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ton's swore, that that very individual instrument had been sold to the murdered Captain. The people in court, shewed some signs of pleasure at this having been brought home to the wretch; he however said, he had bought it from a person in South America, whose name he did not know. Boyce called, proved the conspiracy to murder me, and the reason why, which fixed the case on Dance. The papers found proved that Groves and Cross were in connection, and as to Cross himself, the jeweller swore and so did several of his shopmen, that he was the person who brought the diamonds for sale, and Major D. proved that these jewels were those which his deceased wife had on board the ship when taken by the pirates. Cross vehemently denied all connection with these men, and declared that he an honorable and extensive merchant, having correspondents in all parts of the new world and in Africa, and offered to prove that he was so by reference to them ; as to the diamonds, he deeply regretted the delusion, which miglit end so disastrously for himself, that made the Jeweller and bis assistants mistake him for another person. He solemnly assured the court that on the day alledged he was not in London, and produced two witnesses, who swore that they had seen him at Hounslow. This, however, would not serve his turn, for the postboys who drove his carriage that day, and whose evidence it had not been thought necessary to have, although in attendance, declared, that before they took him to Hounslow, where he really did

go, they first went to the Jewellers. The summing up took but a small time, for the Jury, before it was half over, expressed a wish to retire, and brought in a verdict of guilty against every one of the prisoners, and they were subsequently all hanged, my guardian having the honor of preceding them all in the part of exaltation. I did not go to see the execution for many and obvious reasons, but I believe, the curious reader may still see, if I mistake not, the bodies of the malefactors hanging in chains on the right bank of the Thames as he proceeds down the river.

Land the police officer, Boyce and myself got tolerably well paid for our exertions, by the rewards which had been offered for the apprehension of these men, and I got a hundred pounds additional, besides a place in Plymouth dock yard. As to the rest of my companions I have never heard of any tbing more of them in England, nor do I think it is likely they will set foot here in a hurry. Jackson, the evidence, is a one handed parish pauper in Warwickshire, and Boyce, whom I have set up, is now commander of a clipping little coaster, which has not been mended more than twice, while I am going on in life with a belaying sail filled with the breeze of good fortune-which I hope may happen to all readers of this.

R.

Why should we search the world for thorns and briars,

Explore its darkest dens for hurtful things,
And, like the salamander, bathe in fires

Whose furnace-heat a swift destruction brings ?
Why should we tune to songs of woe our lyres,

And with suspicion soil our spirits' wings?
Why should mistrust attend hope's dearest dreams,
Since Goodness thinks no ill where no ill seems ?"*
Why o'er the spirit, in its brightest hour,

When suns are shining, rivers sparkling clear,
Comes there Presentiment's dull boding power

To sprinkle hope with thoughts of doubt and fear ?
Why, when the foot is tripping thro’ the bower

Where Spring's and Summer's wedded charms appear,
Roves the mad eye, until it rest upon
The toad that crouches by the mossy stone ?
Are there not roses in the world enow,

Whose blossoms we may gather, yet not wound
Our fingers with the thorns they outwards throw ?

Are there not fruits delicious to be fonnd
Far from the Upas tree ?-doth not the show

Of summer-tide and autumn deck the ground
In beauty for a space that well may cheer
The heart, that ever looks for tempests near ?
And Spring, with all its infant buds and bells,

Its baby blossoms and its butterflies ;
And Summer, with its ripe receptacles

For Nature's lovelinesses, vainly rise
To dim the Autumn's russet grace :--there dwells

A taste of bliss within her luxuries,
And o'er her fields of vegetable gold
Lingers a spell to warm the feelings cold !
Spring, Summer, Autumn, all are fair; yet still

They do not in their beantihood surpass
Frore Winter's bridal dress of icicle

Flung snowy white across the crimpëd grass ;
Bright are the chains she throws o'er lake and rill,

And her snow-bowers are fairer than pure glass,
And oh! her lonely Bard, the Robin, pours
A sweeter song than Mermaid's on the shores !
Spring is our Infancy :-its herbs that burst

From the prolific bosom of the earth-
Its flowers, by early dew and sunshine nurst
Its glad larks carolling in skyey mirth-

* Milton

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Its sun-light and its showers—its heavens, at first

Cloudy and grey, then beaming brightly forth,-
Betoken man's frail childhood, when we smile,
Yet, in our sportive sorrow, weep the while.
And Summer is our youth,-- our happy time,

When love and friendship ope their kindly arms;
When hope enhalos us with rays sublime,

And pleasure dresses every thing in charms :-
The gentle dawn-burst, and the day's bright prime,

The tranquil moonlight, and its sweet ala-ms
Of shadowy things,-oh! these but picture forth
Youth's short lived reign of carelessness and mirth.
Then comes the Autumn, with her matron grace,

