insisted on accompanying him as far as the safety of both would permit. They walked on till the dawn began to appear, and then parted with mutual protestations of unalterable friendship. The perturbed state of Foscari's mind prevented him from adopting the necessary precautions for apprising Signora Francesca of his arrival, and a loud shriek from above instantly conveyed to him the impropriety of his conduct; in a moment she was in the saloon, and once more in the arms of her lover.

After the first transports of their affection had subsided, and he had related to her in what manner he had escaped, her expressions of gratitude to Julia were boundless; a thousand times she called her her beloved sister, her dear deliverer.' There was a small pavilion at the end of the garden, in which she thought Foscari would be more secure from observation than in the house; thither she conducted him, and they agreed that in the dusk of the evening, after assuming a fresh disguise, he should set off for Naples.

To return to Julia; after the departure of Foscari, every thing wore the appearance of desolation. She revolved in her mind with anguish unutterable the hazardous step she had taken, on Foscari's account only,-for herself, she determined to submit to the event with fortitude and resignation, and she acquitted herself according to this resolution. Before the attendant withdrew for the night, he inquired if she wanted any thing more, and received an answer in the negative; then securing the door he retired, and the discovery was, agreeably with her wishes, avoided until the next morning. On his entering, as usual, he was surprised at not finding the prisoner in bed; and was looking into the adjoining room, (for Foscari had been indulged with two), when Julia, who was prepared for the denoument, advanced towards him. My friend,' said she, with the most collected firmness, you perceive your prisoner is changed, behold the sister of the unfortunate Signor Foscari, ready to submit to any sentence, however rigorous, if but, by this means, she can rescue an innocent brother.' Such unparalleled heroism in a woman, astonished the attendant, but he dared not conceal the escape of the young count from the inquisitors. Accordingly, in a few hours, Julia was taken before the council. Her fortitude for a moment forsook her, when she perceived the Count Buonarotti a prisoner also at the bar of the tribunal. On her examination she would have entirely exculpated him, but for one circumstance, which confuted her. If not by his assistance, how was the habit of his page procured ?' She cast down her eyes and appeared confused-Buonarotti was remanded into custody, when, waving her hand as a sign for them to release him, she assured the council she had bribed the page to lend her his habit, but he did not know for what purpose. The page was sent for, and this, to the count and Julia, was a period of insupportable misery, as his evidence would, they thought, unavoidably ruin their generous friend, Natale Donato; but what was their surprise, when he repeated nearly the same words that Julia herself had delivered. He had heard of the escape of Foscari, and on being summoned to appear before the council, the whole truth flashed upon him in an instant, when he beheld the Lady Julia in a man's habit. Thus, owing to the quick perception of a menial, the generous assistance of Natale was concealed.

Julia and her lover were severally acquitted; but she trembled when the chief senator informed her that this liberation would fall heavy on the prisoner, whom they doubted not to overtake, as they had despatched

pursuers to every place through which he could possibly pass. Alas! the prediction was too true; the unhappy Foscari was seized at the moment of his quitting Francesca, and the following morning beheld him again a prisoner at the bar of an incensed tribunal. Not one of his friends, not even the count, was permitted to see him. As he disdained a falsehood, he declined giving any satisfactory answer, on his examination, and was therefore sentenced once more to the rack, for the purpose of extorting from him the wished-for confession. This, however, was fortunately objected to by the principals of the council, and the former sentence ordered to be immediately put in execution.*

THE DEAD INFANT.†

A SKETCH.

"It is not dead, but sleepeth."

YES! this is DEATH! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors ;-that closed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry Worm
That holds his revel-feast with frail Mortality!

Yes! this is DEATH! but, like a Cherub's sleep,
So beautiful-so placid;-who of earth
(And tasting earthly cares,) would wish to weep
O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth?

Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand,
Had learned to fashion forth yon lovely thing,
Pale as the chisseled marble ;-here command
Those beauties that defy all ART's imagining!

