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And a murmuring music is on the trees,
Oh! just such a voice was hers.

Silent and sad her tomb is there,
And my early visions too,-

But her spirit is ling'ring in the air,
And her tears are in the dew,
And the light of her maidenly-mournful
On her bower hath never set,

eyes,

For it dwells in the stars, and it gleams from the skies,

On a lonely bosom yet."

Can anything be more spirited than the following, by T. Marshall?

"The Hunted Stag: a Sketch.
What sounds are on the mountain blast?
Like bullet from the arbalast,
Was it the hunted quarry past

Right up Ben-ledi's side?—
So near, so rapidly he dash'd,
Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'd
Into the torrent's tide.

Ay!-The good hound may bay beneath,
The hunter wind his horn;
He dared ye through the flooded Teith
As a warrior in his scorn!
Dash the red rowel in the steed,

Spur, laggards, while ye may!
St. Hubert's shaft to a stripling's reed,
He dies no death to-day!

'Forward!'-Nay, waste not idle breath,
Gallants, ye win no green-wood wreath ;
His antlers dance above the heath,

Like chieftain's plumed helm ;
Right onward for the western peak,
Where breaks the sky in one white streak,
See, Isabel, in bold relief,

To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief,
Guarding his ancient realm.
So motionless, so noiseless there,
His foot on rock, his head in air,

Like sculptor's breathing stone!
Then, snorting from the rapid race,
Snuffs the free air a moment's space,
Glares grimly on the baffled chase,

And seeks the covert lone."

We regret we have not room for the "Dead Pirate," by the same author. The next little poem is very exquisite -"one haunting touch of melancholy thought." It is from the pen of Mr. E. Lytton Bulwer.

"The Complaint of the Violets.
By the silent foot of the shadowy hill
We slept in our green retreats,
And the April showers were wont to fill
Our hearts with sweets;

And though we lay in a lowly bower,
Yet all things loved us well,

And the waking bee left its fairest flower
With us to dwell.

But the warm May came in his pride to woo
The wealth of our virgin store,

And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew
Their sweets no more!

And the summer reigns on the quiet spot

Where we dwell-and its suns and showers Bring balm to our sisters' hearts, but notOh! not to ours!

We live-we bloom-but forever o'er

Is the charm of the earth and sky:
To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,
Or bid us die !"

The "Lines to an Orphan," by Mrs. Hemans, are full of that sweetness yet sorrowfulness of affection in which she excels.

"Thou hast been rear'd too tenderly,
Beloved too well and long,
Watch'd by too many a gentle eye :
Now look on life-be strong!

Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change,
Too holy and too deep;

Bright clouds, through summer skies that range,
Seem oftimes thus to sleep,-

To sleep, in silvery stillness bound,
As things that ne'er may melt;
Yet gaze again-no trace is found

To show thee where they dwelt.
This world hath no more love to give
Like that which thou hast known;
Yet the heart breaks not-we survive
Our treasures-and bear on.

But oh! too beautiful and blest

Thy home of youth hath been;
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
Shut out from that sweet scene?

Kind voices from departed years
Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks that will smite the source of tears,
Across thy soul must play.

Friends-now the alter'd or the dead-
And music that is gone,

A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed,
And thou shalt wake alone.

Alone !-it is in that deep word
How is the heart to courage stirr'd
That all thy sorrow lies;

By smiles from kindred eyes!
And are these lost? and have I said
To aught like thee-be strong?
So bid the willow lift its head,

And brave the tempest's wrong!

Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd,
Thou, shaken with the wind,

On one, one friend, thy weakness cast,
There is but One to bind."

There are two clever, but too allegorical, poems by Mr. Praed: we prefer his charades, flowing in the most musical verse, filled with poetical imagery, and original as the character he alone seems able to give them. How very gracefully turned is the compliment in this one page.

"Come from my First, ay, come!

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!
Fight as thy father fought,
Fall as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought:
So-forward! and farewell!

Toll ye, my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;
And sing the hymn for a parted soul,
Beneath the silent night!
The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:
So take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, ay, call!
The lord of lute and lay;

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day.

Go, call him by his name ;

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave !"

Need we add the solution in the name of Campbell? We must find space for two or three more.

"Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower,
Hark! to the chimes from yonder tower;
Call ye my First from her chamber now,
With her snowy veil and her jewelled brow.
Lo! where my Second, in gorgeous array,
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her, as he curvets by,
With an arching neck and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet, and studied the song;
Ranged in meet order the menial throng;
Jerome is ready with book and stole,
And the maidens fling flowers, but where is my
Whole?

Look to the hill-is he climbing its side?
Look to the stream-is he crossing its tide?
Out on the false one! he comes not yet-
Lady, forget him, yea, scorn and forget."

