: THE RUSSIAN NAVY. Russia wants the first, and indeed the only vital element for a navy-seamen. The reason of this is simple enough she possesses no merchant navy. The population of Finland, Courland, Livonia, aud Esthonia does not amount to more than 1,500,000 of inhabitants. That of the Black Sea provinces does not exceed 500,000. It is, therefore, only from this limited number-most of whom, too, devote themselves to agriculture-that Russia can raise her levies. Even those who are sailors are engaged in the coasting trade, which they follow in the day time alone, sheltering themselves at night behind the girdle of island and eyots which line all the Russian coast. To man its ships the Russian Government is obliged to fall back on the inhabitants of the interior of the country. In this way it has, up to the present time, formed an army of sailors, who are frightened at the sea, which the majority of them never saw before. The levies for the navy, like those of the army, are composed of the strangest and most heterogeneous elements; and it is therefore a very difficult task to prepare them for the calling for which they are intended. Any man who has not from his tenderest childhood been familiar with seafaring life, is unfitted for service in the navy. What use can possibly be made of a peasant dragged from his plough and native village-situated sometimes hundreds of leagues from the coast-and transported suddenly on board a man-of-war? Neither the whip nor the knout will ever be able to bend the rebellious and antipathetic nature of the Russian to this kind of service. The cold and fanatical indifference of the Russian soldier on land, before hundreds of cannons belching out death, abandons him entirely on board a ship. The Russian, in his tastes, his dispositions, his manners, and his indolence, is eminently Asiatic. Like the Arab and the Persian, the Cossack and the Tartar, he has a profound feeling of horror for the sea. Besides this, he is destitute of vigour, idle, and without muscular strength-for the muscles beneath his flabby skin, so often lacerated by the rod, are not capable of any great exertion. An Englishman or a Frenchman is two or three times stronger and more active in his movements. A Russian ship, consequently, requires twice as many men as one of our vessels docs, to make up its full complement. COBBETT'S REASONS FOR WAR AGAINST RUSSIA IN DEFENCE OF TURKEY. This sturdy Saxon saw from the outset, with a depth of insight rare in his day, the fallacy of the Greek question. Here are his opinions in 1829, as expressed in a letter to the Duke of Wellington after the battle of Navarino, and after the duke had expressed his deep regret at that "untoward" affair, which Cobbett more emphatically describes as a blunder-headed battle." The words read like prophecy :-" I, from the very first, was hostile to the Greek cause,' notwithstanding I received from some of my readers, men whom I greatly respected, scores of remonstrances, some verbal and some written. My answer always was this:-Russia is at the bottom of the Greek rebellion; Russia wants a pretence for obtaining a firm footing in the Mediterranean; Russia has immense power; but the Turks keep her back from approaching the south of Europe. The Turks hold the keys which lock her out of the Mediterranean; the ice of the Baltic locks her up on that side; hitherto she has been unable to render efficient aid in clipping the wings of England on the sea, though she has been endeavouring to lend such aid ever since the armed neutrality during the American rebel war; but, if we be fools enough to lend our aid in what is called the liberation of Greece, European Turkey will be greatly shaken; Greece will decidedly be for Russia, whose religion is the same as that of Greece; Russia will, in spite of us, have naval stations in the Mediterranean and in the Levant." HOW THE RUSSIANS GOT THEIR BOOKS. Marmier mentions another collection made by a Russian diplomatist, named Doubrowski, during the Reign of Terror in France, when people thought more of saving their lives than their books; and he then found means to collect many of those scattered treasures, which it is to be regretted should be stowed away where access is difficult and almost impossible, as this collection contains manuscripts written on parchment, inedited documents, and inestimable treasures, of which history is thus deprived. On the long shelves where this library is arrauged, are 120 folio volumes of letters from French princes and sovereigns; 150 volumes of autographs of different celebrated persons; a volume of letters from Maurice to Henry IV. and several letters written by dif ferent ministers and ambassadors of France. Amongst the manuscripts was a sheet of paper, on which Louis XIV. had written six times successively, in large hand, and with difficulty," Homage is due to kings; they do whatever they please." That was the wise axiom which his master gave as a writing copy. There is also a missal, once belonging to Mary Queen of Scots. Now all these manuscripts are locked up.