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STANZAS TO A LADY.

YES, smile!-exult in thy morning hour,
"Twere a pity to cloud that sunny brow,
Or blight, ere it blossom, the beautiful flower
Of promising hope: Yet smile not thou
In the pride of thy heart, and thy reckless thought,
At the ruin thy ruthless hand hath wrought.

Oh! smile not, though haply the hand of spring
Hath scatter'd thy path with its fairest flowers,
And Time, as he flits on his noiseless wing,

Hath swept not a gem from thy chosen bowers;
And ever thy finger be lightly flung
O'er the lute, to pleasure wholly strung.

For why should thy young heart dream of sorrow?
The chalice of gladness is mingled for thee:
Smile on-may the pleasures of every morrow

Look bright in their prospect, nor fade e'er they flee:
And then may their retrospect render them clear,
As a voice we once lov'd, sinks on the ear.

On the streamlet of life, while the beams are playing,
Rejoice in the pride of thy beauty and youth;
Rejoice in the freshness of fancy arraying

The visions of Hope in the raiment of Truth;
Rejoice in the rays that are softly shed

O'er the past, like the beauty that haunts the dead.

Like the halo that loves o'er the grave to hover,

Of the wise and the brave that have pass'd away,
Like the tints of the west, when the day is over,

Or the hues of the woods that are gone to decay;
Or the ivy, that ever delights to cling
To the tower whose strength is mouldering.

Oh how blest are they, for whom memory treasures
The records of hours they would not forget;
Whose innocent hearts, in recalling the pleasures,
That have vanish'd for ever, have nought to regret ;
No sorrow to shadow the scenes that are past,
But only to grieve they have fleeted so fast.

Such boon be thine-When thy youth is over,
Though pleasure at length begins to pall,
Though haply no longer thy heart discover
The delight that is found in the festival;

But given thee still in thy bower alone,
To rejoice in recalling the days that are gone!

P. S.

The IMPROVISATRICE, and other POEMS. By L. E. L. 12mo. pp. 327. London. Hurst, Robinson, and Co. Edinburgh. Constable and Co. 1824.

We have seldom had occasion, in our critical capacity, to question the judgment of our contemporary Reviewers; because, however they may differ in opinion with respect to the merits of particular works, their comments are, in general, remarkable for fairness and candour, and they appear to be influenced only by a wish to afford to their readers a just estimate of the value of such works as have come within their notice but when we see an instance of open, bare-faced puffing, and undisguised partiality, we cannot too strongly condemn, or too openly expose it. And we feel that this condemnation and exposure are the more incumbent on us, as the critic to whom we shall allude, by some accident or other, stands high in the estimation of the public, and conducts a Literary Journal of talent and celebrity.

The task, which has thus devolved upon us, is not of a very pleasing nature; but, in justice to the public, we shall endeavour to fulfil it. Without farther preamble, we will merely state, that the Literary Gazette is the work to which we allude, and that the review, which we cannot sufficiently condemn, will be found in one of its recent numbers, and is occasioned in consequence of the appearance of a poem, called The Improvisatrice, which is said to be the production of a very young lady, who has written a vast number of love-sick Sonnets under the initials L. E. L. which, from time to time, have appeared in the pages of the above-named Journal.

Let it not be supposed, however, that we have sat down to pass a sweeping censure on The Improvisatrice, and its fair Author; far be it from us to wish to repress the outpourings of a fond and youthful fancy, or to check the impassioned accents of a Muse, whose strains are devoted to Love, and all his soft endearments. We are no hermits, nor have we reached that sober decline of life, when the heyday of the blood attends upon the judgment; and, indeed, if we had, the verses of our "English Sappho" would go far in heating us again. Her descriptions are sufficiently warm and luxurious: she appears to be the very creature of passionate inspiration; and the wild and romantic being whom she describes as the Improvisatrice, seems to be the very counterpart of her sentimental self. Her poetical breathing appears to proceed from a soul, whose very essence is love; and seared hearts-withered hopes-broken lutes-blighted flowers-music and moonlight, sing their melancholy changes through all her verses. The Improvisatrice, like the Corinne of Madame De Stael, is an Italian female, who is supposed to be endued with the power of uttering her feelings and fancies in extemporaneous rhyme. Born in Florence, her childhood

Passed mid radiant things,

Glorious as Hope's imaginings:

Statues, but known from shapes of the earth,
By being too lovely for mortal birth;

Paintings, whose colours of life were caught

From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought;
Music, whose sighs had a spell like those,
That float on the sea at the evening's close;
Language so silvery, that every word
Was like the lute's awakening chord;
Skies half sunshine, and half star-light;
Flowers, whose lives were a breath of delight;
Leaves, whose green pomp knew no withering;
Fountains, bright as the skies of our spring;
And songs, whose wild and passionate line,
Suited a soul of romance.

