Cunning Cupid, votive Venus,
Jealous Juno, martial Mars,

Guard the flame that glows between us-
Sweetly smile, seducing stars!

Gurgling glide, ye gushing fountains!
Roaring rush, ye rivers rude!
Madly moan, majestic mountains!
Wildly warble, withering wood!

Fairer than the nymph Diana,
By Acteon, bathing, seen-
Balmy breeze, with incense fan her-
Virgins chaste, she is your queen.

This fond bosom shall adore her,
This sad heart her beauty sing,
These poor hands shall lay before her
Autumn flowers and buds of Spring.

Hear, ye gales, my low complaining;
Waft, ye waves, my words of wo!
Cease, ye clouds, oh, cease your raining!
Vanish, vapours! scatter, snow!

Maiden mild, may music mingle,

Melting measures maddest moan,

Still stay, sweetest, still stay single-
Joyous, jilting, Julia Jones!

We give next a touch of the simply philosophical or the philosophi cally simple. So vain are we of this brief effort, that we do not hesitate to state our belief that it would have been very much quoted by the wearers of azure hose, and perused by gentlemen-lecturers on the due appreciation of the metaphysics of Nature, had they been given to the world in a volume fresh from the Lakes. In the lines which follow, we have not only infantile simplicity and child. like naturalness and an instructive moral, but another quality, which we wish could be always set down among the much-vaunted characteristics of the Lake school-brevity.

SIMPLE STANZAS,

(Written on seeing the youngest daughter but one of a dear friend at play with her doll in a cultivated garden-plot.)

BY W. W.

How featly, with her baby-doll,
My little Anna trots!

Among the lilies all so white

Among the flower-pots!

And knoweth she the difference

That tender, artless child!

Between the nurtured garden-flowers

And roses of the wild?

Ah, no! the hues of artifice

She cannot yet discover

From those which untrained Nature throws

The hills and valleys over:

But soon will come such knowledge—

A shuddering to feel

That things are not just what they seem,
Or what they are conceal!

Rydal Castle, Sept. 1.,

1836.

We shall now close this first number of our series of "Hits," by giving two at the styles of a pair of very celebrated American bards, who have achieved their greenest laurels in blank verse. The one being at the head of "the dreamy-delicate," and the other of "the wildly-intense" schools of poetry.

AN ADVENTURE.

BY N. P. W.

Viola slept. Her couch was by a fountain,
And its delicious murmur and the breeze
Lovingly mingled their harmonious tones
To lull her into slumber. From afar
The lowing of the teat-distended cows,
And the low bleating of the gentle sheep,
And the bow-bow of dogs stole fitfully
Along the air, and milkmaid's warbled song-
And all that flings romance's wizard spell
Above the unreal mockeries of life.
These could not wake young Viola, as there
Pressing the fragrant herbage, soft she lay!
Her's was a magic beauty, and it flung
Enchantment round her person. It was seen
In the fond clasping of her delicate hands,
As if each taper finger loved to hold
Its ivory fellow-and in her dark lashes
As they lay, distinctly pencilled, on the full
Inviting rounding of her melting cheek;
And in the loose dishevelling of her locks,
Each one of which might hold a giant bound.

Shall I awake her? If I do, I'm doom'd.
She'll kill me with upbraiding, and those eyes,
Now blind beneath their curtains, will flash out
A woman's keen displeasure when she's wronged!
Or she, perchance, may grieve, and from those orbs
Give me a deep look like a wounded deer.
I will pass on, but when I meet the young
And passionate Viola awake once more,
I'll say I saw her sleeping-and she'll frown
And bite her rich lip, and then blush to stain
The red rose deeplier-then I'll whisper low
That I strayed on and only gazed a moment;
Then, with her warm hand folded into mine,
Breathe vows of love; and then I'll stoop to hear
The difficult throbbings of her heart, and then-
And then-shall that be all, my Viola?

Now for a specimen of the "wildly intense."

MADNESS—A RHAPSODT.*

ET S. F.

