Tambour, and trump, and battle-cry,
And steeds, and turbaned infantry
Passed like a dream away.

Such power defends the mansions of the just;
But, like a city without walls,

The grandeur of the mortal falls

Who glories in his strength, and makes not God his trust.
The proud blasphemers thought all earth their own;
They deemed that soon the whirlwind of their ire
Would sweep down tower and palace, dome and spire,
The Christian altars and the Augustan throne.
And soon, they cried, shall Austria bow
To the dust her lofty brow.

The princedoms of Almayne

Shall wear the Phrygian chain;

In humbler waves shall vassal Tiber roll;
And Rome, a slave forlorn,

Her laurelled tresses shorn,

Shall feel our iron in her inmost soul.
Who shall bid the torrent stay?
Who shall bar the lightning's way?
Who arrest the advancing van
Of the fiery Ottoman ?

As the curling smoke wreaths fly
When fresh breezes clear the sky,
Passed away each swelling boast
Of the misbelieving host.
From the Hebrus rolling far
Came the murky cloud of war,
And in shower and tempest dread
Burst on Austria's fenceless head.
But not for vaunt or threat
Didst Thou, oh Lord, forget

The flock so dearly bought, and loved so well.
Even in the very hour

Of guilty pride and power

Full on the circumcised Thy vengeance fell.
Then the fields were heaped with dead,
Then the streams with gore were red,

And every bird of prey, and every beast

From wood and cavern thronged to Thy great feast.
What terror seized the fiends obscene of Nile!

How wildly, in his place of doom beneath,

Arabia's lying prophet gnashed his teeth,

And cursed his blighted hopes and wasted guile!
When at the bidding of Thy sovereign might,
Flew on their destined path

Thy messengers of wrath

Riding on storms and wrapped in deepest night.

The

The Phthian mountains saw

And quaked with mystic awe:

The proud Sultana of the Straits bowed down

Her jewelled neck and her embattled crown, &c.

Of the minor Italian poets, there is none who has been so fortunate in his English translators as Filicaia.

The Literary Souvenir' for this year contains no poetical pieces which would quite bear being quoted, after these specimens though we are somewhat tempted by the verses on the death of a child, at p. 113;—but Mr. Watts has been, we think, more fortunate than any of his brother editors in his prose department. There are three tales, in particular, of no common merit, in very different styles: The Whisperer; A Roland for an Oliver;' and The City of the Demons.' This last is an amplification of a most picturesque legend in the Talmud, by a distinguished Hebraist, Dr. Maginn of Trinity College, Dublin; and but for its length we should have had pleasure in quoting it.

The Friendship's Offering' for 1828 is, perhaps, the worst of these productions, and yet it happens to contain one composition which we have no difficulty in saying stands unrivalled among all the pocket-books of the year. This is a funeral song for the Princess Charlotte, which must have been written at the time of Her Royal Highness's lamented death, but which Mr. Southey has now, for the first time, given to the public. It is worth all the laureate odes of the last century put together: it has, in parts, the lyric majesty of Gray, in others, the grave pathos of Wordsworth, and throughout a charm of moral eloquence such as few writers of any age or country have been able to sustain like Mr. Southey himself.

In its summer pride arrayed,
Low our Tree of Hope is laid!
Low it lies:-in evil hour,
Visiting the bridal bower,
Death hath levelled root and flower.
Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(This the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid:
Windsor, in thy sacred shade

Is the Flower of Brunswick laid!

Ye whose relics rest around, Tenants of this funeral ground! Know ye, Spirits, who is come, By immitigable doom

Summoned to the untimely tomb? Late with youth and splendor crown'd,

Late in beauty's vernal bloom,

Woodville, in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou may'st say,
Early death is happiness;
And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest-

A broken heart is here at rest.
But thou, Seymour, with a greet-
ing,

Such as sisters use at meeting,
Joy, and Sympathy, and Love,
Wilt hail her in the seats above.
Like in loveliness were ye,
By a like lamented doom
Hurried to an early tomb!
While together, spirits blest,
Here your earthly relics rest,
Fellow angels shall ye be
In the angelic company.