-The Rev. Henry Christmas. TRANSLATED FROM THE EPITHALAMIUM As safe from ruthless herds and hinds there blows Called forth by dews, by suns made fair and strong, The Editing of this Journal will, for the future, be SOLELY in the hands of the Proprietress. It is, therefore, requested that all communications will be addressed in her name to the Office, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street. IT was just two years after the marriage of the Princess of Mecklenberg Strelitz with King George the Third, which took place in 1761, that I, Hester Taffetas, became, through the sudden death of the kindest of husbands, a widow of twenty years of age. I was also the mother of a little girl, so delicate and fragile that it has only been by the mercy of Providence that I have been able to rear her; and I had to cast about for the means of obtaining a livelihood for the dear child and myself. Certainly I had a few hundred pounds in hand, but I knew that these would melt away in no time; and my object, therefore, was to establish myself in some business which might prove remunerative. In these circumstances my thoughts naturally turned to the one which in early youth I had been apprenticed to, that of a dressmaker (or mantuamaker, as we were termed in the good old times), which I had given up on my marriage with my dear husband, who was an engraver by trade, and made a good deal of money in his business. People had said at that time, that marriage had spoiled a good workwoman; but my dear Richard would have me give it up, and I loved him so much that a hint, much less an absolute desire on his part, was ever sufficient for me to observe. Now, however, my thoughts could hit on no channel so likely to suit as my old trade; and hearing of a very profitable business which a lady, herself about to retire, wished to dispose of, I sought after it, and ultimately came into its possession, although at first it seemed too high in every way for my means, being chiefly amongst the nobility, and making for the court itself. It came to a great deal more money than I could command; but we got over that difficulty by an agreement on my part to allow a sum out of the business for ten years; and that settled, I had but to contend with my own inexperience, and fears of not being good enough for the high-born ladies who were likely to honour me with their patronage. However, having a superior forewoman, who understood fine ladies and their ways, and what was proper and what was not, I soon became more at my ease, though sometimes, in the worries that will beset occasionally the most prosperous life, I envied my forewoman, who earned a handsome income without care or responsibility; but she was a good creature, older than myself; and we lived together till she died, which event took place in her ninety-third year;-and it is a good deal for two women to be able to say, during our lives we never had a fall out; little miffs, maybe, here and there, for sometimes I was a foolish, opinionated young thing, and would have my own way; but in the end I always was obliged to acknowledge Christiana Marcourt to be in the right. Our business throve, and I prospered so, that many a born gentleman sought me in marriage for the sake of my money, but I always thought of little Betsey, and resolved to live true to the memory of her dear lost father; and at this time, when Betsey's children are growing up about me, and I am a very old woman, who may drop into the grave at any moment, I think I may employ myself usefully, as, thank God, my memory and faculties are almost as clear, and sometimes clearer, than in my youth, in setting down some of the strange histories and incidents which I have known; for a fashionable dressmaker, like a ladies' maid, comes in the way of hearing and knowing odd things, and I must say that I was always curious about the inner lives of those so far above me in station. I hope by doing this I may in some sort avoid the peevishness of unoccupied old age, and keep from being a hindrance to my daughter's family, besides that taking down what I dictate will improve little Mary in her handwriting, and may perhaps, as a remote advantage, interest another generation. Who knows? I shall begin with what I remember of the story of "LADY AMBER MAYNE." Ah! how beautiful were the young girls of my youthful days. Perhaps it might be from the style of dress, which I shall always think was piquante and elegant, notwithstanding that little Mary looks at a print of the Lady's Magazine for 1777 with grimaces and exclamations of "What frights!" What is there in the freedom and ease of the modern belle to compare with the rich petticoat, the looped robe, the flowing sacque, the jaunty lace ker The first chief, half revealing, half hiding, the snowy neck, or the rich ruffles, showing off the rounded arms? Even in the tedious head-dress and the elaborate coiffure, there was a dignity and majesty of beauty quite unknown in the present day. Then grandmothers dressed like grandmothers, and did not ape their juveniles; then class had some distinction. All were not confused in heaps of cheap and gaudy finery. Every thing in female attire was good and durable, lasting out sometimes the life of the wearer, but always appropriate to her age, station, and appearance. And also with regard to female nanies, there were many pretty simple appellations, quite unknown to us in our time. The youngest daughter of the Marchioness of Summerdown had one of these quaint, pretty namesAmber!