condition in which we must fain acquiesce, for the sake of basking in their glory, and being gladdened by their light. We cannot, however, help uttering a prayer that the whole fraternity of reptiles that have been warmed into life by the heat of the luminary would employ their power, such as it is, in extinguishing one another: and we are not quite certain but that Shakspeare and his disciples and the reading world at large, would be all the better for getting rid of the motly crew-through all their ranks and varieties-from the smothering incubus of Malone's black-letter erudition, which has overlaid the writhing genius of the bard, down to the delicate and fastidious knife of Bowdler which has cast away his offensive pruriencies. When will Mr. Lockhart supply all our reasonable wants, and gratify our taste, and fulfill the high expectations that have been excited by the announcement, some time ago, of his projected edition of Shakspeare? From the power, beauty, originality and taste combined, that have characterised his published productions, we are tempted to prophesy that as soon as his edition shall make its appearance, all the others will be speedily put by, to enjoy everlasting repose in the honorable dust of our upper shelves.

STANZAS.

The soul which for Heaven is sighing
Will shrink like the delicate flower,
When the dark hand of evil is trying
To rifle its sweets from the bower.

In secret its blossoms are spreading,

Far, far from the world's path of gloom,
When the fond eye of Mercy is shedding,
The dew and the light on its bloom.

Where the breeze thro' the spice grove is swelling,
And the summer sun's glance never dies,
The golden-plumed bird makes its dwelling,
Far above in the bright beaming skies.
Thus the Spirit which fondly is playing
Round the love-lighted sphere of its birth,
From the Sun of its hopes are ne'er straying,
To worship the meteors of Earth.

"

"Do move to this side-starboard—port again,

Mind, mind your helm!" Then John-“why, d—n my eyes

Here, to gain quiet for th' ensuing week,

A too fond husband led his cara sposa,
Tho' gentle wish'd she to appear, and meek,
Yet 'twas too plain a feminine Mendoza
Lurk'd in ber eye, and flash'd upon her cheek,
A feature oft will visibly disclose a
Tornedo temper,--gath'ring by degrees,
Then bursting,---like old Mistress Socrates!

Such seem'd the Patagonian; and if dress
Could make her happiest of the happy, she
Was that day crown'd with highest happiness,
For such a bonnet! 'twas a sight to see!
Two sheets of Leghorn it contained, not less
In its high crown, and wide spread leaf could be;
While wreaths of roses lent their shewy aid,

And a fine Mecklin veil, it's great long length display'd!

A silk pelisse, of deep cerulean die,

With satin richly trimm'd, her form embrac'd;
A brooch of dazzling splendour caught the eye,
A brilliant marquesette the girdle grac'd;
Rosettes, whose colour could with nature vie,

On the broad flounce in bunches thick were plac'd,
While the squeezed buskins, visible below,
Showed---what, alas! were never made for shew!

From her left wrist a velvet reticule

With golden tassels, and resplendent chain
Hung daugling. Forcibly she tried to pull

Her right hand glove off, nor essayed in vain,
Tho' tight---'twas burning, and she wish'd to cool
The warmth oppressive; for not dew, but rain,
Appear'd in drops to ooze from ev'ry pore
Of her fat fingers, spread with rings all o'er.

1

Joyous, her little "gudeman" by her side
Smiling, upheld the deep fringed parasol;
While swell'd with all the majesty of pride,
And bursting with sublimity of soul,
She showed the gazing multitude who eyed
Her vastness, she had ready at controul
A tongue to billingsgate,--a fist to trounce,
Any impertinent, who'd dare say---bounce!

Beside her, an old lady took her place,

Who went, as others, for a sunday's airing;

Age had bestowed some wrinkles on her face,

And time had made her clothes the worse for wearing;

Yet in her tout ensemble you could trace

The vestiges of better days appearing;
She seemed just suited to the appellation,
Of that most dreaded bore,---a poor relation!

A stranger, she had ne'er been before

On the Cork river, 'twas a novel view,
That as she gazed, enchanted her the more;
Then to a height, her admiration grew,
How such a vessel, without sail or oar,

Like a young dolphin, o'er the water flew,
True, it had wheels,---she could distinctly view 'em,
Coaches had wheels too---and yet horses drew 'em!

She heard of steam, and its unbounded force,
To move a barque o'er ocean's vast abyss;
She saw it often take its spiry course

From boiling tea urn, with a noisy whiz,---
But how a smoke, a vapour, like a horse

Could move a mighty vessel, such as this,
Was to her mind, a thing incomprehensible,
As 'tis to other ladies, much more sensible.

She wished, poor woman, somebody would tell her---
(And therefore asked her neighbour, Dame Pomposity,)

Who in each house and cottage was the dweller,

How steam could cause the vessel's great velocity,

Who owned this yard, that store-house, and this cellar;
In short, unbounded was her curiosity,

Which, after all, should not appear uncommon,

In one so old, a stranger, and---a woman!

But 'tis not fair, the milder sex to show
In such a mirror. Even a sainted maid,
With all the patience, mildness here below
In "Butler's lives," so feelingly displayed,
If tumbled, jostled, squeezed, and questioned so,
Must have a murmur or a sigh betrayed:
To sit next one, with such an endless fidget,
Would vex even Agnes, Ursula, or Bridget!

Let us then deal a little christian charity

To one, not quite a saint---who thought that there Was in her neigbour such familiarity

As made the passengers on all sides stare;

As if between them there was no disparity,

A thought, her pride a moment could not bear.
For whene'er liberty assumes equality,
It doubly wounds our consequenciality!

Brilliant as sun beams on the golden wave,
Sat opposite, some young and sportive misses,
Whose eyes, the sparkling invitation gave,
And lips seem'd ready to receive our kisses.
To them, the world appeared but as a slave,

To furnish pleasure, mirth, and joys, and blisses. Sweet innocents! as yet their bosoms were

Strangers to love, hope, jealousy, despair!

Next them, a Reverend Father took his station,
In purity of heart himself a child,

His soul's first object, was the soul's salvation:
On sin, he frown'd, but on repentance smil'd

So sweetly, that he sealed its reformation,

And turned to God, the wayward and the wild. Man, not the world, engaged his constant care, And Heaven's unfading glory, all his prayer!

Far different was the character beside

The good old man. Intently he read o'er
His newspaper. The wide expanded tide,
The grand magnificence of either shore,
The ship slow sailing on, in canvas pride,

The glowing landscape stretching far before,
The brilliancy of nature's varying views,
All pass'd unnoticed, and, alas! for news!

How I do hate your newsmonger, whose soul

Can feed on nought but journals and gazettes,
Whose fate, the packets or the mails controul,
Glutton in speeches, Canning's, or Burdett's,
Dabbler in stock, debentures or consol-

Club orator, mob-mountebank; who gets
A short lived popularity and power;
Alere buzzing insect of the present hour!