"T is the flame that curls round the martyr's head, 'T is the lamp on the altars of the dead, Then crush, even in their hour of birth, And tread his glowing fire to earth, Nor nurse a heart flame that may be Quenched only with thy tears. pp. 37-39. We wish we could find room for the poem entitled "Magdalen," which we believe has never been published before; but we are obliged to exclude it in favor of another of still greater beauty, likewise given to the public for the first time. We request our readers to compare the following with those commonplace and empty compliments to the female sex, which are the "stuff" that so much poetry "is made of." WOMAN. Written in the Album of an unknown Lady. Or hazel-heaven knows, not I; Whether around thy cheek of rose A maiden's glowing locks are curled, Or whether, past youth's joyous strife, I know not-but, whate'er thou art, For thou art Woman-with that word Life's dearest hopes and memories come, What is man's love? His vows are broke And well the Poet at her shrine May bend, and worship while he woos; The inspiration of his line, His loved one, and his Muse. If to his song the echo rings Of Fame 't is Woman's voice he hears; Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings, Smiles, tears,-whose blest and blessing power, A Poet's immortality. pp. 50-52. We suppose that we might, if we had leisure and disposition, find a little fault with some half dozen lines in this collection. We might, perhaps, detect a false rhyme or two, single out one or two expressions wanting in force, mention one or two examples of the injudicious use of metaphorical language, and so forth. We prefer, however, simply to suggest these things to the author, in the confidence that they will be corrected when he comes to republish them, as he will do, without doubt, at no distant time, in company with some more elaborate effort of his genius. Rough Notes taken during some rapid Journeys across the Pampas and among the Andes. By Captain F. B. HEAD. Boston. Wells & Lilly. 1827. 12mo. pp. 264. Ir in former ages our geographical knowledge has been enlarged by spendid discoveries of vast continents and groups of islands, embosomed in unknown oceans, it is extended and enriched, at the present day, by the less imposing, but more satisfactory process of minute and accurate examination. The wealth which our predecessors accumulated, we have leisure to count over, to determine its value, to estimate its different uses, and to apply it to the purposes of comfort and luxury. It is only since the beginning of the nineteenth century, that the mountains of snow, "the holy father of the sacred stream of India," and the secrets of "the dry nurse of lions," have been brought to light, or rather the work is yet only begun. Within the same period, our own continent, part of our own soil, has been crossed for the first time by the feet of white men, and the great streams which diverge from its centre have been followed out to the Western and Northern oceans. And farther south, the other half of the new world has been, for the first time, freely exposed to the examination of European travellers, and subjected to the influence of European science. Nor is this progress of geographical discovery without an immediate personal interest, in relation to ourselves. South America has already furnished us with Indian rubber overshoes and dry feet; and the interior of Africa and the centre of the Polar Circle will doubtless supply their respective contributions to our bodily comfort, no less than to our mental improvement. We can hardly point to one of these unknown regions, where the English are not engaged in exploring and examining; following nature to her most secret haunts; observing man in all his varieties, whether of skull and complexion, or of languages, manners, and conditions. While one party is tracing up the sources of the Ganges, and endeavouring to climb the yet unascended summits of the Himmalahs, another is scaling the sides and threading the passes of the Andes, and yet another is following down the current of the mysterious Niger. We may pass the winter with them in the Arctic or the Antarctic seas, or stand by the devoted victims, who lay down their lives under the pestilential heats of Africa. We We may observe, also, that most of these travellers are military men. The ardor and fortitude, the energy and courage, which would be wasted, and worse than wasted in war and battle, are devoted to better purposes, to diffuse knowledge, to promote civilization; "Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war." The triumphs of science and art, the discovery of unknown worlds, the labors of benevolence, which penetrates the hidden regions of degraded and enslaved man, to give him religion or freedom, these, no less than the productions of genius and the general diffusion of plenty and happiness, are the victories of peace. Suffering, desolation, slavery, death, these are the usual victories of war. Captain Head's "Rough Notes" are full of novelty and interest; his descriptions are sketched with much boldness and spirit; and, without any attempt at scientific or statistical details, he conveys a good deal of valuable information in a very amusing form. The country, which he visited, is a singular one, consisting of a broad plain one thousand miles in extent, and of mountains, shooting up into the very heavens, with all their accumulated load of ice, and streams, and forests. The inhabitants are no less remarkable. Born on a natural road, in the midst of droves of horses, the Gaucho lives on horseback, with his poncho and laso for his worldly estate, and dried beef and water for his food. Our author crossed this plain twice, having travelled, in the whole, six thousand miles, for the most of the way on horseback, and at full gallop. Setting out from Buenos Aires, he visited the gold mines of San Luis; the silver mines of Uspallata; passed the Andes to Santiago, the capital of Chile; from thence went about twelve hundred miles, in different directions, to inspect gold and silver mines in that country; and returned to Buenos Aires by the same route. He describes himself as travelling by day under a burning sun, living on beef and water; and sleeping by night, sometimes on huge masses of snow, sometimes in the rude huts of the peasants, with a horse's skull for his pillow, and fleas, dogs, and human beasts for his companions; and sometimes, throwing himself down, solitary and exhausted, in the boundless plain or on the rocky mountain. The object of his journey was the examination of mines, for an English company, of which he was the agent. The same motives, which, three hundred years ago, filled Spanish America with cruelty and suffering; which animated the dark designs of Ovando, and Cortez, and Pizarro; which dethroned sovereigns, and overthrew empires, and annihilated nations, has again made this country a field for avarice to toil in. But in how different a shape does she appear! The peaceful enterprises of commerce and trade, while they enrich their projectors, carry wealth, and comfort, and the arts into countries, whose inhabitants starve in the midst of the fertility of nature, and are poor while they roll in gold. We extract the following description of the Pampas, because it affords a good specimen of the author's manner, and is, at the same time, an account of one of the most remarkable features of the country. "The great plain, or Pampas, on the east of the Cordillera, is about nine hundred miles in breadth, and the part which I have visited, though under the same latitude, is divided into regions of different climate and produce. On leaving Buenos Aires, the first of these regions is covered, for one hundred and eighty miles, with clover and thistles; the second region, which extends for four hundred and fifty miles, produces long grass; and the third region, which reaches the base of the Cordillera, is a grove of low trees and shrubs. The second and third of these regions have nearly the same appearance throughout the year, for the trees and shrubs are evergreens. and the immense plain of grass only changes its color from green to brown; but the first region varies with the four seasons of the year in a most extraordinary manner. In winter, the leaves of the thistles are large and luxuriant, and the whole surface of the country has the rough appearance of a turnipfield. The clover in this season is extremely rich and strong; and the sight of the wild cattle grazing in full liberty on such pasture is very beautiful. In spring, the clover has vanished, the leaves of the thistles have extended along the ground, and the country still looks like a rough crop of turnips. In less than a month the change is most extraordinary; the whole region becomes a luxuriant wood of enormous thistles, which have suddenly shot up to a height of ten or eleven feet, and are all in full bloom. The road or path is hemmed in on both sides; the view is completely obstructed; not an animal is to be seen; and the stems of the thistles are so close to each other, and so strong, that, independent of the prickles with which they are armed, they form an impenetrable barrier. The sudden growth of these plants is quite astonishing; and, though it would be an unusual misfortune in military history, yet it is really possible, that an invading army, unacquainted with this country, might be imprisoned by these thistles before they had time to escape from them. The summer is not over before the scene undergoes another rapid change; the thistles suddenly lose their sap and verdure, their heads droop, the leaves shrink and fade, the stems become black and dead, and |