-and what a lovely creature she was! time I ever saw her was on the occasion of her coming to our establishment to choose a court-dress for her approaching presentation. She had then just attained her eighteenth year, and was a great heiress; for though the Summerdown family were never rich, and not likely to be then, the marquis being lately deceased, and having left no son to inherit his honours; yet a maternal uncle, who had been resident in India, and had amassed one of those fortunes which seem now all but fabulous, had left this vast wealth to the young lady, Amber Mayne. On the occasion I speak of her slight figure was hidden by the marchioness, a lady of much presence, and who was haughty and pompous; and indeed I knew not that any one was with my Lady Summerdown, till, on her ladyship desiring, in a haughty voice, to see some rose-colour paduasoys, one of the sweetest voices I ever heard said, as if it issued from my lady's crimson sacque, "Let it be blue, dear madam, if you please." 'No, Amber," said my lady, "I have made up my mind; it must be couleur-derose." "Just what you have looked on, my honoured mamma, all your life." You must please to remember that in my day, and Lady Amber's, phraseology was a little different to the careless talk now in vogue. Young persons then were deferential to their seniors, and parents were only to be approached and spoken to with great reverence and homage. I doubt sometimes, though, if this enforced state and servility did not produce a disposition to tyrannize, where tyranny could be indulged. And perhaps this was the case with Lady Amber, who mingled with her reverence towards her mother a sweet playfulness truly charming, but who addressed a young gentleman who accompanied them in a strikingly different tone. He was one of the most interesting young men I ever beheld. Ah! I do not see many such now. Such a mixture of humility and spirit, of intelligence and modesty. He might have been about six-and-twenty years old; and his sober attire, as well as the way in which the marchioness addressed him, spoke his condition plainly enough. He was the domestic chaplain. Great families usually had these appendages then, and sometimes, I am sorry to say, they were but a disgrace to their patrons and their cloth. But this young man looked rather as if he were semidivine than imbued with the usual faults of his class, which were commonly time-serving and hypocrisy, vices of the meanest. He differed from the lovely young lady, I believe, about some trifle of taste, and she spoke to him with such disdain. He had a kind of hectic flush in his face, which deepened as she spoke to him. He only looked at her in reply; but such a look! Good heaven! it might have melted a stone. I was just handing her some tiffany to choose from, and the tears fell hot and fast from her eyes on my hand. I knew too well to notice her distress; but thought I, "Here is more than meets the sight." When they were ready to depart, he was about to lead my Lady Summerdown to her coach, when Lady Amber, who had dried her tears, and whose eyes looked as bright as if they had never been dimmed with one, sprang to his side. "And won't you take me with you, Mr. Arden ?” said she. He merely bowed low, and offered her his other hand, for it was not the fashion then to take arms. * * "Of course, child, he will," said my lady, haughtily. And as they went down the stairs I heard Lady Amber teazing and rallying him unmercifully. I watched them into the coach. Ah me! they both after that slight storm looked radiantly happy. We thought what a pair they would have made if fortune had matched them as well as nature, for his auburn hair, fair skin, and elegant appearance, harmonized well with her clear brunette complexion, tinted with a bright colour, her large glowing black eyes, and sweet fascinating vivacity of manner. What followed I shall tell not as I learned it, which was by bits and scraps afterwards, from the marchioness and Lady Amber's own women, and Mrs. Crumb, the housekeeper, but as if it had all occurred beneath my own notice. After all, perhaps, if my readers, whoever they may be, expect much of a story, they may feel disappointed; for however I may have felt it at the time, yet when I come to write I feel much like Corporal Trim in Mr. Sterne's affecting book, when he says, "Story, God bless your honour, I have none to tell." By the will of her uncle, Lady Amber came of age at eighteen, and into possession of her great wealth; at which period her noble father, the marquis, had been deceased a year. She had always been her mother's favourite; and Lady Summerdown, who was the mother of five daughters, and had married four of them into noble families, looked forward towards achieving the highest consequence, by means of her youngest daughter's wealth and beauty. But before this Lady Amber had formed wishes of her own totally at variance with her mother's previsions. Herbert Arden had lived in the noble family of Summerdown some years. He had been tutor to the only son of that house, who died, and who had been very fond of him. At his son's dying request, the late marquis had nominated him the chaplain to his household, though, I believe, he had a sort of dislike to the admission of such a functionary. Yet Mr. Arden's exemplary conduct, his freedom from place-hunting, and his gentle piety, had much commended him to my lord, who was, I have heard, a very worthy nobleman. As a girl, Lady Amber had studied with Herbert Arden. She knew the deep