There seemed to lie a weight upon her brain,
That ever prest her blue-veined eyelids down,
But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain,
Nor seam her forehead with the faintest frown ;
She was as she were proud,

So young, to be allowed

To follow Him who wore the thorny crown.

Nor was she sad, but over every mood

To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth,
Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood,

Of quiet gayety and serenest mirth;
And thus her voice did flow,

So beautifully low,

A stream whose music was no thing of earth.

Woman divine! ideal best-beloved,

Here was thy image realized to me;
In sensible existence lived and moved
The vision of my sacred phantasy;
Madonna! Mary, mine!

Her look, her smile, was thine;

And gazing on that form, I worshipped thee."

We finish this short sketch by one of the most favorable of his attempts

LABOR.

"Heart of the people! Working men!

Marrow and nerve of human powers;

Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming time this world of ours;

Hold by that title, which proclaims

That ye are undismayed and strong,

Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.

Yet not on ye alone depend

These offices or burdens fall;

Labor, for some or other end,

Is lord and master of us all.

The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound,

While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now, And shouts and winds his horn, as ye

Might whistle by the loom or plough; In vain for him has wealth the use

Of warm repose and careless joy, When, as ye labor to produce,

He strives, as active, to destroy.

But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigor overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?

Pleasure, for pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!

And he who still and silent sits

In closed room or shady nook, And seems to nurse his idle wits

With folded arms or open book: To things now working in that mind

Your children's children well may owe Blessings that hope has ne'er defined,

Till from his busy thoughts they flow.

Thus all must work; with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will;
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,
And all our choice is this, to grow
Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.

Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,

For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,

Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest,

And an increase of good for man.”

"The Lay of the Humble" is too long for quotation, but it is probably the best of his poems.

In person Mr. Milnes is a little above the middle size; his hair dark, and his eyes gray and expressive; his features are regular and attractive; there is a peculiar lounging languor in his manners, which, however, are the reverse of repulsive; he is well informed, and lives an elegant bachelor life, is fond of giving breakfasts to literary friends and foreigners of intellect and attainments. He seems to emulate the career of Mr. Rogers as something between the man of fashion and the elegant poet; his politics are Tory Radical, clinging to all that is good in the aristocratical portion of the British institutions, while he is anxious at the same time to reform all abuses; his sympathies are strongly in favor of the Polish and Hungarian cause; his speech in favor of the present noble people, who are struggling for their freedom with the infamous tyrants of Austria and Russia, was worthy of the representative of an enlightened constituency, and ought to induce the British government to take steps, in conjunction with America, as the only two free countries in the world, to insist upon the recognition of the rights of humanity.

JOHN FORSTER.

It seldom occurs that the editor of an influential periodical produces, after his appointment, any work of eminence:—it is a very common thing for a distinguished author to be placed at the head of a Review, but few men achieve any greatness afterwards. It seems as though the unceasing critical necessities of his position deprived him of that directness of purpose, and energy of will, requisite for the conception and execution of a great work. This remark has been suggested by the contrary effect produced upon the accomplished author of the "Life of Goldsmith," who was comparatively unknown to the world of letters till he became literary editor of the " Examiner." Since then he has published three valuable works which give him a claim to be admitted into the British Authors.

Mr. Forster is descended from a respectable family of Berwick on Tweed, and after receiving a classical education, was entered of the Inner Temple. His predispositions were however to a more attractive profession, and he devoted more attention to the "dulce' than the "utile," possibly this might have been the effect of necessity, as we seldom find barristers neglect their briefs when they can get any it is a pleasant legal fiction to believe that some lawyers are so fond of poetry as to rise above the superior fascinations of a fee.

When Mr. Forster emerged from the anomalous position of a

briefless barrister we find him engaged on the “Examiner,” where his criticisms are held in much repute. When Mr. Dickens retired from the editing of the "Daily News," he undertook to conduct that paper, but after some time, we believe, abandoned it. Previous to this Messrs. Chapman and Hall placed the Foreign Quarterly Review under his care, and he remained at the head of this entertaining periodical till it was finally incorporated with the “London and Westminster.”

When Dr. Lardner projected his "Encyclopedia of British Literature" Mr. Forster promised his support, and contributed to that valuable collection “The Lives of British Statesmen." This established his reputation, and few prose writers have been more strikingly successful on their first appearance than was the author of these admirable biographies.

We shall pass these over with this general commendation, and conclude our hasty sketch of their talented author by a few remarks on his last and greatest work, "The Life of Oliver Goldsmith."

It is somewhat singular that having occasion to remark on Mr. W. Irving's false position in American literature, in order to bring the absurdity to the test of a mathematical problem, we compared him with Goldsmith, and we trust completely exposed the fallacy of considering the author of "The Sketch Book" as anything beyond an agreeable essayist, and a very successful imitator of the level style of Addison and Pope.

The piracy of American publishers has been a favorite topic for indignant vituperation, but Mr. Irving has just given to the world so glaring an instance of unscrupulous appropriation of the labors of another, that it is utterly impossible to avoid arraigning the offender, however respectable his general station in literature may be.

That we may allow Mr. Irving the full advantage of stating his own case, we quote part of his preface. He thus commences: