Little they cared for the flame's red aid,
Save for the sake of the cannonade;
Casting light as fierce and dun

As a winter's blood-red sun.
They deemed no battle lost or won,
To lesser odds than seven to one;
And then retreated, soft and slow,
With their faces to the foe.

But harsher laws than these, I ween,
Lay upon those armed men;

Never to look on a maiden's eye,

Never turn ear to a maiden's sigh,

Never to heed the sweet words she said,
Ere Charles, that cold stern chief, was wed.
No matter how soft voices strove

To match the music of the grove;

How lips might mock the rose-bud's hue,

How eyes, the violets steeped in dew;

How breasts might heave for love's sweet sake,

Like floating swan on silver lake

Vain were eyes, and breasts, and words,
They were wedded to their swords.

Young Axel, while on his mission, is intercepted by the Cossacks, on the "unlimited Ukraine," over which he was shooting like an eagle-nothing less! -and, after battling it bravely-one against twenty-falls-in death-or swoon? Thus doubtfully left, Thecla, a female warrior, passing her native steppes with huntress train discovers him. Lovely she like the morn, and mounted on a “ tiger-striped courser”—

She scarcely paused to draw the rein,
But sprang like lightning on the plain:
Each pale attendant checked her horse,
That swerved for fright at Axel's corse.
It lay like an oak on Norway's plain,
Felled by the might of the hurricane;
Crashing, on the spot it stood,
All ignobler underwood.

Bloodless, with his blood around him,
Axel lay, as Thecla found him.
Bent to view him, breathing deep,
Like, as on the Latmian steep,
Dian, over the weird sleep

Of the youth she doated on,

Tender-eyed Endymion.

A form of equal grace delayed

The goddess, and the mortal said.

A little spark of life remained

She told it by his bosom's swelling:
They made a hearse of oak tree boughs,

And bore him thence to Thecla's dwelling.
Half in pity, half in prayer,

Thecla sat beside his pillow;
With a bosom beating there,
Like an ocean's billow.

Of the glances cast on him,
Weak, and white, and sleeping,
Each was worth the brightest gem

In a monarch's keeping.

So a rose of Grecia's own

(That lovely world that now lies dead),

Over a giant's statue bends

Its burning blushing head.

Axel, when first he observes Thecla, thinks of his vow to the king; but the natural effect of their situation soon follows-they love!

Eastern maidens ever were
Of suulit cheek, and raven hair,
In curls as dark as Midnight's own,
And flashing like the thunder-stone.
And Thecla was an Eastern maid,
Child of a sun that knew no shade;
And Eastern fire bore its part
In the mad tide of Thecla's heart;
And spread its crimson o'er her cheeks,
Like Daylight's own, when Morning breaks;
And twined her brow, in lines of gladness,
To wreaths of smiles that laughed at sadness.
Subdued by pride, she seemed to be
An image head of victory.

On some Valkyria's shield.

A hue like her's, Aurora's seems,
Behind her scarf of morning beams.

Her step, elastic, tripped at ease,

Her tresses singing to the breeze;
The queen of the Oreades

So bounds along the field.
fler guileless bosom knew but truth,
It beat with health, it beat with youth,
Like ocean's waves that love to leap,
Ere morning's breeze has sunk asleep.
A form of love-to that was given

A soul of fire, a southern heaven,

For warmth and light, that steeps the air
With the odorous gossamer

Of the flowers that behold
Suminer sunset's burning gold.

A bard might deem that in her eye.

Two spirits strove for mastery;

One proud and fierce, like lightnings sped
From Jove's own eagle's radiant head;

The other gentle as the pair

Of Aphrodite's dove-drawn car.

Axel loves, yet forgets not his duty; and delivers the brief to its appointed receivers. Sweden's honour, however, is nothing to Thecla, who becomes doubtful of her lover's fidelity, and suspects a previous pledge-an earlier attachment, and resolves, her sex concealed, to enter the Russian army, that she may find her lover in the ranks of war, perchance the shock of fight.

The breast that seemed as frail as glass,

Is shielded by the hard cuirass:

Each raven curl, that seemed to twine

Like tendril of the wilding vine
(As Spartan matron's), grows a braid,
For helm to press, and plume to shade:
And o'er her milk-white shoulders swung
(Where scarfs of silk before alone,
Or huntress-gear, at most, was thrown),
Full fraught with death, a carbine hung;

Her shining girdle twice drawn round
(A cestus for the charms it bound),
With strings of silk was stretched to bear
The lightnings of her scymitar.
Beneath and o'er her lips appeared
A shade that would have been a beard;
So smirched, those ruby lips did show,
Save that they seemed too fair for woe,
Like roses at a burial,
Flung upon the ebon pall.

Editor. The poet in this place, if I recollect aright the original, throws out some indignant invectives against the Muscovite power.

Thecla arrives at Sweden in male disguise, and takes part in a battle with the Cossacks, on whom the poet in his national wrath heaps his curses like coals of fire. Thus,

-- tender Thecla lends her hand

For harrying her Axel's land.

Great power is shewn in describing the fight.