stores of learning which, never vauntingly displayed, yet existed in him, and obtained from the noble young lady profound admiration. She had an innate thirst for the well of knowledge herself, and had quaffed pretty deeply, when she found she had not merely learned to admire her teacher, but to love him also. It was the old, old story over again, the philosopher and his pupil,-but on one side in this case, pride had a deeper root than love; and Lady Amber's pride was of this persuasion, that although Herbert Arden's family (albeit a reduced one) was of as good blood as her own, her brother's tutor was yet no match for her. At that early time she was poor, and, for a marquis's daughter, well nigh portionless; but when the tide of Indian wealth rolled in at her feet, I am told that her woman heard her exclaim in the privacy of her chamber, "Now true love shall triumph;" as if true love ever triumphed. It is too submissive, too fond of sacrificing, to dream of triumph. From the time, then, that she became her own mistress did Lady Amber torture and goad the heart which her woman's instinct truly told her wooed her for herself alone. Perhaps secret lovers were never more cruelly circumstanced than Lady Amber Mayne and Mr. Arden. He dared not avow his love because of her high station and wealth; she dared not own hers, because a woman would rather let her own heart eat itself away by sorrow and regret than she would seek in words to know the extent of her lover's affection. But she had unluckily a most contrary spirit: at one time, she would have given her whole wealth if he would but have acknowledged his regard; at another, if she but fancied she perceived the smallest indication of it, she would so lower him to the earth by her contempt and amazed disdain, that she too often raised in that deep-feeling heart a storm of passionate self-reproach. Oh! the spirit of a coquette. Oh! the galling existence of one dependent on a patron's bounty. It was about this time that she contrived to do deliberately the most cruel thing,-cruel, considering her subsequent determination. Amongst the things which Lady Mary Wortley Montague brought from the East was the system of the language of flowers. Lady Amber insisted on Mr. Arden's studying these floral telegraphs, and imparting the knowledge to her. It was in vain that he, seeing the danger, and aware of her wayward disposition, resisted this wish. All the artillery of her fascinations, her charms, her varied caprices, were brought to bear on this scheme, by which she thought she might convey her mind without compromising her feminine dignity. At length the Marchioness's aid was enlisted, and Mr. Arden, against his better judgment, complied, perhaps pleased to do so in spite of himself. She was no sooner perfected in this art, fitter I think for the intriguing East than our own soil, than she took an opportunity one day-company being present-to gather from the conservatory exactly those blooms which convey to a lover his mistress's affection, and carelessly presented them to the young chaplain, with " Here, Mr. Arden, accept this for your dinner nosegay." To the rest, these flowers were sealed books, but to him-he flushed with joy and rapture. What man-young, enthusiastic, and loving like him-would not have done so. Their eyes met, hers fell, unable to bear the wondrous happiness of that glance, but thenceforth Herbert, though the furthest from being a coxcomb, believed that he needed not the surety of words to convince him that he was beloved: and he felt a modest happiness in that belief. He had never dared aspire to forget his station, though she had often grievously tempted him to do so. Lady Amber was, he knew, her own mistress, and though opposition might reasonably be feared, yet-what-if she loved him all would be well. Not for a whole fortnight after this could he obtain an interview with her; if he sent to request one, she was going to dress, or visit, or a hundred trivial excuses were made. She intentionally deprived him of every opportunity to speak, now that speaking became as obvious a matter of duty to his fine mind as hitherto he had deemed silence to be. At last, one day he found himself alone with her. She became suddenly aware of this, and rose to quit the room, but he placed himself between the door and his capricious mistress, and closing it, led her by the hand to a settee. "I know not," he said, "by what cruel fate I have been deprived of your conversation lately, but methinks the dear favour you bestowed on me should not go unacknowledged. You will not deem it presumption, in the humblest of your servants, dear Lady Amber, if he thanks you for that which came as a ray of the sun's beams to some poor prisoner pining for light." She haughtily declared she knew not what he could mean, and insolently challenged him to explain himself. The young man's spirit rose at this treatment. At that minute he only knew that he was Herbert Arden-a man-honest-unpresuming and of a capacity noways inferior to the proudest. He saw in her a capricious, exacting, and unresponding woman, presuming on her wealth, her rank, and her beauty, and no wonder if his soul rebelled. "Did you not, madam, give me these flowers?" he said; opening his vest, and taking them from the riband which, hung round his neck, suspended them on his heart. "A few flowers," was her