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How strikingly different is this from the love catastrophes in general ! But here is a contrast, a perfectly radiant portrait, a being of gay delight and meditative feeling, a perfectly original union of qualities, and yet a union to be realized

She shall be sportive as the Fawn
That, wild with glee, across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And her's shall be the breathing halm,
And her's the silence and the calm.

Of mute insensate things. We could easily form a gallery of female characters out of Wordsworth's poems; but, at present, we must give only one other portrait, as fine a contrast to the last, as that was to the preceding one :

Many a passenger
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks,
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn
From that forsaken spring; and no one came
But he was welcome; no one went away
But that it seemed she loved him.
She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A Being—who by adding love to peace

Might live on earth a life of happiness. Akin to his portraiture of the female character, is his treatment of the passion of love. He makes it the sweetening influence, not the engrossing business of life,-a principle that it is to sustain and elevate the soul, to strengthen, not enervate its powers of endurance and self-government; rarely therefore does he describe the passion as driven to excess, or terminating in guilt and misery. He is the very antipodes of an amatory poet;

The depth and not the tumult of the soul is most in unison with his feelings; and to his love-poetry might be applied his own line in Laodemia,' descriptive of the world of spirits

Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains. But admitting that the serenity of his genius somewhat unfits him for describing the early stages of love, or the enthusiasm of youthful lovers, in his delineations of filial, maternal, or conjugal affection, he is unrivalled. It would be injustice to the matchless poems now in our mind's eye to give any patchwork extracts. Let the reader who may happen to be unacquainted with them, turn to the episodes of Margaret' and · Ellen,' in the first and sixth books of the Excursion; and, amongst the miscellaneous poems, to Laodamia,' • The affliction of Margaret,' The Brothers,' and . Michael.' For the present we must desist—we have far exceeded our limits, and must defer till next month our concluding remarks on this subject.

REMEMBER ME.

Air.-Mozart.

REMEMBER me when summer friends surround thee,

And honied flatteries win thy willing ear;
When Fame, and Fortune glittering wreaths have crowned thee,

And all is thine thy fickle heart liolds dear.
Then think of her whose changeless fondness blessed thee,

When hope was dark and faithful friends were few,
Who, when hard, griping poverty depressed thee,
And all beside seemed cold, was kind and true.

11. Remember me in courtly hall and bower,

And when thou kneel'st at some proud beauty's shrine, Ask of the past, if through life's varying hour,

Its joys, and griefs, her love can rival mine! And when thy youthful hopes are most excited,

Should she prove false and break her faith like thee, Think of the hopes thy wayward love hath blighted, And from that lesson learn to feel for me!

u. Remember me, and oh! when fate hath 'reft thee,

Of fame and fortune, friends, and love, and bliss, Come back to one, thou know'st would ne'er have left thee,

And she'll but chide thy falsehood with a kiss !
But no, no, no, I feel that life is waning,

That what I was I never more can be ;
That I am fast on that sweet haven gaining, .

Where there is rest for even a wretch like me.

V.

Remember me! thou canst not sure refuse me

The only boon from thee I've sought, or seek ; Soon will the world with bitter taunts accuse me,

Yet wake no blushes on my bloodless cheek! But I would have thee tender to my fame,

When I have 'scaped life's dark tumultuous sea; And, howsoever unkinder spirits blame,

As what thou know'st I was REMEMBER ME!

A. A. W.

THE VILLAGE DISPENSARY.
The hour is come, the Leech is in his chair,
Throw wide the doors, and bid the first come in,
It is Dispensary day! The narrow hall
Is thronged as was Bethesda's strand of yore,
With sufferers of every kind and ailment;
Young, old, lame, blind, female and male, all met,
Prescient of succour, brooding o'er their woes,

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And conning how they best may paint their pains.
With skilful air and aspect sharp, the Leech
Takes up his pen, turns o'er a book, and studies.
The first approaches with an awkward bow,
Letter in hand of printed warranty,
Signed by Subscriber, setting forth name, age,
And each et cetera. 'How now, Goodman Roger!
' And is it you? Why, what ails you old heart?'
* Pains in the back, an' please you.' 'Is it so ?'
* You have a family—a large one?' 'Yes!'

And used to labour?' Ay, from morn till night.' · Fond of strong beer, too ?' • Mainly drink three quarts.'

