has exhausted the time of the court and jury, for two hours, in speaking nothing else.

A German apologue has been very current at Paris, and applied to several of the new promotions, in which pitiful cringers had been preferred to men of talents. An eagle returning -to his nest, finds a snail on the top of the tree. You pitiful reptile how came you to mount so high. Why, my dear brother, by creeping and cringing. The chief places in a state are in fact always filled by two distinct classes, the eagles and the reptiles.

SELECTED POETRY.

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

THERE is in the Greek Anthology a little effusion ascribed to Sappho, which bears strong internal evidence of coming from the melting Muse, or rather the despairing bosom, of that impassioned writer. I would cite it as an instance of the peculiar felicity of "the language of harmony" to speak volumes in a few of the ΕΠΕΛ ΠΤΕΡΟΕΝΤΑ. It is so scrupulously chaste in its complexion, that one is ready to call out, in the animated but lamenting exclamation of the satirist, Si sic omnia dixisset.

STILL let them deem, who will, that Time's cold hand
Must break those ties which round the youthful breast
Fond Love had twin'd in many a tender band,

When Life first dawn'd in Hope's bright colours drest

For me, I care not whether Age severe

Bid o'er my brows the silvery tresses flow; Still with Love's thrilling notes my lyre shall glow, Still hymn the lays to love and Laura dear.So may each minute of life's evening hour Glide on with silent foot: and when no more My soul can taste the joys it knew beforeWhen all the vision'd day-dreams of delight, Which Fancy erst had wove, have wing'd their flight, I'll bow my willing head to Fate's almighty power.

FROM THE SPANISH.

STILL through the day's slow lingering hours
With unavailing anguish flow

These burning sighs, these endless showers,
That speak my tortur'd bosom's wo.

And when the pearly car of Eve
In silver radiance rides on high,

Still does my breast with sorrow heave,
Still starts the tear-drop in mine eye.

Or should I lay me down at night,
To woo the balmy power of sleep;
Thy vision swims before my sight,
And e'en in dreams for thee I weep.

And when the golden morn appears,
And blushes in th' etheral plain,
It finds my eyes still bath'd in tears,
Still weeping for thy cold disdain.

FROM THE SICILIAN.

YE shadowy forms!--Night's offspring!--ye that wreathe Your darkening horrors round these forests deep, And in these caves your silent dwelling keep;

O that I here amid your glooms, might breathe

Th' expiring sigh!-and when the guilty maid
Shall wander where my lowly tomb is laid,
O say that here "life's fitful fever o'er,"

He, whom her scorn hath kill'd, now finds repose,-
Haply across her cheek some tear may steal;
Yet deem not that the tear from Pity flows;

For Pity sure that breast can never feel:

Her eyes will weep, because there lives no more
One who for her with hopeless flames will burn,
And mourn with fruitless sighs, and love without return.

Clarinda, with a haughty grace,

In scornful humour sets her face,
And looks as she were born alone,
To give, in love, and take from none.

Though I adore, to that degree,
Clarinda, I would die for thee,
If you're too proud to ease my pain,
I am too proud for your disdain.

I know her false, I know her base,

I know that gold alone can move her;

I know she jilts me to my face,

And yet, ye gods! I know I love her.

I see, too plain, and yet am blind,

Would think her true, while she, forsooth,

To me, and to my rival, kind,

Courts him, courts me, and jilts us both.

ORIGINAL POETRY-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

A RHAPSODY.

O THOU, whom we have known so long, so well, Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and fram'd Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song;

And in thy later Tale of Times of Old,
Remindest us of our own patriarch fathers,
The Madocs of their age, who planted here
The cross of Christ-and liberty-and peace!
Minstrel of other climes, of higher hopes,
And holier inspirations, who hast ne'er
From her high birth debas'd the goddess Muse,
To grovel in the dirt of earthly things;

But learn'd to mingle with her human tones
Some breathings of the harmonies of heaven!
Joyful to meet thee yet again, we hail

Thy last, thy loftiest lay;-nor chief we thank thee
For ev'ry form of Beauty, ev'ry light
Bestow'd by Brilliancy, and ev'ry grace

That Fancy could invent and Taste dispose.
Or that creating, consummating power,
Pervading fervour, and mysterious finish,
That something occult-indefinable—
By mortals Genius nam'd; the parent Sun
Whence all those rays proceed; the constant Fount
To feed those streams of mind; th' informing Soul
Whose influence all are conscious of, but none
Could e'er describe; whose fine and subtle nature
Seems like th' ærial forms, which legends say
Greeted the gifted eye of saint or seer,
Yet ever mock'd the fond inquirer's aim
To scan their essence!

Such alone we greet not.

Since Genius oft, (so oft, the tale is trite,)
Employs its golden art to varnish Vice,,
And bleach Depravity, till it shall wear

The whiteness of the robes of Innocence;
And Fancy's self forsakes her truest trade,
The lapidary, for the scavenger;

And Taste, regardful of but half her province,
Self-sentenced to a partial blindness, turns
Her notice from the semblance of perfection,
To fix its hoodwink'd gaze on faults alone-
And like the owl, sees only in the night;
Not like the eagle, soars to meet the day.
Oblivion to all such!-For thee, we joy
Thou hast not misapply'd the gifts of God;
Nor yielded up thy powers, illustrious captives,
To grace the triumph of licentious Wit.
Once more a female is thy chosen theme;
And Kailyal lives a lesson to the sex,

How more than woman's loveliness may blend
With all of woman's worth; with chasten'd love,
Magnanimous exertion, patient piety,

And pure intelligence. Lo! from thy wand,
E'en Faith and Hope and Charity receive

Something more filial and more feminine!

Proud praise enough were this.-Yet is there more; That 'neath thy splendid Indian canopy,

By fairy fingers wov'n, of gorgeous threads,

And gold and precious stones, thou hast enwrap'd
Stupendous themes that Truth divine reveal'd,
And answering Reason own'd. Nought more sublime,
Beauteous or useful, e'er was character'd

On Hermes' mystic pillars-Egypt's boast,
And more, Pythagoras' lesson, when the maze
Of hieroglyphic meaning aw'd the world!

Could Music's potent charm, as some believ'd,
Have warmth to animate the slum'bring dead,
And "lap them in Elysium," second only
To that which shall await in other worlds;
How would the native sons of ancient India
Unclose on thee that wond'ring, dubious eye,
Where Admiration wars with Incredulity!