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Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;

He said, though Love was kin to Grief,
He was not born to grieve,
He said, though many rued belief,
She safely might believe :
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore, by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

He said my First-whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapor faint and far
Through the unfathomed sky,--
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips passed,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast:
But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore, by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath

Upon his raven hair,

And drew his rapier from its sheath,
Which made the lady stare ;
And said his life-blood's purple flow
My Second there should dim,
If she he loved and worshiped so
Would only weep for him:
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore, by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say."

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Round the neck of the youth a light chain was entwining,

The dagger had cleft it, she joined it again, One dark curl of his, one of her's like gold shining,

They hoped this would part us, they hoped it in vain.

Race of dark hatred, the stern unforgiving, Whose hearts are as cold as the steel which they wear,

By the blood of the dead, the despair of the living,

Oh, house of my kinsman, my curse be your share!'

She bowed her fair face on the sleeper before her,

Night came and shed its cold tears on her brow;

Crimson the blush of the morning past o'er her, But the cheek of the maiden returned not its

glow.

Pale on the earth are the wild flowers weeping,

The cypress their column, the night-wind their hymn,

These mark the grave where those lovers are sleeping

Lovely-the lovely are mourning for them."

RUSSIA AND TURKEY.

THERE is a madness of thrones, and it is the madness of perpetual desire -the madness of avarice and accumulation. No extent of dominion can satisfy it; the utter worthlessness of the object cannot restrain it; desart is added to desart, marsh to marsh, a sickly and beggared population is gathered to the crowd that are already perishing in the midst of their uncultured fields;-yet the passion is still keen, and thousands of lives are sacrificed, years of desperate hazard are encountered, and wealth, that might have transformed the wilderness into a garden, is flung away, for the possession of some leagues of territory, fit only to make the grave of its invaders. Austria, at this hour the mistress of a prodigious empire, one half of which is forest, heath, or mountain, unpeopled, or only peopled by barbarians-Austria, the mistress of Croatia, the Bannat, and Transylvania, is longing for Albania, a country of barren mountain and swampy valley, with a population of robbers. Russia, with a territory almost the third of the old world, stretching from the Black Sea to the Pole, and from Finland to the wall of China, is longing for the fatal marshes of Wallachia and Moldavia; for the desarts of Romelia, and the sovereignty of the fiercest race of barbarians on earth, alien by their creed, alien by their habits, and cursing the ground that has been defiled by the tread of a Russian. With two capitals already hostile to each other, she is struggling for a third,

incurably and furiously hostile to both. With an extent of dominion that no single sceptre can adequately rule, and which a few years will see either torn asunder by the violence of rebellion, or falling in pieces by the natural changes of overgrown territory, she is at this hour marshalling her utmost strength, and laying up debility for many a year, in the frantic eagerness to add the Turkish empire to the Muscovite, the Siberian, and the Tartar.

And in this tremendous chase of power, what is to be trampled under the foot of the furious and guilty pursuer! The heart sickens at the reckless waste of life and the means of life, the myriads that must perish in the field, the more miserable myriads that must perish of disease, famine, and the elements let loose upon their naked heads; the still deeper wretchedness of those lonely and deserted multitudes, whose havoc makes no display in bulletins and gazettes, but whose history is registered where the eternal eye of justice and vengeance alone reads the innumerable host of the widow and the orphan. Yet this weight of calamity is let fall upon mankind at the word of a single individual :-often the most worthless of human beings, an empty, gaudy, ignorant slave of alternate indolence and sensuality; trained by the habitual life of foreign courts to the perpetual indulgence of personal excess, and differing from the contemptible race generated by the habits of foreign life,

only by his being the more open dupe of sycophancy, the more prominent object of public alarm, and the more unbridled example of every profligacy that can debase the individual, or demoralize the nation.

Europe is again threatened with universal hostilities by the passion of the Czar to be master of Constantinople. The nominal cause of the war with Turkey is the removal of the hospodars of Wallachia and Moldavia by the Porte. A treaty in 1804 had established that those governors of the provinces should be removed only at the end of every seven years; a period fixed by the customary cunning of the Russian cabinet, as one in which the hospodars, thus rendered secure from the bow-string, might connect themselves more effectually with Russia. The hospodars were Greeks, and their national prejudices allied them to their new protectors; they were like all the Greeks of the Fanar-ambitious, corrupt, and crafty; and the gold of Russia was the virtual sceptre of the hospodariates.

The determination of Russia to seize upon the European dominions of the Sultan, was at length practically exhibited by the march of her troops, under Wittgenstein, to the Danube. The Turks, after some affairs of posts, retreated before the powerful army which now rushed down from Podolia and Moscow on their scattered parties; and the three sieges of Shumla, Silistria, and Varna, were immediately and rashly undertaken.

