meet in with anything so much resembling what we have been accustomed to think good poetry. He says further, that his verses will probably be referred to the class of satire. They are precisely of the class of Cowper's Table-talk, Expostulation and Progress of Error; moral essays in verse, in which satire and irony are not spared; but of which the chief object, is the incubatiou of the divine principle of religious toleration. The dialogues display an excellent spirit, clear and liberal views, and, with scholar-like polish, poetical talent of that manly and robust texture, which is becoming precious, in proportion to its rarity. We pay the writer a sincere, if barren compliment, when we acknowledge, that we had misgivings about noticing his poem at all, with the consciousness, that without room for commentary, and free quotation, we could give our readers no adequate idea of the very high opinion we imbibed of its merits, even on a rapid perusal. Some of those who admire the manly and well-disciplined school to which, we have said, the RHYMED PLEA bears affinity, may even, on this hasty indication, be tempted to judge for themselves.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. The Border

Minstrelsy.

THIS re-publication has not yet reached the Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, the Minstrelsy being rather his revivification of the works of the elder bards, and unknown singers of his native land. The Minstrelsy is, however, not the least important part of the Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. Taking the term in any sense, it contains the germ of all his poetry, the essence of all his romance We are glad to see this series appearing in a compendious and attainable form. The edition is neat and compact, and is illustrated by the pencil of Turner, to whom Sir Walter himself pointed out the subjects.

THE CORONAL. BY MARY ANNE BROWNE.

A BEAUTIFUL fairy tome is this, full of gentle fancies, and amiable and pious thoughts, and truths severe, drest in pleasing verse. The flowers forming the Coronal are chiefly hymns and paraphrases on selected texts of Scripture.

HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE. by I. A. M.

THIS is another fair-lady production, we venture to say, though not expressly told. THE HERMIT Of Eskdaleside is a romantic tale, founded on a tradition of the reign of Henry II. There are several shorter tales and other pieces in the volume, which give an agreeable idea of the powers of the authoress.

THE MYSTERIES OF TIME; or, BANWELL CAVE. A Poem in Six Cantos. Straker, London.

THIS is a didactic, religious, and descriptive poem, containing some fine, and one or two striking passages; which, however, taken as a whole, we fear this impatient and impetuous generation may feel monotonous. THE DREAM, and other Poems, by Mrs. GEORGE LENOX-CONYNGHAM Moxon: London.

THE lady with this pretty name is a poetess of the Hemans and Landon School, and withal a little Byronic. Her verse is flowing and graceful, without any distinguishing quality, or very marked characteristic. He would, however, be a churlish and tasteless critic who did not admire

one bright selected flower, because the meadow was enamelled with thousands boasting the same beautiful forms and brilliant hues. One poor specimen is all we can give :—

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

Not for the dead-not for the unconscious-weep,
Whose country's ruin troubleth not their sleep:
There is a mockery in the tears ye shed
For them who from the wrath to come have fled:
No! Weep not for the dead.

Your grief afflicts not them: they do not hear
The tones whose lightest sound was once so dear:
Would ye awake them, if ye could, to know
What we they loved and left must undergo?
Wake not the dead to wo.

Weep ye not for the dead: a blessed doom
Hath closed on them the portals of the tomb:
Their quiet memory dreams not of the past;
Their anchor through eternity, is fast;

Their changeless fate is cast.

Weep ye not for the dead :—but weep, weep sore
For them who go-and shall return no more:
Weep for the vanquished, captive, exile bands,
Condemned to waste away in foreign lands,

With nerveless hearts and hands.

Weep for the weary, way-worn, aged men
Who deemed they ne'er should leave their home again.
They go, they go from that beloved home,-

They go in distant dreariness to roam,

And back they shall not come.

Weep for the delicately nurtured young,
Whose childish accents must renounce the tongue
In which their mothers taught them to lisp forth
Praise to their God,—good will to all on Earth;
The tongue that hailed their birth.

Weep for the widowed bride, on whom the blight
Of desolation resteth; whose life's light

Is quenched within the tomb of one that lies

In the fallen land she learned from him to prize,-
Fallen, never to arise.