Marry! I wonder not then at your pains ; 'But take you this ; an' it stir not your ribs, Why then there is no virtue left in rhubarb. Begone! and see me our next public day. • Come--for the next. Who's here? Eh, damsel Alice, “And not well yet? No, Sir, my old complaints, Tremblings, heart-burnings, want of sleep at night, Failure of appetite, and loss of spirits.' • Turn round your face; why, ay, thou lookest pale ; • Hast thou a sweetheart?' La, Sir!' Nay, confess it.' There's Harry. 'Ay, he keeps your company, Does he not?' 'Yes.'

and be well.'
Eh, more! Come, mother, tell me your complaint;
Illness, No doubt.' " I've had the Poticar.'
Ay, and grew worse.' He

gave me store of drugs,
* And when my gold was gone'-' He sent you here.'
Just so.' 'It is their customary wont;
They deluge you with drugs to drain your purse ;

They find you ailing, and they make you ill, " Then all their study is to keep you so; * Until your veins and stores be emptied out; * Bloodless your body,-pennyless your pocket,-" Which wrought, they send you for our gratis aid,

And leave us to undo what they have done. “So will it ever be, while they have sufferance To act the Leech's part who are his servants. They needs must' vend their drugs' and make occasion For their expenditure,—'tis their only gain. Why do not our grave lawgivers ordain These traders to their place ;-their gallipots, “Their drugs, their philtres, and their pharmacy? 'Nor let them traffic thus with life and health, Marring their practice who could else mar them.

Begone! Take no more plıysic, make good meals, * Keep yourself warm, live temperately, duly

Avoid the ‘Poticar',then soon you'll want ‘No aid but what the cupboard can afford.

Shut to the doors, I'll hear no more to day ; “ Throw physic to the dogs,-for I am sick on't."

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THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
His sword and plume are on his pall,-

The muffled drum beats drear and deep,-
And gathering tears are seen to fall

From warriors' eyes unused to weep.
They lay him in his dreamless bed,

The banners droop above the brave;
The requiem of the glorious dead

Thrice rolls in thunder o'er his grave.
How sound his sleep !-his battles o'er,

Life's fitful fever passed away,
Where sounds of war are heard no more,

And trump and drum are mute for aye.
While buried grandeur cannot buy

One mourner o'er its lonely bier,
His name shall breathe in beauty's sighi,--

His memory brighten in her tear !
"Twill steal upon the festal train

The voice of reckless mirth to quell;
And wake in music's melting strain,

Whose accents weep so wildly well.
But to the lorn and widowed heart

Can thoughts like these a balm instil.---
Can glory's voice a charm impart

To lull—to soothe its cureless ill ?
They'll bid her try to think no more

On days and dreams for ever fled,
They'll say that tears can ne'er restore

The loved—the lost the silent dead.
But when was sorrow known to woo

The themes that make its pangs the less ;-
Or what have broken hearts to do

With cold and dull forgetfulness ?
Or how should e'er the source of woe

Prove solace to the bosom's pain ?--
The silent tear must ever flow,

Because, alas ! it flows in vain.

J. M.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
No, 'twere idle to say that a daughter of heaven

In her wanderings had startled my sight,
Though the lustre of loveliness nature has given

Might bespeak thee a creature of light:
In the slumber of Fancy, the spirit reposing,

Might have dreamed that such beauty might be ;
But I thought not to meet, all its sweetness disclosing,

That radiance of beauty in thee!
As the Persian bends low when the sun-beams arise,

As he bends when day's brightness is o'er,

Yet scarce knows what it is that illumines the skies,

So I to the girl I adore !
I knew thee not, lovely one,-knew not thy name,

Where the home thou adornest might be;
But I knew that my heart was no longer the same,-

And I knew that the cause was in thee!
I will fancy a name, whose sweet sound shall combine

Some part of each charm that thou hast,
The softness that beams from those loved eyes of thine

And lives when their glances are past :
The essence of music that dwells in thy voice,

With that name, too, enwoven should be,
And love when 'twas whispered should fondly rejoice,

Because 'twas expressive of thee !
On my spirit the memory dwells of the hour

When I met thee, as fair as the dew,
The dew that not solely can brighten the flower,

But refresh it and purify too;
So the soul by the beam of thy loveliness warmed,

May not stoop meaner objects to see,
But devotes all its thoughts to the image that charmed,
And grows nearer to heaven and to thee !

T. M.
THE SENSES.

BY MRS. HENRY ROLLS.

How lovely in the glowing west

Appears yon rich declining gleams,
As, sinking bright on Ocean's breast

Is poured that deep broad golden beam !
How soft, at twilight's closing hour,

The wood-lark's sweetly melting lay,
Low whispering through the birchen bower,

The last farewell to parting day!
How sweet the sigh young Zephyr breathes,

As through the woodland dell he flies;
Where, as around the Oak she wreathes,

The Woodbine with the Violet vies !
How rich the purple clusters shew,

In fair Iberia's scorching clime;
When heighten'd seems the luscious glow,

By noon-tide's fiercely burning prime!
But lovelier far than Evening's ray,

More sweet than Zephyr's sweetest sigh,
More thrilling than the wood-lark's lay,

More tempting than the fruit's rich dye,
Appears the lip that long has blest,

But never hoped to bless again;
When scarce each fondly meeting breast

Can whisper all its lonely pain,

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