Ha ba' Im mad-mad as a hare in March :
Youder of the rainbow which surrend

The pallid brow of Eve. I see a form

Astride: He's laughing at me-bear him shout!
With what Satan and all-fred grins

He makes the welkin peal: Langhe black frad
Methinks thou art Abaddon-he who lay
Extended Burteen thousand miles along
The gulf of chaos spouting lund flames
Into the unformed void. But if this were true-
This measure of thy length-it seems to me,
As on yon rainbow now thou sit ́s astride,
The pond rous legs should reach to earth,
Like to a Cyclops, who, in merry mood,
Bestraddles a Welch pony!

Am I mad?

What if I am! there's mighty method in't.
Now I'll sit me down and curse that world.
Which scorns to read my wonder-working verse.
May raven-pinioned Darkness cover thee,
And Tempest beat thee black and blue,

Thou Earth! thou miserable, little ball!

Perchance I rave-what if I do! who cares?

Look through Earth's caverns, rivers, hills, and dales;
There decent Murder sits subdued, and there
Young-eyed Remorse and Lewdness vile
Hold base companionship! My curses then,
The curses of the good and great, cleave to thee.
Sin-engendering world! Before the deluge swept
Ante-diluvian beauty from the land,

How laughed the spreading vallies, and the streams
Rushed freely onward in impetuous joy.

No dungeons then were dug for the insane!

No chains! No leather shirts! No heads were shaved.
There-look! grin'st thou in rage, coiled wretch?
I'll seize a knot of vipers, and I'll whip

Your skin to shivers, like my handkerchief,
Which clotted is with blood-Soft! I'll sleep.
Meridian moonlight silvers o'er the scene,
And all mankind are gay. Pompeii fell
Buried in lava-Jerusalem is drear-
Troy never did exist-and temples huge,
Reared by Ephesians to the great Diana,
Can no where now be found-still butter sells
For forty cents a pound, and eggs are scarce!
I'll go to sleep-laugh on, black fiend! ha! ha!

Enough for the present:-we will detain thee no longer, placid reader!-and if thou likest not these, our "Hits at Poetical Styles," console thyself with the reflection, that they will not be renewed,

*Note by the author. This is my poem, from which Mr. Bulwer stole the idea of his "Siamese Twins" Any one, by comparing the two, can perceive the resemblance. Indeed, Mr. Bulwer ized all his novels from my poems-large editions of which can be found by the curious, ay in bookseller's garrets.

unless the public taste be sufficiently discriminating to demand their continuance. If loudly encored, we shall appear once more, and resume our engagement with (" blessings on them and eternal praise!") the poets; but if, au contraire, we are passed by in neglect, and our overtures, like the addresses we admire, are "rejected," this first number, like our first love, shall be " our last."

LAST WORDS OF SCHILLER.

"About six he sank into a deep sleep, once for a moment he looked up with a lively air and said, Many things are growing plain and clear to me." "

Mid the dark trials here below,

O'er which such burning tears were shed,
A better path they learned to know,
Which to a holier country led.

Each hope, with generous feeling fraught,
Chilled in this world's ungenial air,
Each pure desire, each holy thought,
Meets a responsive answer there.

Each beautiful and gifted mind

That wandered through this world below,
And could no kindred spirit find,

A full communion there may know.

Still more! diviner accents swell

Their truths mysterious o'er my heart,
And spirit voices round me tell

What mortal lips may ne'er impart.

Be hushed, my soul, and strive no more
To speak the revelations given,

But once again on earth adore

That love which makes e'en earth a heaven."

SPLENDID FAILURES.

NO. I.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE MISSISSIPPI SCHEME OF JOHN LAW. THE MAINE LAND SPECULATION OF 1835.

It is often curious to observe how frequently mankind are found acting over the same scenes. Turn back into the page of History, and you will discover whole periods of popular excitement and delusion, which seem to be the exact prototypes of what is going on in your own times. Whether it be that the passions and propensities of men are so much alike in all ages and countries, that they will always, from a kind of necessity, under similar circumstances, be found doing precisely the same things, in spite of the warnings of history or whether it be that there is a kind of precession in human affairs, and only a limited number of changes through which human actions can be rung; it is not easy to determine.

JOHN LAW, the author of the most splendid and daring speculation that the world ever saw, was the son of William Law, a gold. smith and banker of Edinburgh; and was born in that city on the thirty first of April, 1671. In early childhood he addicted himself