exclamation; "what next? Did a gift bestowed in courtesy from one whose position," so she phrased it," entitled her to bestow courtesies, subject her thus to be insolently reminded of the implication they might be made to bear, she must request that her simplest actions might not thus be distorted." "The arrangement of these flowers, then," he asked, was it purely accidental? He must have her own assurance of this." "Must! She was not accustomed, he must be aware, to be thus catechised." "Would she condescend, then, to give the assurance he required, and if possible forgive his mad presumption, which only the most devoted love could excuse." "Well, then, she supposed her late studies had given an accidental determination to the stupid things, which might have seemed odd, but-" The dry and withered tokens were cast at her feet, and her faint cry, as he fled from the room, never reached his ear. She sat, buried in thought, absorbed in repentant tears, for some time, and then left the room. Presently, she bethought herself that the poor discarded flowers were on the floor of the apartment she had quitted. She went back for them, but they were gone,-- she never saw them again till she saw them mingled with dust kindred to their own. Such were the strange moods of her mind,— -now resolving to sacrifice all to love-and now to repel affection by dignity,-that she continued exercising these varieties of behaviour to him, whenever the arrangements of the family brought him into her presence. At all other times he avoided her. She knew not, though many of the servants did, that his distraction of mind had brought on, in an advanced degree, a pulmonary complaint to which he was liable, and that any renewed anxiety caused him to expectorate blood. He was implored by some of the head servants to see a physician, and went secretly out of doors to visit one--lest it should alarm her, whose peace was only too dear to him. At this time, though suitors had never been wanting, one was evidently encouraged. A man of rank, who received marks of favour only when Herbert Arden was by to see and suffer from it. She was urged to marry this gentleman, but seemed in no hurry to make up her mind; but he was not one who would be trifled with. It was intimated that her decision must be irrevocable and immediate. He was a man of high fashion, immense influence, and she hesitated. As a refinement of cruelty, she affected to consult her former tutor. Could looks have struck her with an eternity of remorse, his would have done so then. Once she was on the point of throwing herself at his feet, of confessing all-all--that he was the only one she loved, or could love, or would love. And then the cold and cautious demon whispered, "Think what you will lose, the homage of the world." As if the world could give one grain of happiness in return for the sacrifices made to it of truth, of justice, of honour. And so the impulse was lost, and she dismissed him with so stately coldness that he asked himself, Was I not a vain fool? can this woman have ever loved?" Then there passed such a scene of passion and madness in her dressing-room, with none about her but her women, that one might have thought she was possessed by a devil as of old. And was she not? If the spirit of a coquette is not diabolical, then demons never walk this earth. so did that great fine house hold as it were a casket, these two spirits, one chafing at itself, the other humbled, prayerful, and forgiving. And The news was soon spread, Lady Amber was to be married to his Grace the Duke of Torhampton, and she came to our house to choose wedding clothes. No chaplain now hung on her accents, or attended her steps. She was more lively than beseeming, I thought, and yet, ever and anon, a change came over her, and she heaved great sighs, and was so lost in thought that she knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. Some lady who was with them asked the Marchioness with much "how concern, poor Mr. Arden was?" "Oh! dying, I think," said my lady, “the servants say he neither eats, sleeps, nor rests.' At these words a sort of spasm flitted over Lady Amber's face, but she said nothing, only pulled at the lace she was examining, till it was squeezed into a rag. "I'll take this thing," she said, and then, as if she could bear no more, she went to the window, and pulling out her handkerchief, wept. Her mother and the lady whispered," Such a feeling heart. He was the tutor of poor James, and she loved her brother so dearly, it will be like losing him over again." Why did the sixth commandment fit before her eyes like the writing on Belshazzar's wall, with this difference, that she could decipher too well the characters, "Thou shalt do no murder?" There are more ways of slaying a young lady than stabbing with a knife or giving a bowl of poison. Who shall tell if one day you may not rank with those who have been arraigned at man's tribunal, and have been dismissed to the punishment of heaven? When she left our show-rooms, her eyes were inflained with tears, but she persisted, and not only that, but # Can it be conceived; what fiend ruled the soul of this young girl? The day before her appointed nuptials, which were to take place in the private chapel of the marchioness, Dower House, in town, she took her woman with her and drove to the Bishop of C's, the prelate who had