Never their own:

spread

making them

Their arms out for the strong embrace

Which the gods owed them.

Then, instead Of fourteen, there were twenty-oneSeven shades, seven gods, seven fairies lithe

Born of this union. Ever blithe
About immortal business, they
A many-fangled task began,
And waved or whirled away.

"I saw seven Rays swiftly come on;
One drest in the deep emerald stone,
One with a marigold had grown
Mockingly friendly; and a third
Had robbed the ruby-breasted bird;
One was arrayed in the purest skies;
Or in the deepest pansy-dyes;
Or in the light of violet eyes; [Good!]
Or in the gold cloud, whereon lies
In his chamber of molten imageries,
The western sun before he dies.

"I saw seven shapes stand by the Rays, Tones their several

While seven

ways Took by me :—

And when any Tone Gave voice, a Ray, its friend to own, Sparkled and shook; and a fine glance

Of recognition sly did dance

In each Shape's carven countenance.

And when any God,
By any accident, did nod,
A shade must nod, as if it knew,
And so must one of the Fairies too;
And one of the seven Shapes must
choose

To smile; nor durst a Ray refuse
Sparkling to quiver; nor a Tone
To sound its gentle flute alone-
Between these sevens, so deep and
good

The understanding was that stood. (?)
The seven Gods now busy grew,
Hither and thither lively flew,
With swiftest change and counter-
change,

Attraction and repulsion strange;
While at their heels, on rapid wheels,
Followed the Shades and Fairies too,
Three thrones they reared, three
kings appeared

And set their kingdom there-(?) One diamonds had, instead of eyes! And for a tongue, the wind's deep sighs,

And earths and stones for arms and thighs,

And foam for hoary hair.

"The second was mossed over,

And his hair was grass and clover;

"Do stars weep? Sure, to that shy wink,

Some mist, like tears, was given !"

To which an answer is given, though not very confidently, in the following verse:—

"And it may weep,-a star may weep."

Of course, for the same reason that "a Shade must nod," as mentioned in our first extract. The last four lines of this poem gives our author's idea of "the whole duty of man," which must shock any Malthusian poet or critic who may chance to read them :—

"For there's no glory, save to try To breed smiles in the human eye, And cut off the posterity

Of every tear and sigh !"-p. 34.

Some of the author's peculiar philosophy is given in the poem called "The Hills"-p. 35. Addressing those who may differ in opinion with him, he says:-

"Yes, Messieurs, right well I bear you." -P. 37.

In the Sonnet, p. 40, is the following curious image, descriptive of the sweet pea ::-

Which we respectfully deny.

The remainder of the volume is taken up with a long poem called "Clifton Grove Garland," which we regret our space will not permit us to do more than mention. Could we devote an entire article to it, we would find a difficulty even then in pointing out all the fantastic conceits and affectations both of thought and language that we have marked in reading it. Of these we must be content to offer but one, which, however, is sufficient to immortalise the author and the poem. It is descriptive of the river Trent, which he calls

"That preacher of Time's lapse, aye eloquent,

That LIQUID PRESENT PARTICIPLE,-
TRENT,

PASSING, NE'ER PAST!!"-p. 12.

When Lindley Murray can supply a poetical image, there is hope for all things. With this passage we shall take leave for the present of all our friends, poets as well as readers. We trust both classes are pleased with the manner in which we have arranged this poetical banquet-the former with. the way in which they have been dished, and the latter with the mode in which they have been served. The opinions which we have pronounced

upon the several books that came before us, may be right or may be wrong, all we can say with certainty is, and we say it in all seriousness and solemnity, that those opinions are honestly and deliberately formed, and are expressed without favour, prejudice, or partiality. We would consider our duty a pleasanter one, if the judgment passed on those writers were, on the whole, more favourable and complimentary. Though we are reconciled to it, from the conviction that a little timely severity may prevent much heart-burning and bitter disappointment, and waste of time and misdirection of talent on the part of most

of them. With regard to such of the writers as we have condemned, our intention were really much less to amuse the reader at their expense, than to good-humouredly laugh them out of their several delusions. The last author reviewed (Mr. Sutton) gives special permission to the critic to be truthful, and we have taken him at his word :—

"Do you love me? Come thou nigh me;
Prick me, man-never relent!
Cut, and hack, and scarify me;
If the truth can make me sore
Let me be a wound all o'er :-
Do this but with pure intent,
I am yours for evermore."-p. 59.

Old forests wave.

North Esk, 29th September, 1848.

A MEDLEY, COMPRISING A NEW IN THE DESERT-A DITTO

"A LITTLE knowledge is a dangerous thing," so says some wise old saw, and not a doubt of it. "Never meddle with edged tools," unless, at least, you understand the use of them—a moral maxim indelibly impressed on my puerile faculties, by the early and constant contemplation of a veracious picture, wherein was faithfully represented a country bumpkin who had actually cut his head off by the indiscreet application of an unwieldy axe, whereupon the body of said bumpkin remained standing bolt upright, with arms outstretched, in highly natural amazement; while the head, with hair on end, bristled from its unwonted position between the legs, looking up, in grim consternation, at the involuntary dissolution of partnership between itself and trunk. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing;" grant it; but a little knowledge is, on some occa sions, a very diverting thing, as my own practical experience testified in the delights of a medicine-chest. One material component of our outfit for the East was, of course, a medicinechest, not one of your gim-crack, glass-stoppered, mahogany affairs, but an honest, substantial oak box, well filled with every known combustible, for the cure or prevention of any ordinary disease-not that I previously pretended to any acquaintance with, or skill in, the use of medicine. I had

not (like Tony Lumpkin) been "dosed ever since I was born;" nor, like him, had I "gone through every receipt in the "Complete Housewife" ten times over;" nor had my respected mother (like Mrs. Hardcastle) any "thoughts of coursing me through quinsy the next spring,"- -as far, at least, as I was aware of; yet, having purchased

a medical treatise to instruct me in the due application of my drugs, I naturally considered myself qualified for the purgation of the Arab race in general, or any member of my own party in particular, whose malignant star might guide him under my hands. On the

Nile my practice was extensive, and of a very flattering description; for Egyptian boatmen, I spread blistering ointment on old mummy cloths-I thought the idea classical and appropriate; of eye-waters and cathartics I was profuse beyond example; but in the Desert I "came out strong." The circumstances were as follow.

A favourite Sheik, belonging to our escort, had suddenly fallen ill soon after we left Lucy, and becoming daily worse, he got himself strapped on his dromedary, covered up his face, and stoically resigned himself to fate. At this juncture it was discovered there was a Hakeem in the caravan, and my patient being brought alongside me as I rode, I promptly administered, internally, a potation of oil of croton, and, to aid and abet the same, applied externally an enormous blister, which was twisted round the throat. It was now two to one against my patient, for poor Sheik Embarak had to struggle against both doctor and disease; but whether I roused any latent energy, or vitality was deep seated in the man, the upshot was, that from that day the Sheik began evidently to amend, and, marvellous to relate, in about three days more was nearly as well as ever. In fact, the Sheik recovered, and I became famous. My name was bruited through the camp; indeed, I became so respected, that no Bedawee of distinction now lit his shebook on the march without first presenting it to the Hakeem, to take a preliminary puff or two-a distinction with which I could have dispensed.

A few days after, as I was riding beside the learned man of our party (the orator of the convent, as you may remember, in the preceding chapter), two Bedawee on foot came beside him, and accosted him after a ceremonious salute. One of them was a freshlooking fellow, young and hale; the other a little sun-dried, used-up old Arab, grisly and grey.