The result of the campaign undoubtedly disappointed, to a great extent, the expectations formed of the Russian arms. The Turks were often the assailants even upon level ground, and were not unfrequently left masters of the field. Some of their incursions into Wallachia put the Russian corps into such imminent hazard, that they were saved only by an instant retreat : large convoys were intercepted by the Turkish cavalry, and, the campaign was speedily discovered to be only the beginning of a dubious and protracted struggle. The assaults on the Turk

ish posts were generally repulsed with heavy loss; and, of the three great sieges, but one offered the slightest hope of success. Shumla, the grand object of the campaign, was early found to be totally impracticable: Silistria was nearly despaired of, and finally was abandoned by a disorderly and ruinous flight: Varna alone gave way, after a long succession of attacks; and, from the singular circumstances of its surrender, is still said to have been bought from the Governor, Yussuf Pacha, a Greek renegade.

The campaign was urged into the depths of winter, and the weather was remarkably inclement; the Turks were elated by success, and their attacks kept the enemy perpetually on the alert; the walls of the great towns would not give way; the villages were burnt, and could give shelter no longer; and, as the general result, the Russian army were ordered to retreat from the Danube. The retreat was a second march from Moscow. Everything was lost, buried, or taken. The horses of the cavalry and artillery were totally destroyed, the greater part of the artillery was hidden in the ground, or captured, and the flying army, naked, dismantled, and undisciplined, was rejoiced to find itself once more in the provinces from which it had poured forth a few months before, to plant its standards on the seraglio.

Russia, beaten as she has been, has yet showed that she is too strong for the Turk; she has mastered Varna, a situation of high importance to her further movements, and she has been able to baffle every exertion to wrest it out of her hands. She has seized some minor fortresses, and in every instance she has been equally able to repel the efforts of the enemy. She has also conquered a city between the Balkan and Constantinople, which, if she shall pass the mountains, will be a place of arms for her troops, and a formidable obstacle on the flank of the Turkish army. The system of the Russian discipline, finance, and influence over the population of the North, is so immeasurably superior to the

broken and disorderly polity of the Turk, that if the war be a work of time, victory must fall to the Czar. On the other hand we must remember the daring and sagacious spirit of the Sultan, the fierce bravery of his people, the power of the most warlike superstition on earth, the national abhorrence of the Muscovite, and even the new intrepidity of recent success. A still more powerful element of defence remains, the jealousy or prudence of the great European kingdoms. The possession of Constantinople, by the masters of Moscow and St. Petersburg, would shake the whole European system, by giving, for the time, at least, an exorbitant influence to Russia. England would see in it the threatened conquest of India: France, the complete supremacy of the Levant, and the exposure of her own shores to a Russian fleet on the first hostilities. Spain, though fallen in the scale, must still resist a measure which would lay open her immense sea-line from Barcelona to Cadiz. Austria, alone, might look upon it with some complacency, if she were bribed by the possession of Albania, or the prospect of planting her banners in the Morea. But the aggrandizement of Austria would be resisted by Prussia, and then the whole continent must hear the Russian trumpets as a summons to prepare for universal war.

The possession of Constantinople would be, not merely the mastery of the emporium of Asiatic trade, nor of a great fortress from which Asia and the East of Europe might be awed; but it would be an immediate and tremendous instrument of European disturbance by its perpetual transmission of the whole naval strength of Russia into the centre of Europe. The Russian fleet is unimportant, while it is liable to be locked up for half the year in the ice of the North; or while, to reach the Mediterranean, it must make the circuit of Europe. But if the passage of the Dardanelles were once her own, there is no limit to the force which she might form in the Black Sea, and pour down direct

into the Levant. There can be no doubt, that with this occasion for the employment of a naval force, Russia would throw a vast portion of her strength into a naval shape; and that while the Circassian forests furnished a tree, or the plains, from the Ukraine to Archangel, supplied hemp and tar, fleet upon fleet would be created in the dock-yards of the Crimea, and be poured down in overwhelming numbers into the Mediterranean.

Thus it is impossible that the Czar shall attack Constantinople without involving the world in war, and in that war England must be a principal. The premier's opinion has been distinctly stated on this subject, and so far as we can rely on the fluctuating wisdom of cabinets, it coincides with that of France and Prussia. To arrange more systematically the resistance to the ruin of Turkey, the Duke of Wellington is said to be on the eve of an extensive European tour, in which he will ascertain the dependence to be placed upon the courts, and discover how far the Czar may have learned moderation from his last campaign. But the world is in a feverish state: ambition is reviving; conspiracy is gathering on the Continent, and the first hour that sees the Russian superiority in the field decisive, will see the great sovereignties remonstrating, arming, and finally rushing, as to a new crusade, but with the sword unsheathed, not for the fall, but for the defence of the turban !

That this will be the ultimate consequence we have no doubt. But the time may not be immediate. We are inclined to think that the French war has not yet been sufficiently forgotten by the states of central Europe to suffer them to run the hazards of collision without the most anxious efforts for its avoidance. There is a general deficiency of money. All the great powers are actually, at this hour, living on loans. There is no power in Europe whose revenue is enough for its expenditure. Even in England we are borrowing. Our three millions of exchequer bills, issued in the fif

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