promised to read the ceremony. What arguments she made use of I know not, but as even bishops are not always invulnerable, they must have been powerful ones. On the wedding-day, when all were assembled waiting only for the reverend bishop, there came at the last moment a note from that dignitary, explaining that sudden illness would prevent him from attending, and expressing a hope, more like a command, that his young friend Mr. Arden would be his substitute. He, who pale and attenuated, yet was there maintaining his post among the wedding guests, and striving with all his might to brave it out, was struck speechless at this request. When he could find words, he protested against such a task; why, none of course could imagine, it being obviously his duty. At length Lady Amber herself urged him, "the last request of mine, Mr. Arden." He yielded; perhaps he felt how terrible would be the revenge she was drawing on herself. He took his place. Those who remember the scene said that his face was of the same colour as his surplice. He read every word slowly and distinctly, till just at the benediction, when every one noticed how short his breath had become. The bride had her eyes fixed on the ground, and as the bridegroom turned to salute her, Herbert Arden fell heavily, face foremost, to the ground, right between the new married pair. They raised him; they tore open the breast of his ruffled shirt, as they did so, a little satin packet fell out of his bosom and went on the ground, it contained dead flowers-" ashes to ashes." Doctors came, but she had done her work effectually-life had departed. No one could mend that broken heart. dignity of the whole body." Two years after that her family went into mourning for her. Our house had the order. She had taken laudanum, I believe. There was a great fuss about the coroner's verdict, but it got hushed up somehow, and after all she received Christian burial, which, though it is a hard thing to say, yet to my mind was more than she deserved. YOUNG POETS. MICHAEL BRUCE. ALL poets in a sense are young, and always young genius is the everlasting youth of great intellect. The head of a poet may grow grey, but his heart never grows old. His imagination even may lose some of its fire and freshness, but as soon may the sun become weary of shining as his mind cease to ray out more or less the fervour and the feeling which are essential to his nature. No surer mark of a true genius than this. We hear of men being born poets. No one ever was. There is no poetry in the infant eye; none in his first bitter tears; none in the cry by which he proclaims that he "smells the air." The cold seed indeed of poetry is in that infant; but whether it shall ever warm into the life or expand into the blossoms of genius depends upon a thousand circumstances, including the contagion of the faces which gaze upon his opening countenance, the scenery which salutes his early eye, the education he receives, the companions who surround him, the books which wreath their silent chains around his imagination, and the passions which lurk or blaze up in his soul. But once a poet always a poet. "Call no man happy till he be dead." Call no man a poet till he be somewhat advanced in the history of his existence. Not till then can you tell whether his vein has been merely the heat of early blood, the escape of early passion, the echo of early reading, or the shed eagle-wing of an irresistible afflatus. Yet all poets, once developed, remain young to the last. Look at yonder bard, grey-headed at thirty, bent under a load of premature sorrow, apparently dying of age. Is he young? Yes; look at his eye, still ever and anon elate with childish delight, as a rich sunbeam glints into his darkened room, or as the rainbow suddenly spans the window of his sick chamber. Feel the pressure of his hand all glowing and burning with unearthly ardour, and you find that the man is still young. And how much more intensely would you feel the same could you but behold his heart reflecting in its still red mirror of love, all being from the Deity to the fly which is murmuring unhindered amidst his wild neglected hair. Or behold yonder old poet who has seen some sixty summers. He is stone blind. His white hair shines like mountain snow. Surely he is old. No, his soul is sixteen, while his body is sixty; his imagination winged as gloriously as when it led him through the "shady dingles and bosky bournes" of that immortal wood where Comus held his detested mysteries; is traversing the bowers of Eden, end floating above the crystal waters of the River of Life. He has renewed his youth like the eagles. A grey-souled genius! There is no such being. Age bedims not the eye of true insight. "Time writes no wrinkle on its brow" any more than on the azure brow of ocean. Strange years intermeddle not with its deep joy. What has it to do with time, which thirsts after the infinite, and at every movement of its mind vibrates towards the eternal ? But though all poets are in a sense young, there is a select and very interesting class who deserve the name par excellence "the young poets," who have died in the course of preparation for their high calling, who, like dewdrops, "sparkled, were exhaled, and went to heaven," who, sent in haste from eternity, have only had time to point passionately to the poetry in their own hearts, and |