That

Editor. We cannot help thinking of Sir Walter Scott in perusing it. the Bishop has read the Baronet needs no ghost to tell us. Axel's charge is described with surprising spirit. The recognition of the lovers is tender enough; but, O translator! somewhat spoilt by ungrammatical rendering. 'It is her,' and 'Yes, it was her,' would spoil the otherwise best passage in the language.

Mr. Latham. I regret my transgression.

Editor. You are pardoned. The rest is exquisite.

A distant fort, a bower of green,
That she, the loved one, dwelt within;
A castle in a lonely grove-

That castle was the maid's I love.

A bleeding, clay-cold corpse, that lay,
For life to melt itself away-
Remains of one tumultuous strife.
That one sweet kiss restored to life.
Then hope and love shone brightly o'er
The soul that was so dead before:

It grew like her's-glad, warm, and free,
As hearts that grow in love should be-
And all that heart she gave to me.
It now lies stark and still beneath
The freezing, fatal breath of death.

Shine not, ye silver stars, that meet
To shine in concert-mine is set
In seas of blood too red to view-
Methinks this hand grows ruddy too."

So Axel wept on Solaskær-
When day was dawning he was there:
When day was done, and evening came,
Was Axel there; he wept the same
One morn a lifeless corpse was there:
His hands were clasped as if in prayer;
The tear was standing on his cheek,
Half frozen, for the wind was bleak ;
And on the grave of her he mourned,
His cold unclosing eye was turned

While reading the above passage, we thought, somehow or other, no longer of the parson-translator, but of the bishop-poet; so true is it to the original. Little known to this country, Mr. Latham deserves abundant credit for introducing Tegner into our literature. He seems to have taken considerable pains with his version; and even where he comparatively fails in producing an English poem, preserves the spirit of the Swedish.

And have we no poets? A small volume lies before us with the following title:

The Demons of the Wind, and other Poems. By HENRY LONGUEVILLE MANSEL. London: J. W. Southgate, 164, Strand.

It is evidently the production of a young author, who has but just learned to think for himself, and has not yet quite freed his mind from the trammels of imitation. His versification is perfect-perfect almost to a fault, and, as we think, savours a little too much of the exceeding accuracy of Pope, in whom reason often yielded to rhyme, and sense to sound. The style of thinking, though by no means the thoughts themselves, is after the model of Byron, who is evidently, at least in his earlier poems, a peculiar favourite of the writer. In one of his concluding pieces, however, he has taken a higher flight, and one which leads us to hope, that he has already begun to appreciate a school of poetry which has wisely incorporated an ardent search after truth, and the investigation of the human mind, with the tales and fictions which have for many years formed the staple of English poetry. We will give our reader a few lines of this poem, where the author seems struggling out of the bondage of the mere intellect into "the perfect law of liberty" of the reason, though he is not yet entirely emancipated. They are contained in a poem on fancy.

"O'tis lovely thus to flee

From surrounding misery!
Truth and substance on the eye

Like a phantom glance and die;
All our visions real SEEM,

'Tis reality's a dream."

The poet appears here yet unable to cast away all his bonds; he could not say boldly, "all our visions real are," but his “real seem” is evidently a half concession to those whose flag he is happily deserting. Let him not fear, but cast out boldly into the sea of real poetry; and, if we mistake not, he may yet become "a star among the stars of light." We will say but few words with respect to the longer poem, "The Demons of the Wind." It is a good idea, expressed in very smooth verses, and containing many beautiful passages; in it, by means of a colloquy of the Demons of the Wind, he takes occasion to express some very pretty thoughts upon many parts of the world. In conclusion, we heartily recommend this little volume to our readers as one that will certainly afford them an hour's amusement, and some profitable instruction.

Enter (abruptly) FRANK HALL STANDISH, Esq.

Mr. Standish. You were talking of poetry.-Some verses of mine

Editor. A traveller, I presume.

Mr. Standish. Right; from the shores of the Mediterranean.* My first volume having been received with indulgence by the public, I am encouraged to present them with a second. A work entitled Constantinias, printed at Venice in 1824, has been my guide in treating of the ancient remains of Constantinople. In my slight notices of the Granadian Wars I have followed the dates of Zurita, in his Parlos de Granada, and Agapida. They differ by several years from those of Irving, but this perhaps is not material to the reader, where the facts and succession of events are the only subjects of interest. To Don Francisco Paula Diaz of Seville, who accompanied me, I am indebted for notes taken during my excursion to Granada and Malaga.

Editor. Your first volume was good. There are many choice passages that might be extracted from the present. I have travelled in thought once before by the shores of the Mediterranean, and can answer for the fidelity of your pictures. You walk the waters, and, as you journey, give us cape and headland, and prospect of town and village,-discoursing, as you pass, of times old and new-of fable and of history-sprinkled every now and then with personal reflections that are delightful.

Mr. Standish. The voyaging historian has wandered not for himself alone; the reader roams with him.

Editor. As I do now-as once did Miss Brackett with Colonel Stone, according to the startling narrative published at New York. She travelled mentally through the air a distance of two hundred miles, but I am with you on the wide, wide sea-the Mediterranean Sea. Such is the power of animal magnetism!

