among others, why this should be the case. It is the business of a counsel to dwell upon minute points of proof or vindication, and to make the most of whatever comes within his reach. This must be so; for it not seldom happens that an almost imperceptible difference of time, place, or action, decides the question as to guilt or innocence. The arguments and illustrations too of a counsel are frequently wire-drawn, as it were, to suit the comprehension of those who are to give their verdict upon the cause. Every thing must be made clear, or at least must be made to seem clear, even at the expence of elegance and vigour. Hence arises in the orator a habit of marshalling and enlarging upon a host of minor circumstances. But that which is a merit at the bar, is a fault in the senate. Senatorial hearers soon become tired of listening to arguments upon subordinate parts of the subject, however ingenious in themselves those arguments may be. They will not suffer a speaker" to bestow all his tediousness' upon them. In an harangue there must be something striking to catch and rivet their attention, or they will speedily be seized with fits of coughing. They are like those amateurs of painting who despise the Dutch finishing of a hair, a wart, a nail, or the thrums of a mop; and demand of the painter the higher requisites of vigour of conception, boldness of outline, and freedom of pencil.

ANA.

I AM much gratified by those works, the French have numbers of them, under the denomination of Ana, which give the good sayings of men of talent, just as they dropped from the lips of the speakers. There is a grace, a sparkling vivacity, in these unpremeditated speeches, which is generally wanting in laboured compositions, There appears to be the same sort of difference between the one and the other, that there is between the honey which drops spontaneously from the comb, and that which is obtained from it by pressure.

**D.

LORD BYRON'S ROMANCE," CHILDE HAROLD."

HERE woman's voice is never heard: apart,
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move,
She yields to one her person, and her heart,
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove.

For, not unhappy in her master's love,

And joyful in a mother's fondest cares,

Blest cares! all other feelings far above!

Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.

THE DEATH OF LEILA.

From the Spanish of Luis de Riachaelo.

YES, oft I attended with pensive delight
The couch where in sickness my Leila reclin'd;
And oft by the aid of the Lady of Night
In her beautiful eye---still unfadingly bright,---
Mark'd each image that dwelt on her mind:
There, affection and sorrow together were blended---
The tears of regret, with the glances of love;---
Regret---that so soon she must leave unbefriended
The brother, and lord of her bosom, to rove.
One eve as she rested her head on her breast,---
Can I cease to remember that moment? no, never!---
On my lips with wild fervor a kiss she imprest,
Then sank to repose on my bosom for ever!

For scarce had I tasted the sorrowful bliss,

When her heart ceas'd its throbbing, and dim grew

her eye--

And I found that my lips had entomb'd her last sigh;--That her spirit had fled with the kiss!

1814.

A. A. W.

STANZAS.

IF the rose e'er was blooming---the lily was fair, Or the zephyrs of Spring breath'd their perfumes around,

If the violet e'er for its sweetness was rare,

United in thee all their beauties were found!

Ah! why didst thou leave me all lonely, to brood

On joys wither'd by death in the morn of their bloom; Now hope's pleasing phantoms have ceas'd to delude, Since the source that they sprang from hath sought the dark tomb!

Yet for ever this heart, whilst it beats, shall regret thee,
For could the famed waters of Lethe bestow

The power of oblivion, I'd scorn to forget thee,
And dash them to earth in the pride of my woe!"

W.

SONNET.

From the Italian.

AS o'er her harp she bent her angel form
And graceful touch'd its all harmonious wires,
Sounds, science-fraught, she drew, of power to charm
Susceptive breasts with rapture's purest fires:
Such the sweet force my grief-lull'd soul confest,---
Such the bright glow my answering frame that
thrill'd,---

While yet, in sportive maze the strings she prest,
And echo's bowers with gladdening measures fill'd:
But, ah! when ceasing every joyful sound---
When softest melody, diffusing round---

To plaintive strains she tuned each dulcet chord; 'Twas then I mark'd the sigh that swell'd her breast--The tearful sympathy her eyes exprest;

And lost---entranced, I gazed---I loved---adored !

W.