THE PALMER,

NAY; shrink not hence, thou, with the dark fixed eye
And horrent locks up-streaming;—neither let
The breath repass thy bloodless lip, nor yet

Thy worn weeds rustle when the winds pass by:
Moved be nor tongue for speech, nor foot for flight,
Beneath the dark shade of these abbey-walls ;-
Nor let the dark grass or sere ivy stir,

Nor float the night-owl in the moonshine white:-
Hush! Hark! the melancholy voice that calls
From the far stillness of the sepulchre.

The tone fell faint and feebly,-like the sound
Of far-off sea-nymph murmuring in her shell-
Then died away ;-anon the passing bell
Rang its deep thunder thrilling all the ground;
And as the long vibration slow decayed,
Again that piteous tone rose sadly clear,-
Come forth!' it cried, ' O, darker than the shade
'That shrouds thee, traitor! in its darkness here—
• Come forth !-Not palmer's mantle, holy guise,
Nor flight o'er sea, nor stay in foreign land,

• Shall hide thee now, nor care beneath the earth ;-
For I will haunt thee, till the agonies

Of life be past.' And aye, her pearl-white hand

Rose beckoning, as she cried- Come forth! Come forth!'

He came not-looked not-spoke not;-for on him
The deadly torpor of despair came down :

When lo! emerging beautifully dim,

A wasted form through which the moon-beam shone,
Came gliding onward: pale she was, and cold,
Her locks were faded, but her soft, bright eye
Still looked the spirit of unearthly mould,

And straight she beckoned as she passed him by.—
As when the slant-beam sheds a silver veil

O'er the clear lake, the dark-green weeds that clothe
Its pebby bed, half-seen, half-vanish'd, lie-
So indistinct and shadowy, through her pale,
Transparent semblance, peered the ivy-growth
What time the phantom hastened to the sky.

'Tis done! the faint weeds through the ivy stir,-
The owl is floating in the moon-shine white,
And Silence listening from the sepulchre !—
But when the grey East glowed with rosy light,
And early monks devout their beads were telling,
And matin-hymns along that aisle were swelling,
The Palmer came not with his rosary!

The hour of prayer gone by,-beneath the porch—
Lo! stretched aghast, a livid corse was lying,
With white, wan cheek, and wild, distorted eye;-
And all around the reverend abbey-church
Sat beadsmen pale, and holy fathers sighing.

C. D. M.

RABBI MEIR.

AN APOLOGUE.

THE Rabbi Meir was a Jewish Philosopher of some repute in the city where he resided; public esteem rewarded him for the severity of his morals and, he might be said to be in the full enjoyment of all that can render life happy. Though equally a stranger to poverty and to wealth, he possessed treasures of which the most powerful monarch might have envied him. A wife, who, like a jewel had hung about his neck for twenty years, and never lost her lustre, loved him with that fervency with which angels love good men.' Their union had been blessed with two sons, who were twins. The Rabbi and his wife, in gratitude for this double mark of heaven's favour, instilled into the minds of their children those principles which lead to the formation of virtuous habits, and ultimately, make the possessors of them ornaments of society. The parents met with their reward in the obedience and good conduct of their offspring.

The young men were both intended for the priesthood; and such had been their application to learning, that their minds had reached maturity before their persons had lost the appearance of boyhood.

The Rabbi made it a part of his duty every Sabbath to teach, gratuitously, those persons who were unable to pay for instruction. He was engaged in this benevolent office when one of the greatest calamities that can befal a parent visited his family. His sons both died suddenly within one hour. The conduct of the mother, upon this melancholy occasion, deserves to be recorded as a signal instance of religious resignation. To enable herself to prepare the mind of her husband for the painful intelligence, she repressed her own grief, and welcomed his return home with her accustomed smile. After the usual salutations, the Rabbi inquired for his sons. His wife, in answer, said, 'They are not far off!' She placed supper before him,-he eat. Wine being brought, he praised the Lord to the going out of the Sabbath, (a custom among the Jews), and drank. He now repeated his inquiries respecting his children. Where are they?' said he, that they may drink of the wine which I have blessed ?' You shall see them pre sently,' rejoined their mother; meantime, Rabbi, will you answer me one question?' 'Speak, my only love!' replied her husband.