Her ripe fruits falling from the loaded bough;-
Her sheaves of corn,-her reaper's freckled face,

And sometimes, too, her sudden blights, which throw Bleak famine on the earth, where late the trace

Of plenteousness was seen ; - whilst saddest woe Succeeds to joy :—this is onr manhood's type, Whose hopes meet blight when they are nearly ripe ! Last comes old Winter, with its genial frosts,

Its wholesome freshness, and its furrowed brow; And ah! its sleets, its surly blasts, its hosts

Of sullen storms, and winds that blustering blow,--
It emblems out old age, which sometimes boasts

Of healthy vigour,-cold yet cheerful snow ;-
But oftener seeks us with a train of woes
That dog its progress and attend its close.
Then, since the breath of beanty is abroad,

In every season, and o’er every scene,
Why should we bar the sunshine from our road,

And hang black banners where bright flags have been ?
Hail to thee, Spring! I love thy blithe abode,

On daisied lea, with hedgerows fresh and green ;And, Summer! thou art dear, with all thy wealth Of sunny skies, clear seas, and winds of health ! Hail to thee, Autumn !-in thy brow I trace

No frown to tell of canker or of care ; There is a happy flash mpon thy face,

And ears of yellow wheat are in thy hair ;
I love thee well !-and winter has its grace,

Its icebells pure, its glaciers grand and fair ;-
For every season to the Minstrel's breast
Is in a glorious garb of beauty drest!

R. C. C. THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE.

I.

I stood beside a public way,

Where men pass’d to and fro, And there was a mound of fresh-turn’d clay,

And I ask'd who slept below:
And some among the crowd replied,
It was the grave of a suicide-

A wandering son of wo;
But none could tell the stranger's name,
His sorrows, or from whence he came.

II.

I gazed upon th' unhallow'd spot,

And thought what biting care,
What burning griefs had been the lot

Of him who rested there ;
What clouds, dark-gathering day by day,
Had chased his light of hope away,

And left him to despair:
Till friendless, homeless, joyless, he
Plunged in thy gulf-Eternity!

III.

'Twas his-that dark and chilling grief,

That winter of the mind,
When Hope drops off like the last

green

leaf
That is swept away by the wind;
And the heart is lest like the blighted tree,
A ruin and a mockery;

And all that once had twined
In fondness round it, shrinks away,
And leaves it to its lone decay !

IV.

And was there none to drop the tear,

And none to heave the sigh-
No faithful spirit lingering near

To look its last“ good bye ?"
Alas! not one-unwept, unknown,
The cold earth o'er his corse was thrown,

Without ove moisten'd eye :
No wail was utter'd, -no prayer was said,
For the stranger who sleeps in that lowly bed.

MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON.

SECOND VOLUME.

We have noticed in a former number of the Calcutta Magazine,* the first part of this highly interesting work, and the opi. nion we then expressed of Mr. Moore's merits as the Biographer of his brother poet, is confirmed by a perusal of the second volume. This publication, if taken as a whole, is incomparably superior to all other works on Lord Byron, inasmuch as it contains a greater abundance of original and authentic materials, interspersed with notes and observations always elegant or entertaining and often philosophical and profound. The chief defects of the work consist in the omission of any full or satisfactory account of the causes of Lord Byron's separation from his Ladythe extravagant and almost unqualified tone of eulogy adopted upon all occasions on which his Lordship's name is introduced -the petty spite and gross inconsistency evinced in the notices of Mr. Leigh Hunt—the injudicious admission of a number of very indecent letters and details--and the absence of any attempt at a critical analysis of the poetical character and accomplishments of the noble poet, which would have been so peculiarly valuable from the pen of Moore. With these exceptions the book has fully justified our hopes and we have no hesitation in expressing our opinion that it will continue to be read with eagerness and delight as long as the English language shall endure. Notwithstanding its various defects, it will probably remain, as it is at present, the most ample and authentic, if not the best arranged record of the peculiarities, personal and literary, of the most celebrated poet of these times. The materials alone would make it a favorite with the lovers of Biography for centuries to come. If Boswell's Life of Johnson is still read and long likely to be read, with undirninished gratification, notwithstanding the many ludicrous foibles of the Biographer, (a foolish man and a feeble writer,) the work before us, with the combined attractions of an equally interesting subject and far superior execution, it may be confidently predicted will form one of the most permanently popular publications of this fertile period of our literature.

Hayley's Life of Cowper and Mason's Life of Gray, seem to have suggested the plan of this Life of Byron, which by the Irequent introduction of his Lordship’s letters and extracts from his

* See Calcutta Magazine, vol. 1. page 422.

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