'Twas heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff

VENICE.

Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms,

All the long night under a freezing sky, Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.

Oh, 'twas a sport he loved dearer than life, And only would with life itself relinquish! "My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds,

My brother too! As for myself,' he cried,
And he held out his wallet in his hand,
"This do I call my winding-sheet, so sure
Am I to have no other!'

Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.

Venice has been written about so much of late, that we did not expect to meet with any thing which we could venture to quote from this volume about that "Ocean-Rome." And, in truth, the author lags fearfully behind when he tells his Venetian stories-all of which have become familiar to us as household words. But his general reflections, on the first view of the city, are such as no living poet need be ashamed of. They are not only like Southey, but like the best of Southey. [Thalaba always excepted.]

sea,

Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating City-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern
splendour,

Of old the residence of merchant-kings; The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art, As though the wealth within them had ran o'er.

coast;

Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad;

Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love,

From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,

When in the rich bazar he saw, displayed, Treasures from unknown climes, away he went,

And, travelling slowly upward, drew erelong

From the well-head, supplying all below; Making the Imperial City of the East, Herself, his tributary.

nube,

Whereo'er the narrow glen the castle hangs, And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his gate, The baron lived by rapine there we meet, In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice; Winning its way with all that can attract, Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain,

And his brave peers, each with his visor up, On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed The wonders of the East! Well might they

then

That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet From India, from the region of the Sun, Fragrant with spices that a way was found A channel opened, and the golden stream Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed; She who had stood yet longer than the longest

Of the Four Kingdoms-who, as in an Ark,

Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Uninjured, from the Old World to the New,

From the last trace of civilised life-to where

Light shone again, and with unclouded splendour

Who-but the Caliphs? follow'd fast by shapes

As new and strange-some, men of steel, steel-clad ;

Others, nor long, alas, the interval,
In light and gay attire, with brow serene,
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sul-
Mingled with darkness; and, among the
phurous fire

rest,

Lo, one by one, passing continually,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all;
Men grey with age, each with a triple crown,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the
That can alone, as he would signify,
keys
Unlock Heaven's gate.

This is very good, but we shall treat our readers with something that is better still; an exquisite gem indeed, and touched and polished with a hand most light and graceful.

GINEVRA. If ever you should come to Modena, (Where among other relics you may see 2N

Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you
And look a while upon a picture there.

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family; Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care

not.

He, who observes it-ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold

Broider'd with flowers and clasp'd from head to foot,

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls.

But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heartIt haunts me still, though many a year has fled,

Like some wild melody!

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Fran

cesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial feast,

When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting.

Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,

""Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'Twas but that instant she had left Fran. cesco,

Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,

But that she was not!

hour;

Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached de

corum;

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed her. self,

Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the

be it large or small. Scotland, for example, is a country full of readers, and talkers too; yet we venture to say, three copies of this book will not have been sold in Scotland, up to the day this number of The Magazine issues forth to fill Auld Reekie with her monthly dream of delight. We trust several copies more may be disposed of the day after; indeed we should not wonder if we were to be the means of selling two or three dozens of them here, and perhaps half a dozen into the bargain throughout Glasgow and the Gorbals, and other rural districts of our ancient kingdom. The author, who has probably been in the habit of abusing Blackwood, will, the moment he sees himself commended by us, begin to talk very smoothly about that great national work, in his own little circle; and, as every body has some influence, his talk will certainly sell, if it were but among his aunts and cousins, an additional bundle of Number LXII. and, perhaps, among the kindred, they may order a set or two from the beginning. Thus shall there be great gain on both sides, in consequence of this little_article; and, as to the booksellers, Lord! what a hugging there will be the next time Ebony sports his figure in the Row, or our worthy friend Mr Rees glad

THE WIDOW'S TALE

It is worth notice, that scarcely any one of the poets of our days who has received the guerdon of popularity, has neglected the study of rural nature. It seems now to be an established canon, that the poet shall have his eyes and ears open and alert wherever the beauties or the sublimities of the country are perceptible, taking the term in an ample signification, as embracing earth, and ocean, and sky. It is expected of him who puts his hand upon the strings of the lyre, that "his fine spirit be touched to fine issues," by the glory of the sun and moon-by the countless combinations, either of calm or storm, into which the winds, the clouds, and the waves are wrought-by the effects of dews, mists, rains, and frosts-by the savage grandeur of rocks and mountains, of forests and wilds, of heaths

dens green Albyn, with the rumbling of his gig.

N.B. We wish such authors as this would not neglect sending us presentation copies of their works. But for the purely accidental circumstance of our observing a little extract from this volume, in Mr Samuel Hunter's Herald of last week, we should never have purchased it; and our readers (at least 999 to 1000 of them) would never have heard of it. And when the author is informed, which he now is, that (always excepting JOHN BULL) we never read newspapers at all, now-a-days, he will bless his stars to see how narrowly he has shaved the corner of oblivion.

"Never read any paper but John Bull?" we think we hear (to speak cockneyishly) some God-bless-mysoul-good-sort-of-body say to himself

"No, certainly, and why should we? would ye have us to read Joseph Hume's speeches, or anybody's speeches, when we can read John Bull's summaries, and sing John Bull's songs?"

There is but one newspaper in the world, and the name thereof is JOHN BULL. But "'Ware digression" is our motto; and most assuredly we do not suspect John Bull of having written "Italy, a Poem."