The still calm brow-the smile on either cheek,
The little folded hands,-the lips apart,
As though they would the bonds of silence break,
Are they not models fair,-meet for the sculptor's art?

Proud Science, come! learn of this beauteous clay,
That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign,

As though in Slumber's downy links it lay,
Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again.

Yes! this is DEATH! but in its fairest form,

And stript of all its terrors.-That sealed eye

Tells nothing of the cold and hungry Worm

That holds his revel-feast with cold MORTALITY!

To be concluded in our next number.

These lines are extracted from an elegant little volume which has just issued from the press, entitled,Hours at Home,' by Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson. The collection contains somewhere about eighty short original poems, several of which are not less beautiful than the specimen here given. The subjects are, for the most part, of a domestic nature, and the work is appropriately dedicated, in some pleasing verses, to the authoress's mother. Mrs. Wilson possesses very considerable poetical talent, and an apparent facility of versification which makes us regret that she does not draw more entirely from her own resources, instead of taking up ideas which have been already worn threadbare by her contemporaries; and the more especially, as when she does not shackle her talents by imitation she is always most successful. As the reviewal, at length, of new publications forms so insignificant a portion of our plan, we must be fain to content ourselves with this brief and imperfect notice of Mrs. Wilson's Book. Its external appearance is more than ordinarily elegant.-ED. of the Lit. Mag.

THE FRIENDLY BORE.

'THERE is nothing so delightful as meeting with an old friend,' exclaims the man of feeling, and to this opinion we cordially subscribe: there is nothing so delightful as meeting with an old friend;-the presence of a much-loved and long-loved being, tinges every object with the hue of enjoyment, and infuses a new life and youth into the heart. But at the same time, we must most steadily maintain, that there is nothing so tiresome as an old acquaintance; nor any thing so unreasonable as the expectation of being cherished and esteemed by any person, because by the mere accidents of life, one has happened to have been a great many times in that individual's company, or so circumstanced, as for the events of the life of the one to have become the inevitable subject of the chit-chat and gossip of the tea-table of the other. As 50,000 zeros will never make an unit, nor reach to the dignity and consistency of the meanest integral part of the very smallest sum; so a countless number of involuntary, unsought, unprized, unwished-for meetings, will never come up to the power and estimation of one precious interview of mutual concurrence and mutual enjoyment; when the full heart overflows in unsuspecting talk, and the fancy and the taste excited and gratified, leave a relish on the remembrance which makes solitude unlonely, or loneliness palatable.

Yet we are in the habit of meeting every day with people who, to use a French idiom, motive their reminiscent visits with- I was sure you would be glad to see me, because, though we never visited, we used to be for ever meeting at Dr. M.'s or Lady C.'s.' A stern professor of truism might reply: Sir, if we had been suitable to each other, we should have visited; our coalescability has not increased during the lapse of twenty years. Human minds are not much more tedious about blending with each other, than chemical agents, when once they come into contact, if they are really homogeneous. If I can be of any use to you I shall be very happy; but you really must not expect me to be transported by an accidental meeting with á person with whose identity no fond remembrances are entwined in my recollection. You are so civil as to say, that you are so glad to see me, because I am one of the three score of people who used, occasionally, to dine at the same table; therefore, of course, you would be equally glad to see any of the other fifty-nine. That will not do for me, sir; perhaps I am not very loveable; but I must be loved for myself, or not at all.'