Weep for the brave, the banished, baffled brave,
Bereaved of all they vainly bled to save ;—
The brave who still would gladly die to free
The native country they shall never see,-
Dear, even in slavery.

Weep, weep for these; but let no senseless tear
Flow for the dead. Exempt from grief and fear,
The land that bore them pilloweth their head;
Their graves among their fathers' graves are spread:
Then weep not for the dead.

Besides the above poems, which are of recent publication, we have Paulina, a Fragment of a Confession; a piece of pure bewilderment.— The Voyage, a second edition of the Seige of Constantinople, by Mr. Michael, not much better. These have gathered in their fame, and require no new notice.

FINE ARTS.

LANDSCAPE ILLUSTRATIONS OF LORD BYRON.

Part 15. Murray, Tilt, London.

INDEED, a charming number; beautiful drawings, excellent engravings, and nature in some of her most glorious aspects. There is one gem of art, THE VALE OF TEMPE, by Purser, which we regard with unmixed delight. It ranks among the very best of the whole collection. The two vignettes of SCIO AND GENOA, by Turner, are as usual pleasing; the same artist has a view of RHODES, sharply and spiritedly drawn, but there is a chalky hardness about it, that we confess we do not like. MOUNT OLYMPUS, also by Purser, is a beautiful rival to his Tempe; a delightful picture. Mr. Cooper's view of Thun, is agreeable, but it is one of those subjects that make prettier realities than pictures. A portrait of the Countess Guicciolli is given. We are not surprised at the taste of Byron, because the heart of man is made captive by strange features and forms sometimes; and every old woman in the empire knows "there's no accounting for tastes." Had we been Byron, the Countess would have passed unimmortalized.

PORTRAITS OF THE PRINCIPAL FEMALE CHARACTERS IN THE WAVERLEY

NOVELS. Parts 7 and 8. Chapman and Hall, London.

A CERTAIN contemporary in his notice of this work, pithily enough dispatches his subject by the simple enumeration of the name of each portrait, and the declaration of his favourites. This is smooth sailing certainly. It is easy to exhaust the expressions of commendation, or at all events not difficult, so to vary them as to prevent the tautology of "a-hem-able iteration." We have invariably spoken so flatteringly of the Waverley Portraits, that we can say little more than that they proceed as they commenced.

VALPY'S NATIONAL GALLERY. Part 1.

THIS is the first number of a publication that will be found at once pleasing and useful. The object of the publisher is, by presenting a series of engravings drawn from the great originals which constitute the "National Gallery," (on the plan of the Musée Napoléon,) and by giving a faithful delineation of every painting with a description of each subject and a brief memoir of the artist, to afford to the public that facility which is generally so much required in the contemplation of works of art, by the uninitiated a faithful catalogue. The engravings-twelve in number-are very cleverly executed and are correct memoranda of the original works. The published price is cheap enough in all conscience.

MAJOR'S CABINET GALLERY OF PICTURES. No. XI.

THIS is a prime number, and it gives us much more satisfaction to be able to praise this sincerely, than "to hint dislike," to its precursor. THE GRAND CANAL OF VENICE, which is the first subject, has been painted hundreds of times; but never better than by CANALETTO; who looked on the "Sea Cybele," with the eyes of genius inspired by filial love. This painting is effectively engraved by HEATH.

The second picture, THE QUEEN OF HEARTS, by Vangool, is a domestic familiar subject, in which, in the engraving, we do not exactly see the parties perform the functions Mr. Allan Cunningham assigns them, when he viewed the painting.

The remaining picture is a landscape by CUYP, with cattle; in which Cunningham's verbal painting wonderfully helps out the engraving. It forms, however, a charming print. How could a painting of CUYP's do less?

NEW READINGS OF OLD AUTHORS. Tilt, London.

Although we can scarcely forgive the profanation, the shock given to our most sacred literary associations, we must confess that these engravings are irrestibly ludicrous, and full of a rich comic humour. Here is the new reading of Macbeth

"Leave all the rest to me,"

An old miser dying, and a solicitor writing his last will and testament.

