every page of the father of the British drama. Although his chief forte consists in delineating the various characters and dispositions of mankind, it cannot be denied that he is sometimes peculiarly excellent in descriptive poetry, as that exquisitely beautiful line in the Merchant of Venice will amply prove,―

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank :"

which presents as elegant, and as natural an image as was ever perhaps expressed in so few words. Not to trespass any farther on the good nature of my readers, I shall select but one more passage to substantiate my affirmation, and leave the superior merit of the lines to plead their own excuse for insertion :

-look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

To recommend Shakspeare by quotations, would be a task as endless as to number the sands of the sea-shore; he who would become acquainted with his beauties, must attentively and carefully peruse the writings of the venerable dramatist; for with whatever judgment and attention the selections are made, there are many gems so intimately blended with other passages, that to extract them would be to destroy the sense, and mutilate the beauty of that which we seek to recommend. I regret that my narrow limits prevent me from farther pursuing this interesting subject, which, like the opening spring, continually unfolds new objects of admiration to the delighted observer.

G. S.

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.

Weep, Anglia, weep! for the son of thy glory

Has fall'n in the battle 'midst thousands of slain; Where the horse and his rider, death-stricken and gory, Bedew'd with their life-blood Quebec's desert plain.

Weep, Anglia, weep! for thy hero has perish'd,
Thy Mentor in council, thy safeguard in war;
Whom, like a fond nursling, Britannia had cherish'd;
Her idol in peace,—in the battle her star.

He is fall'n and he fell in the land of the stranger,
Where icicles hinder the roses of spring;

He has fall'n, like a Briton,-'midst carnage and danger,
He has fall'n for his Country, his God, and his King.
There was not a chieftain, whose ear did not listen
To the voice of the trump as it swell'd o'er his
There was not a soldier whose eye did not glisten
With a tear for his leader, so feeling and brave.

Hail, glorious Wolfe! who, by victory guided,
Hast seen the proud legions of Gallia fall;
Who hast o'er the battle and tumult presided,
The herald of conquest, the bravest of all.

grave;

Rejoice in thy lot: not kind fortune upbraiding,
For having adjudg'd thee so early a doom;
Since glory, and honour, and fame never-fading,
Shall cherish the laurels that wave o'er thy tomb.

* * *

AN ODE TO WALKINGAME.

Hail, Walkingame! supreme, sublime,
Of numbers, nothings, prose, and rhyme;
Beauties in thee unnumber'd be as

Thy arithmetical ideas.

To every charm thou add'st a power,
Subtracting grace from every flower,
Thy charms thou dost so multiply,
That countless beauties meet our eye.
O book of complex questions queer,
And answers too, not very clear;
Of drachm, of ounce, of day, of year,
Of shillings, pence, and pints of beer.
Of pounds of money, pounds of hay,
Drawn up so various in array;
And barley corns, and guineas bright,
All mingle in promiscuous fight.
Tuns, hogsheads, gallons, inches, feet,
In fierce contending battle meet;
And drachms of physic, quarts of wine,
Are number'd in the motley line.

And three per cents, and pecks of peas,
And yards of muslin, pounds of cheese,
And ells of cloth, and chests of tea,
Behold, are all contain'd in thee.

More money is in thee ('tis true),

Than all the mines of rich Peru;
More bales of cloth in thee we find,
Than what would clothe all human kind.

To tutors an assistant come,

To aid in making out a sum;

(Not that I want it, but I

say

There are some other folks that may.)

Thou bringest scholars up to count,

O'er algebraic heights to mount;

In mathematics to subdue

Both parallels and angles too.

Hail, "confusion worse confus'd,"

Than any mortal e'er abus'd;

Hail, too, thou strange and motley crew, Of things incredible, but true.

AN EPITAPH.

Beneath this turf reclines, in tranquil rest,

Who once, like thee, with life, with youth was blest :
What kind of man he was seek not to know;

Let this suffice, he was not virtue's foe.
Once life he had; but is it aught to thee
Whether in wealth he liv'd or penury?

If, as their monarch, millions felt his hand;
Nay, if his word was law through ev'ry land;
If worlds paid homage, and if fate had staid
Her doom on thousands 'cause she him obey'd,
What then? thou here behold'st him prostrate now:
Thou seest the mighty fall'n-the great laid low.
His pomp no more, behold his life-a span!
Pride, wealth, and glory gone,-what's left?—a man!

Or, change the scene: a beggar here suppose;
What! seek you still his hist'ry to disclose?
What, though stern fortune on his prospects frown'd?
And what, though pleasure's paths he never found!
Though poor and worthless-destitute of bread,
Is he less mighty 'mongst these lowly dead?

Though prince or pauper, rich or poor he be,
Is that, I ask thee, reader, aught to thee?
Let it content thee, now thou know'st his doom,
Nor drag his errors from the gloomy tomb.
He, doubtless, fail'd: to err is mortals lot-
But be the failings with the man forgot!

Whate'er he was, this grave's his narrow home;
Here shall he rest till Christ again shall come :
Thou, too, must come-youth, grandeur cannot save!
Youth, beauty, glory, lead but to the grave!"

Copy his virtues, nor his foibles see;

A heap of dust he is, as thou shalt be.

Z.

FRAGMENT OF AN OLD MS.

DURING a visit lately at a friend's mansion, in the North of England, I was peculiarly gratified by the perusal of several old manuscripts relating to the history of the family in the "good old times." good old times." The following particularly attracted my notice; having obtained my friend's permission, I hasten to avail myself of the present opportunity to lay it before the public. It is with regret I mention, that several pages have been obliterated by the lapse of time, and not even the greatest industry on my part has been able to decipher their contents. With the exception of a few slight alterations, and rendering the language more adapted to modern ears, it is precisely in the same state as when I discovered it.

G. S.

Beautifully situated at the base of the lofty hills of Cheviot, in a sequestered spot formed by a romantic and magnificent forest, the almost impregnable castle of Glenalvon proudly upreared its frowning battlements. The noble owner of this extensive domain, was Reginald, whose opening manhood gave fair promise that he would one day shine pre-eminently among the gay and gallant nobles who adorned the court of the chivalrous Richard. At the period when our history opens, he had just completed his one-and-twentieth year. To a generous, brave, and undesigning disposition, nature had added a form cast in one of her fairest moulds. A tinge of melancholy oft overshadowed his noble brow, which arose from frequent reflection on the lamentable and untimely death of his parents. His father had been cut off in the prime of life, not without suspicion of treachery. His mother, overcome with grief at the death of her lord, sunk into a disease from which she never recovered, and died, leaving him an orphan at the age which most needs párental tenderness. Oft would he wander in the thickly