Mr. Standish. Every voyager is an animal magnetist.

Editor. Your words are true; I feel their truth. I am on deck-alas! a poor voyager-sea sickness!-but it has worn off-and I now can rough it out with the best of you.

And verily, we seemed to be all afloat as we said these words, moving as in a dream-for now the ship was no ship, but one of those vessels described by Coleridge, as flashing along

"-those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!"

Clear enough it soon became that we were not, with Mr. Standish, voyaging the Mediterranean in one of those majestic specimens of our old navy, that swept the waters with a swan-like rise and fall equally beautiful and sublime. No-but we were steaming it away to Indiat at incalculable speed. Steaming to India? Ah, to India! What have you to say to that? It is practicable, despite all doubts to the contrary. By what route shall we go? Some maintain that the most advisable is by Egypt and the Red Sea, and affirm that it offers advantages not to be foregone. Others prefer the usual course round the Cape of Good Hope. We prefer the Red Sea route. The voyage round the Cape of Good Hope is liable to two objections-two positive objections-first, the distance; secondly, the perils. The Egyptian passage is free from these objections. The course is so direct that it may almost be said to be endowed with a self-propelling power towards the East; and as to the second objection, all the inconveniences which may now be felt, can, will, and may be remedied by the influences of science and enterprise.

You will try to frighten us with the plague prevailing in Egypt, and the

"The Shores of the Mediterranean. BY FRANK HALL STANDISH, Esq." Vol. II. Black & Armstrong.

+"Steam to India, via the Red Sea, and via the Cape of Good Hope. The Respective Routes and Facilities for Establishing a Comprehensive Plan by way of Egypt Compared and Considered." London: Smith, Elder & Co.

consequent danger of carrying the infection into England by means of the merchandise, and the personal risk which the passengers would sustain while within the sphere of its influence. Now Dr. Bowring's pamphlet proves that we have all along laboured under a great delusion respecting the contagiousness of the plague, showing from incontestable evidence that it is not at all infectious. This sets at rest the argument founded upon that hypothesis, and completely renders unnecessary the evidence which the present writer has collected upon the subject. We wonder he could have thus overlooked Dr. Bowring's pamphlet, when it contains arguments bearing so strongly upon his position.

But then the dangers of passing the Desert of Suez? O, they have been much magnified! Besides, the want of water has, of late years, been removed by the sinking of new wells, and the deepening of old ones. The cry raised about the plundering attacks of the Arabs of the Desert is worthy of no attention, as those casualties are of very rare occurrence; seldomer indeed than similar robberies in many parts of Europe.

"

The Comprehensive Plan" is required for the steam communication, if to be made efficient; that is to say, it must not be confined only to a single port of India, but, on the contrary, must be extended to many or all. After which would here naturally follow sundry arguments concerning expence, &c. &c., into which we must be excused from entering.

And thus it was that, in imagination, we were carried by steam to India. We felt the moving deck-nor was this altogether fancy. The mystery is soon explained. Our library is constructed on the plan of a diorama, and the floor was, in fact, turning round, that we might witness another scene. We were thus transferred from our book-room to our green-room-a room all verdant,-floor, and walls and roof,-adorned with statue and with bust of Shakspere and of Jonson-of Beaumont and Fletcher-of Massinger-of Shirley and of Milton, with other immortals too numerous to mention. And there, to our visionary eye, were the managers and actors of all theatres gathered together into one assembly. Every thing was in a state of confusion and wrath— opinions were evidently divided as to the respective merits of Mr. Macready and Mr. Bunn-rivals unparalleled either by one another, or by any third. Disappointed dramatists, also, were present—who, it may be supposed, lent their aid to increase the hubbub of the place and time. We thought it a good opportunity for making a speech, and, having compelled silence with a waive of the hand-thus! addressed one of the most attentive audiences that ever listened to green-room, or green-curtain lecture, in the following terms :"Gentlemen,

"We regret to say that you have this month given but little opportunity for the blazon of a Magazine article. To write much on your doings would be, indeed, to monster your nothings.' You, Mr. Bunn, have produced Rossini's Guillaume Tell, with all the music, as you advertise-but, in reality, with the greater part only of the music-certain recitations, symphonies, and such like, having been substituted for dialogue, as better fitted for the English stage. A skilful manager, you knew that a five-hours' opera would never be endured by free-born Britons, and wisely abstained from making even Rossini a bore.

Mr. Macready, you have, also, on your boards, produced Rossini's music; but you have done it in conjunction with Mr. Sheridan Knowles's William Tell, and this with the approbation of the author. To make room for the mountain choruses the songs of liberty among the valleys and the rocks of the Cantons -the comic portions of the original drama are withdrawn. These scenes we value, because they first indicated to us the comic powers which the author has since developed so successfully. Let it be, however, that the main action of the play gains in simplicity by the new arrangement, and that it does so, we are willing to allow; and that the musical introductions, all things considered, conduce to the national costume of a Swiss drama;-this, also, we reluctate not at conceding. Nevertheless, we are afraid of one thing—we are afraid that