That forty thousand lives could Henry, too, hath here his part;

yield.

Cressy was to this but sport,
Poictiers but a pageant vain,
And the victory of Spain

Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,
And the work of Agincourt

Only like a tournament;

At the gentle Seymour's side,
With his best-beloved bride,
Cold and quiet, here are laid
The ashes of that fiery heart.
Not with his tyrannic spirit
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit;
No, by Fisher's hoary head,

Half the blood which there was By More, the learned and the good,

spent

Had sufficed again to gain
Anjou and ill-yielded Maine,
Normandy and Aquitaine;
And Our Lady's ancient towers,
Maugre all the Valois' powers,
Had a second time been ours.
A gentle daughter of thy line,
Edward, lays her dust with thine.

Thou, Elizabeth, art here; Thou to whom all griefs were known;

Who wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal daughter, fatal mother,
Raised to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation;

By Katharine's wrongs, and Bo

As we can hardly flatter ourselves with the notion that we have many very juvenile readers, we must hold ourselves excused from quoting any specimens of the food for the young idea' presented in the Christmas Box. As at children's balls, however, it is not unusual to have a side-table, where mammas and aunts are treated with grilled pullets and mulled wines, while the juvenile guests rejoice themselves over the more conspicuous array of jellies and syllabubs, so Mr. Croker has found room in his tiny pages for a few pieces both of prose and verse, which we might very safely offer to the gravest of the reading public. For example, there is a song on the hero of Killykrankie, by Sir Walter Scott, which, we doubt not, will be almost as popular as any song he ever wrote:

To the Lords of Convention, 'twas Clavers who spoke,

Ere the king's crown go down, there are crowns to be broke;
So each cavalier, who loves honour and me,

Let him follow the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.
Come, fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come, saddle my horses, and call up my men;
Come, open the West-port, and let me gae free,
And its room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee.

Dundee he is mounted-he rides up the street,

The bells are rung backwards, the drums they are beat;
But the provost, douse man, said, "Just e'en let him be,
The town is weel quit of that dei'l of Dundee."

Come, fill up, &c.

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Each carline was flyting and shaking her pow;

But some young plants of grace-they look'd couthie and slee,
Thinking-Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee.

Come, fill up, &c.

With

Vith sour-featured saints the Grass-market was pang'd,
If the west had set tryste to be hang'd;
Vsupposete in each face, there was fear in each e'e,
bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

spears,

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and ha

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway left free,
At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

Come, fill up, &c.

He spurr'd to the foot of the high castle rock,

And to the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke

"Let Mons Meg and her marrows three vollies let flee,
For love of the bonnets of bonnie Dundee."

Come, fill up, &c.

The Gordon has ask'd of him whither he goes-
"Wheresoever shall guide me the spirit of Montrose;
Your Grace in short space shall have tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee,

Come, fill up, &c.

"There are hills beyond Pentland, and streams beyond Forth,
If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North;
There are wild dunnie-wassels, three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

Come, fill up, &c.

"Away to the hills, to the woods, to the rocks,
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox;

And tremble, false Whigs, though triumphant ye be,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me."
Come, fill up, &c.

He waved his proud arm, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle drums clash'd, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston-craigs and on Clermiston lee
Died away the wild war-note of bonnie Dundee.
Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up my can,
Come, saddle my horses, and call up my men;
Fling all your gates open, and let me gae free,
For 'tis up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee.'

97

That celebrated wit and humourist of our day, Mr. Theodore Hook, has supplied the same juvenile Souvenir with an effusion verse, which, that our quotations may end gaily, we shall take the liberty of transcribing.

in

'Cautionary Verses to Youth of both Sexes.

My readers may know that to all the editions of Entick's Dictionary, commonly used in schools, there is prefixed "A Table of Words that are alike, or nearly alike, in Sound, but different in Spell

ing