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This insidious proposal the Baron rejects with high-minded indignation; upon which he is taken back to the Donjon of Vincennes, and the Sieur Richard consents to go as his counterfeit. The sequel may be given in the words of Bonaparte, as reported by Mr. O'Meara." The subject of Baron Kolli and Ferdinand being one day introduced,

• Kolli,' said he, was discovered by the police, by his always drinking a bottle of the best wine, which so ill corresponded with his dress and apparent poverty, that it excited a suspicion among some of the spies, and he was arrested, searched, and his papers taken from him. A police agent was then dressed up, instructed to represent Kolli, and sent with the papers taken from him to Ferdinand, who, however, would not attempt to effect his escape, although he had no suspicion of the deceit

passed upon him.' The reception which the pseudo-Baron met with is thus described by M. de Berthemy, the governor of Valençay.

• Richard having been introduced into the castle, placed himself in a gallery which led to the royal apartments. Deceived by a guilty conscience, Richard saw the Infant Don Antonio coming out: he imagined that prince was the king, and shewed him some trifles. His royal highness examined them, and put some questions to him, about turnery work, listened with indulgence to his unconnected gossip, and perceiving an extraordinary confusion in the man, endeavoured to read through his dull countenance. His royal highness was about to retire, when the pretended merchant declared himself an envoy from the British government to effect his majesty's Escape, and that he had letters of king George to deliver to his majesty.... His royal highness cast a significant look at him, withdrew without paying the least attention to what he said, and immediately informed the king of the circumstance. His majesty sent his usher shortly after to complain of this audacity, and requested me to dismiss the wretch.'

De Kolli was for four years imprisoned au secret at Vincennes ;-he was then transferred to Saumur, and the ominous order had been received for his being sent, under proper escort, with seven other state prisoners, to Fontainebleau, when the entry of the Allies into Paris occasioned his liberation. The narrative of his imprisonment, his escape and re-capture, and his subsequent adventures, is highly interesting, and forms the best apology for the publication. Its disclosures cartainly reflect no credit on the wisdom of his employers ; but they place in a still stronger light, the unprincipled character of his persecutors, their meanness, shameless dishonesty, and sanguinary inclination.

We have no room left to notice the Memoirs of the Queen of Etruria. They were addressed by the royal Authoress, to the Allied Powers, in 1814, in vindication of her own rights and those of her son, to the dutchy of Parma, Placentia, and Guestalla. They are brief and not uninteresting, though by no means deeply tragical. A characteristic sentence occurs in the early part of the narrative, - For some time we were obliged to have recourse to the nobility, who supplied us with chandeliers, plate, and other articles equally indispensible. This was the first time that the daughter of the king of Spain, accustomed to be served in gold and silver, saw herself obliged to eat off porcelain.' p. 309.

Art. VIII. Poetical Sketches : the Profession; the Broken Heart, &c.

with Stanzas for Music, and other Poems. By Alaric A. Watts.

f.cap 8vo. pp. 148. Price 6s. London. 1823 A CURIOUS circumstance is connected with one of the poems

in this elegant little volume. On its first appearance, it was transcribed into several of our daily, weekly, and monthly journals, as the undoubted production of Lord Byron, although the Author had, it seems, inserted it in the Edinburgh Magazine with his name. The

The poem is as follows.

• Full many a gloomy month hath past,

On flagging wing, regardless by,-
Unmarked by aught, save grief-sinc

I gazed upon thy bright blue eye,
And bade my Lyre pour forth for thee
Its strains of wildest minstrelsy!
For all my joys are withered now,-

The hopes, 1 most relied on, thwarted,-
And sorrow hath o'erspread my brow

With many a shade since last we parted :
Yet, 'mid that murkiness of lot,
Young Peri, thou art unforgot!
1 There are who love to trace the smile

That dimples upon childhood's cheek,
And hear from lips devoid of guile,

The dictates of the bosom break;
Ah! who of such could look on thee
Without a wish to rival me!
None ;-his must be a stubborn heart,

And strange to every softer feeling,
Who from thy glance could bear to part

Cold, and unmoved—without revealing
Some portion of the fond regret
Which dimmed my eye when last we met!

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• Sweet bud of Beauty !'Mid the thrill

The anguished thrill of hope delayed,--
Peril-and pain--and every ill

That can the breast of man invade,
No tender thought of thine and thee
Hath faded from my memory;
But I havę dwelt on each dear form

Till woe, awhile, gave place to gladness,
And that remembrance seemed to charm,

Almost to peace, my bosom's sadness ;
And now again I breathe a lay
To hail thee on thy natal day!
• O! might the fondest prayers prevail

For blessings on thy future years!
Or innocence, like thine, avail
To save

from affliction's tears!
Each moment of thy life should bring
Some new delight upon its wing;
And the wild sparkle of thine eye-

Thy guilelessness of soul revealing-
Beam ever thus, as beauteously,

Undimmed-save by those gems of feeling-
Those soft, luxurious drops which flow,
In pity, for another's woe.
• But vain the thought !-It may not be !