"I am afraid to think what I have done,"

Shews a beautiful and richly-dressed youthful bride leaving church with an immense, gouty, cross-looking old husband, her lover in the back-ground.

"Seyton, I say."

But we leave this to the ingenuity of the reader. It makes a good puzzle.

THE DRAMA.

ALL the world knows the story of the malevolent sailor, who, once upon a time demanded gold for his five-pound note, with a view of embarrassing the bankinghouse of old Sir Billy Curtis and Co. Much in the same spirit and effect are the eternal clap-traps that we hear at all the theatres about native performers versus foreign artists. Were it not sickening, it would be amusing to mark with what selfcomplacency our actors are throwing out their little bits of vituperation against their German and Italian rivals, and the tempest of applause, roared forth by a generous audience, which shakes the very walls, thereat. We can do the patriot, we flatter ourselves, to the full as well as our neighbours, when occasion needs it; but, to our notion, all the fire and fury of this insufferable trash signifieth nothing. The public, the warm-hearted, generous, sympathising, indignant public, had, but a little while ago, Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane all to themselves, any night in the week, with their own native darlings to strut and fret their hour before them; but, everybody's business being nobody's business, and alms-giving being one thing and entertainment fees another, no-body ever thought of going to either; the benches were left unoccupied, and the actors were allowed to yawn before paper audiences, with what appetite they might; and so the doors were closed, and they poor things were sent to the right about. This of itself was vastly afflicting, but when the self-same doors were anon thrown open to a batch of Foreigners, and the same identical public treacherously thronged the seats, well nigh to the suffocating point, to hear, see, and thunder forth their ecstacies, affliction become stupifying. Did not the public say as plainly as neglect and apathy could speak, that it cared no longer about the Drama ? and now does not the recreant unblushingly wind its way to the spot, which erst appeared forgotten ground, and sit in open-mouthed delight with a relish and ravenousness of appetite, truly frightful, to witness theatric representations. Is not such apostacy abominable? Such fickleness disgraceful? How can it be accounted for? It is true that we have Pasta, whose equal is not to be found alive. It is true that we have Taglioni, who, as a human model of grace and beauty, surpasses the conception of all who know her not. It is true that we have Malibran, Schroder, Durient, Cinti, who, as singers, fascinate all ears and deny all taste; Paganini, that wretched specimen of human avarice, but that unsurpassable of all fiddlers, and a host of others all excellent in their various ways. But what are they all compared with our own dear darlings, men, women, and animals. Is there not, on this side the picture who shall we name?-the Wards, the Coopers, the Knowleses, the Trees, the Listons, the Butlers, &c. &c. ? and have we not seen them night after night in the same everlasting monotony of cast, till affection itself ought to spring, were it only for age sake and yet the people, the public, forsook these and clove to those? Oh, taste, taste, where are thy blushes? Fie done! fie done!! "Private nights" and "Benefits" are nearly all that we have have had during the past month; so that what between the grumblings of the natives, and the money getting of the foreigners (on which occasions, criticism, by prescriptive custom, lies dormant,) we shall leave them to their fate till our next: by which time they may expect to hear from us "more at length."

MUSIC.

NOVELLO'S MASSES, with an accompaniment for the Organ or Piano Forte. No. 1. First Mass C., new edition.

A NEW edition of these justly celebrated Masses is the surest evidence of their excellence. Mr. Novello, in the estimation of every true musician, has long ranked as one of the finest among our living composers. The harmony of his part-writing is uniformly exquisite: indeed, it would be hardly possible for him to write a faulty bar, so correct is his judgment, and so pure his taste. The "first Mass in C." of which the present is a fresh issue, was originally composed for only a treble, tenor, and bass; it is here re-arranged for four voices, and we need not say to those who are familiar with this composition how greatly its beauty has been thereby increased. We willingly accord to it the highest praise its great merits claim.

The MUSICAL SCRAP BOOK. By Finlay Dun, &c.: Edinburgh. We recommend this periodical to all our musical friends. It is worthy of their favour.

POLITICAL REGISTER.