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• Well

then,' said she, some time ago, I had two costly jewels given to me to take care of;-those who entrusted me with them now want them again;-should I give them up ?' Thou shouldst not ask such a question,' replied the Rabbi. 'Wouldst thou keep that which was only given to thee in trust.' < Oh, no!' she answered, but I thought it best to inform thee before I returned them.' She then communicated to him the event which had happened, and led him to the chamber where the remains of his children lay. 'Ah! my sons!' exclaimed the father, and my teachers, for much have I learned from you.' The mother now gave vent to the agony of her soul—she turned away her head and wept. At length, grasping the hand of her husband, she exclaimed, Rabbi, hast thou not taught me, that we should not be reluctant to return that which was only given to us in trust? See, the Lord has given:-the Lord has taken away:-blessed be the name of the Lord!' 'Blessed be the name of the Lord!' exclaimed the Rabbi. 'Well has it been observed,' he continued, that he who has found a virtuous and affectionate wife possesses a treasure above all price.'

THE INFANT AND BIRD.

A PORTRAIT, BY G. FREEMAN, ESQ.

Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light;
Eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay,
No faint remembrance of dull decay !
Steps, that flow over the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
A voice, that rang through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!

CHIT-CHAT, LITERARY AND MISCELLANEOUS.

Miss Waldie, the authoress of Rome in the Nineteenth Century, is about to publish another work, in three volumes, entitled, Adventures on the Continent.

Monsieur J. F. Rousseau, the last member of the family of J. J. Rousseau, has just died at Genoa, at an advanced age.

The following is a list of the principal English Bibles, with the respective dates of their publication: 1526 and 1630, Tindal's Bible, the first printed; 1535, Coverdale's (Miles) Bible; 1537, Matthew's Bible; 1540, The Bishop's Bible; 1562, the Geneva Bible; 1568, Great English Bible; 1552, The New Testament; 1584, Rhemish Testament; 1610, King James's Bible.

The works of Mr. Mackenzie, the author of the Man of Feeling,' have been translated into French, by Monsieur Bonnet, son of the advocate of that name.

There is, it appears, a regular manufactory at Smyrna, for forging ancient Eastern coins. A German newspaper gives a list of the counterfeits.

The Eaves-dropper Medwin has, after many months' consideration, resolved to publish a pamphlet in reply to Mr. J. Cam. Hobhouse's exposure of his fabrications. The contempt entertained on all hands for Captain Medwin cannot be dissipated by any new statement of facts published on his authority. Mr. Colburn gave this light dragoon £500. for his pretended Conversations, and has, probably, netted above £2000 by them. Captain M. and Mr. O'Meara should condole with each other, 'Par Nobile Fratrum.' A Life of old Major Cartwright, of Radical notoriety, is said to be in preparation. A book, from the pen of the author of the Journal of an Exile, to be entitled, Recollections of a Pedestrian, is, we are told, preparing for publication.

Mr. Bernard Barton has just published a volume of Devotional Verses, illustrative of Select Texts of Scripture, which, although we cannot afford space to review at length, we are extremely anxious to recommend to the notice of our readers. The Passages selected by Mr. Barton are often extremely happy, and some of the hymns deserve to rank with the most successful attempts of the kind ever published. Religious subjects require to be treated with a degree of simplicity which deprives the illustrator of the advantage of availing himself of those brilliant figures of which his imagination might, probably, under other circumstances, suggest the adoption. The work must be read and admired by all lovers of poetry, but more especially by the serious and reflective portion of the community. We regret that we are unable to support our opinion by one or two extracts, for several of the poems are, considered with reference merely to their literary merit, extremely beautiful.

A recent Scotch Paper, (the Edinburgh Observer) in a rhodomontading article upon Sir Walter Scott, entitles him THE CREATOR! That garrulous but amusing old lady, Miss Hawkins, states, in her Anecdotes,' that she has always been accustomed to consider The Great Unknown,' as applied to any one save God himself, sufficiently profane. We wonder what she will say to this new and unequivocal designation?

Mr. Charles Molloy Westmacott advertises a new monthly periodical, to be called The St. James's Royal Magazine.

The new volume of German Popular Stories just published, is a very admirable little book, and contains the best Sketches by Cruikshank we have as yet seen from his pencil. The Tales, which are short, are translated from the German. The Nose is one of the most excellent burlesque illustrations we have ever met with.

It is lamentable to see such an Association as the Royal Society of Literature fiddlefaddling over trumpery etymologies, and spending its time, and that of its learned members in illustrating passages in history and poetry, which require no illustration at all or at least, not a long and laborious essay, evidencing little more than the patience and industry of the writer. Mr. Granville Penn has, we see, been reading a long vindication of Cicero, from the ridicule cast upon him by the well-known verses of Quintilian and Juvenal. This is mere child's play, and if the Society can render no more important services to literature than these the sooner it shuts up shop the better.

Mr. Christie, we observe from the newspapers, has advertised the sale of the late Lord Radford's pictures, during the ensuing spring. Many of these are first-rate works; for, we believe, though his lordship sometimes sold as well as bought, his judgment was so good that he retained most of the best paintings which he had acquired during a long life, to the end of it.

A late number of the new series of the European Magazine contained some coarse but well-merited censures on the deputy-licenser of plays, George Colman the younger; who, although nearly all his own productions abound with the grossest indecencies, has thought proper to become quite a purist since his promotion to his new office, and who now cuts all new plays to pieces in a most unmerciful manner, for the purpose of weeding them of naughty sentiments and expressions. Of the above critique the succeeding number of the European Magazine remarks: It is hardly necessary to disabuse the public with regard to the monstrous libel which disgraced our pages last month, &c. for there is scarcely a man in the most remote corner of the island that could read what is there affirmed of the author of John Bull, the Heir at Law, &c. without a personal conviction of its utter stupidity and shameless falsehood!" The editor then goes on to say, he never saw the article in manuscript, nor ever read it, until in the hands of the public.' It is difficult to know which to despise the most, the crawling sycophancy of the apology, or the weakness of the person who could be satisfied with such an excuse. When people gulp down such large and nauseous doses of their own assertions, it is not surprising that they should become foulmouthed.

6

The New Monthly Magazine, which compares every novelist who publishes with Mr. Colburn to the Great Unknown,' says, in its notice of Mr. Horace Smith's Brambletye House, that he has avowedly followed the course of the Scottish novelist, and will not steal, but emulate his excellencies.' We are glad of this, since now that the principal contributor to this magazine has begun to imitate the author of Waverley, we may expect to see no more of the invidious attempts to depreciate his writings, which have so often disgraced its pages. As compared with the Scotch novels (says the N. M. M.) Brambletye House is more continuous, and less thrown into masses!' It seems, however, to have been received by the critic as an indication of a 'genuine vein from which a series of works may be wrought,' to appear annually. In short, if we understand the drift of the critique, it is, that Mr. Horace Smith is to be Mr. Colburn's 'Great Unknown.'

·

It is asserted in the last number of Blackwood, that the well-known squib, The Devil's Walk,' which has been generally attributed to Porson, and which the learned professor used to claim as his own, was, in fact, the joint composition of Coleridge and Southey. We have the best authority for confirming this statement. It was, however, never intended to transpire in print. By the way this number of Maga is a very amusing one, but what in the name of conscience can induce Kit North to bore us with essays on the genius of the author of Waverley, at this time of day. There is plenty of character in the Man of War's Man, but a friend, who has served many years in a King's Ship, informs us, that the writer of these papers could never have sailed in a Man of War himself, or he would not have indulged in such idle and absurd misrepresentations. The last New Monthly Magazine contains some desultory extracts from the commonplace book of the late Mrs. Anne Radcliffe, on the supernatural in poetry. The arguments, if arguments they can be called, for they are very feeble and confused, are conveyed in the form of a conversation between Mr W. and Mr. S. It is a pity that the Editor will, for the sake of introducing the name of Mrs. Radcliffe in the Table of Contents of the New Monthly Magazine, injure her high reputation by the publication of such twaddle. Throughout an article of between seven or eight pages in length, there is scarcely an observation that has the least novelty to recommend it.

The Rev. B. W. Hamilton, of Leeds, in an ingenious Essay on Craniology,' which he has lately published, shews that Drs. Gall and Spurzheim are but the revivers of German theories, at least 300 years old. The genuine author of the system, it seems, was one Jean de Rhetan, who wrote a work on Craniology in the year 1500.

In the last North American Review brother Jonathan has presented his readers with an article on the poetry of Lord Byron and Timothy Pinkney, awarding the palm, of course, to the rhyming Yankee. One of the examples given of the beauties of Mr. Piccaninny's poetry, we shall lay before our readers. It contains, says the sage Reviewer, 'no less than three figures :'

The sportive Hopes that used to chase their shifting shadows on,
Like children playing in the sun are gone, for ever gone,

And on a careless sullen peace my double-fronted-mind,

Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind.

We have heard of a double-soled shoe, but with a double-fronted-mind we really never had the good fortune to meet.