Could prayers avert misfortune's blight,
Or hearts from sinful passion free

Here hope for unalloyed delight,
Then, those who guard thine opening bloom
Had never known one hour of gloom,
No_if the chastening stroke of Fate

On guilty heads alone descended,
Sure they would ne'er have felt its weight,

In whose pure bosoms, sweetly blended,
Life's dearest social virtues move,
In one bright endless chain of love!
• Then since upon this earth, joy's beams

Are fading-frail, and few in number,
And melt like the light-woven dreams

That steal upon the mourner's slumber,-
Sweet one! I'll wish thee strength to bear
The ills that Heaven


bid thee share ; And when thine infancy hath fled

And Time with woman's zone hath bound thee,
If, in the path thou 'rt doomed to tread,

The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee,
Be thine that exquisite relief
Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief !

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And like the many-tinted Bow,

Which smiles the showery clouds away,
May Hope-Grief's Iris here below-

Attend, and soothe thee on thy way,
Till full of years--thy cares at rest
Thou seek'st the mansions of the blest !
Young Sister of a mortal Nine,

Farewell ! - Perchance a long farewell !
Though woes unnumbered yet be mine,

Woes, Hope may vainly strive to quell,
I'll half unteach my soul to pine,

So there be bliss for thee and THINE!' pp: 25—29.
We think that there are poems of Lord Byron's, which the
Author of these stanzas may justly be deemed capable of
having composed; but it does not strike us that these are
quite such as his Lordship would have written. Mr. Watts
more frequently reminds his readers of Moore or Barry Corn-
wall. There is however, more of heart, though less of brilliancy
in his lyrical poems, than in those of the former ; while he dis-
plays more purity of taste and of sentiment, if less originality
than the latter. "He is evidently a warm admirer of our living
bards, and has perhaps formed his taste too much upon these
imperfect models. We would recommend him to dip nearer the
fountain-head. The stanzas on the death of a nephew, might
have been written, and might have assumed the present form,
although Leigh Hunt had never addressed his exquisite stanzas
to his child; yet, the general resemblance is almost too strong
to be accidental. The Writer, however, stands quite clear of
plagiarism, and the poem is of so interesting a character, that
we are sure we cannot say any thing in favour of Mr. Watts's
volume, that shall more powerfully recommend it to our readers,
than the insertion of these stanzas.

• A cloud is on my heart and brow,-

The tears are in my eyes,
And wishes fond, all idle now,

Are stifled into sighs ;
As musing on thine early doom,
Thou bud of beauty snatched to bloom,

So soon, 'neath milder skies !
I turn-thy painful struggle past
From what thou art, to what thou wast !
• I think of all thy • winning ways,'

Thy frank but boisterous glee:
Thy arch sweet smiles,thy coy delays,

Thy step, so light and free ;

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The eager

Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run,
Thy gladness, when the task was done,

And gained thy mother's knee ;-
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease,
And all thy thousand arts to please !
• Where are they now ? And where, oh where,

fond caress?
The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair,

The lips, all sought to press ? -
The open brow, and laughing eye, -
The heart, that leaped so joyously?
(Ab! had we loved them less!)

Yet there are thoughts can bring relief
And sweeten even this cup of grief.
• What hast thou 'scaped ?-A thorny scene,

A wilderness of woe ;
Where many a blast of anguish keep

Had taught thy tears to flow?
Perchance some wild and withering grief,
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf,

In these dark bowers below!
Or, sickening chills of hope deferred,
To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred !
• What hast thou 'scaped ?-Life's weltering sea,

Before the storm arose ;
Whilst yet its gliding waves were free

From aught that marred repose !
Safe from the thousand throes of pain,
Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain

Upon thine opening rose;
And who could calmly think of this,
Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss ?
1 culled from home's beloved bowers,

To deck thy last long sleep;
The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers

That summer's dews may steep ;-
The rose-bud, emblem meet, was there,

The violet blue, and jasmine fair,' si

That, drooping, seemed to weep;
And, Dow, I add this lowlier spellistor

pp. 79-82.! We must make room for the following beautiful sonnet.

Never did music sink into my soul
So • silver sweet,' as when thy first weak wail
On my 'rapt ear in doubtful murmurs stole,
Thou child of love and promise !-What a tale

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