Surrounded with such beauty and harmony, she becomes naturally a painter and poet, and breathes in song the emotions of her full heart, or pictures on the canvas her dreams of ideal beauty. As yet, however, love had not crossed her visions :

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and the young god accordingly soon sets it on fire. Lorenzo is the happy youth who fills her fond heart with a passion as boundless and extravagant as might have been expected from the combustible materials of which her affections were composed. Under the influence of this passion, she sings her improvised songs with new vehemence and vigour. And many episodes are introduced, all of a melancholy tendency, and leading, by a natural sympathy, to the fate which awaited the fair songstress herself. Lorenzo, while he confesses his love for her, is forced to give his hand in marriage to another, and the Improvisatrice, after witnessing the nuptials of her lover with her more fortunate rival, utters a few farewell verses, and is supposed to die of a broken heart. These are the chief incidents which compose the Poem of the Improvisatrice. The volume, which is neatly got up, and prettily embellished, in addition to the principal Poem, is filled up with a number of Miscellaneous Pieces, of which we shall merely remark, that they are all in the same strain of sad monotony, although the critic in the Literary Gazette takes pains to assure his readers, that they totally differ from each other in sentiment and subject. In fact, the chief fault which pervades the poetry of L. E. L. is its unbroken sameness. Her Muse is always in mourning, and sighs and tears are the food on which she loves to banquet. Her harp has but one note, and that wakes to sorrow only. Stanzas on a Withered Flower, Lines to a Deserted Harp, or Verses to a Faithless Lover, are the chief subjects of her song.

We regret that our space will not permit us to give lengthened extracts from the poem before us. The Death Song of Sappho, however, we will take the liberty to extract entire, not only as it affords a good specimen of the author's peculiar talent, and of the monotonous melancholy which runs through all her poetry, but from the high commendation which the Reviewer in the Literary Gazette bestows upon it. “We are acquainted," says he, "with nothing more beautiful in our language."

Farewell, my lute!-and would that I

Had never waked thy burning chords!
Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,

Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;
It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song.

If song be past and hope undone,

And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame ;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!

But, no!-I will not name thy name!

Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave-
My glorious grave-yon deep blue sea :
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave.

Now, admitting, as we cheerfully do, that these verses are pretty, we will, confidently ask, do they merit a higher eulogium? Are they not, in fact, another version of fifty similar songs, to which we could point in the back numbers of the Literary Gazette? the inference is easily drawn, and the motive for this Editorial puff is sufficiently obvious. L. E. L. as we have before stated, supplies the poetical department of that journal, and thus, in praising her productions, the wily Editor is not unmindful of himself. But this is not the first occasion for our friend We remember that some

in the Gazette to puff his fair correspondent. time since, a report was spread of the premature death of this same interesting young lady, and the Literary Gazette joined in the solemn foolery, lamenting her timeless decease, as if it really happened. How far the humbug succeeded, we have little means of ascertaining, but every honourable mind must despise such a pitiable resort.

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We shall now select a few of the extravagant encomiums lavished on the Improvisatrice in the Review, to which we have so often alluded, and regretting that our limits will not permit us to draw more copious extracts from the work itself, we refer it to our readers; and when they have considered its contents, we will ask them in sober seriousness, was the grave Editor of the Literary Gazette in his right senses when he sent the following passages to be printed? As far," says the Critic, as our poetical taste and judgment enable us to form an opinion, we can adduce no instance ancient or modern of similar talent and excellence;" and again, in his concluding paragraph, "this volume forms an era in our country's bright cycle of female poetical fame-we can give her the assurance of what the possessor of such talents must most earnestly covet— IMMORTALITY!!!"

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In concluding our notice of the Improvisatrice, we hope that, in of fering the foregoing remarks, we may not be misunderstood. We love poetry, and we respect the name of poet, as ardently, perhaps, as any of our brother critics; and, whether the lyre is swept by a male or female hand, matters not to us, so as we are affected by the music of its chords: indeed, we are inclined to feel that, in the latter case, we should be more disposed to be soothed and delighted. Of L. E. L. therefore,

we cannot but speak in terms of praise.

She possesses taste, sweetness, and a high poetical feeling; and we only regret she should have fallen into interested hands, by which her talents are prematurely thrust upon the world, and rated so far beyond their merits. We will ask this question, and we believe there are few persons who will not give to it a ready answer. Had the Improvisatrice been published anonymously, that is, had its author been entirely unknown, would it have been lauded as it has been by the Editor of the Literary Gazette? We love to give merit its due: we love to advance timid and retiring genius, and most strongly do we feel the claim, which a young and gifted female advances to our favour and protection. But we despise the despicable artifices of literary men to advance their own interest. And in our estimation of the works of others we shall always remember that there is an unerring standard by which merit may be judged, independently of self-interest, favour, or affection.

BOLINGBROKE'S CLARA.

AMONG the ballad-singers in chief repute during the time of Swift, Bolingbroke, Gay, Steele, &c. (when as yet that tuneful tribe stood high in estimation) there was a young creature, now known to the world by no other title than Clara, who drew much attention at this time by the sweetness and pathos of her tones. She was the original singer of Black Eyed Susan, and one or two songs, which were afterwards introduced into the Beggars' Opera. But her recommendation to particular notice was the circumstance of her having for many years been the object of Lord Bolingbroke's enthusiastic affection. The poor girl strayed for some time, during which his Lordship had not seen her; and it was after that interval, that, having met her, he addressed to her the tender lines, beginning

"Dear thoughtless Clara, to my verse attend,
Believe for once the lover and the friend."

And concludes thus,

"To virtue thus and to thyself restored,

By all admired, by one alone adored;

Be to thy Harry kind and true,

And live for him who more than died for you!"

A series of calamities totally ruined her vocal powers, and she afterwards subsisted by the sale of oranges, at the Court of Requests.

FILIAL AFFECTION, AND PARENTAL LOVE.

THE extensive authority of parents under the Chinese laws is well known. A Chinese, of 40 years old, whose aged mother flogged him every day, shed tears in the company of one of his friends.-"Why do you weep?"-"Alas! things are not as they used to be! The poor woman's arm grows feebler every day."

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