to yourself, the seven last paragraphs of chapter 5th, beginning with the words "more considerable." But it is time for me to be in bed. In the words of Sir T. Brown (which will serve as a fine specimen of his manner)," but the quincunxes of Heaven (the hyades, or five stars about the horizon, at midnight at that time) run low, and it is time we close the five parts of knowledge; we are unwilling to spin out our waking thoughts into the phantoms of sleep, which often continue precogitations, making cables of cobwebs, and wildernesses of handsome groves. To keep our eyes open longer, were to act our antipodes! The huntsmen are up in Arabia; and they have already passed their first sleep in Persia." Think you, that there ever was such a reason given before for going to bed at midnight; to wit, that if we did not, we should be acting the part of our antipodes! And then,

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THE HUNTSMEN ARE UP IN ARA

BIA," what life, what fancy! Does the
whimsical knight give us thus, the
essence of gunpowder tea, and call it
an opiate?

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