All this may be felt, but cannot be said; a certain degree of hypocrisy becomes an imperious duty, according to the common code of civility. But heaven knows what disagreeable things are daily said and done on this outrageous plea of old acquaintanceship, which is abused into a privilege of being grievously impertinent. Thus begins your Friendly Bore :Well, really, when one comes to look back a little, what changes there are in the world! Your brother was living when we met last-what a fine young man he was! I was quite sorry to hear of his death: I dare say it was a great shock to your father, I hear he is grown very infirm: Jackson says he never notices any thing that passes now. It is very melancholy to see one's old acquaintance falling off so. However, some of us are doing well enough. There was the beautiful Lucy G. that sweet girl who sang so well; people used to say you were to be married to her, you know, well, that was not to be, it seems; she married Sir Charles at

last, and has now three daughters almost grown up. I wonder your sisters never married; they were very fine girls. I remember how Phillips and I used to try to be beforehand with each other, in engaging them for the first dance. I hear that Rose has become very deaf; and is it true that Grace has become quite a cripple from the rheumatism ?-Well, there is a great pleasure in talking these things over. I think I shall remove into your part of the town, that we may spend our evenings together. Ah! you remember that farm that you were obliged to throw up,-Higgins took it, and you would not know the place; he got it all into fine condition, and lays up money every year. I was down there last summer: I saw your picture at your uncle George's; but, bless me! nobody who saw you now, could ever guess that it was intended for a likeness of you,—when one comes to grow heavy, and to lose one's hair, it makes such a difference. Do you draw as much as you did? I see you have taken to glasses,' &c. &c. &c. This insufferable Bore, or old friend, as he has sometimes the impudence to call himself, while he is stabbing one's pride, and lacerating one's sensibility, never fails to put one in mind of every sorrow one wishes to forget, but cannot-every folly one endeavours to excuse, but may not. Have you ever been drawn into an unwary intimacy with a specious fellow of infinite wit, talent, and agreeableness, who afterwards turns out to be a villain? Your Friendly Bore brands you for ever with the shame of your gullibility, by never naming the fellow without the accusing preface of your friend Mr. A. ; and moreover, sometimes adds, with an intolerable chuckle of merry condolence, Ha! ha! my poor friend, how you were taken in!' Did you ever apply in vain for a place, a partnership, or a living, or a wife, or a commission; or haply to get out a tragedy, or get in a claim? You may lay your account of never hearing the last of any of these misadventures and vexations, so long as you have old acquaintances extant, and cannot keep away from them by living only with your friends, or by yourself; which we hold to be the only mode of existence worth the trouble of getting up and lying down, dressing and undressing, talking and hearing talk, eating and drinking, &c. &c. &c.

Exeter.

JEHOVAH SHAMMAH.*

THOU art our Father Lord, our Lord,
And thou wilt every want fulfil
Of promised love, and Zion-ward
Wilt lead the tribes in Judah still.

Though mute within thy walls we stand,
Nor harp, nor tabret's sound is there;
Nor bended knee, nor lifted hand,

Nor solemn vow, nor voice of prayer:

The heart contrite, the lowly mind,

The strength implored, the trembling plea,
The cherished joy of years resigned,
In grateful incense rise to thee.

Sometimes, perhaps, as 'reft and weak
Along her walls may Zion mourn;
Because they be but few that seek

Her day of feast or solemn morn.

But thou shalt still inhabit there,
And there shall still thy glory shine;
And Sinai's fount thy name shall bear,
And Sion's hill shall still be thine.

Yet shalt thou teach her sons thy ways;
Her courts with prophets yet shall fill;
And on her gates shall still be Praise,
And on her walls Salvation still!

There shalt thou bid thine ensign stand,

And blow thy trumpet, that from far
Shall call the nations, land by land,
And they shall answer, 'Here we are!'

And Cush and Hamath, as of old,

And Taproham+ shall come to her,

With richest offerings, gems, and gold,
And balm, and frankincense, and myrrh.

Around her borders shalt thou lead

The streams that gladden where they flow;
And there Nebaioth's rams shall feed,
And there the flocks of Kedar go.

Within-thy love, thy peace shall rest;

The unmeasured Spirit all shall hear;
And every tongue shall call her blest,
And name her name-The Lord is here!

WILLIAM DIAMOND.

* These beautiful lines are from the pen of a member of the Society of Friends. Ed. Lit. Mag. + Supposed to be intended for Taphanes, v. Jer. XLIII. 7, 8.