(BEING THE SEVENTEENTH OF A NEW SERIES.)

PART THE FIRST.

PRODESSE & DELECTARE.

E PLURIBUS UNUM.

BY SYLVANUS URBAN, GENT.

London:

PRINTED BY JOHN NICHOLS AND SON, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET;

WHERE LETTERS ARE PARTICULARLY REQUESTED TO BE SENT, POST-PAID ;

AND SOLD BY JOHN HARRIS AND SON (SUCCESSORS TO MRS. NEWBERY),
AT THE CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, LUDGATE STREET;

AND BY PERTHES AND BESSER, HAMBURGH.

THE ARCH OF TITUS *.

OXFORD PRIZE POEM FOR 1824, SPOKEN BY MR. J. T. HOPE,
OF CHRIST CHURCH.

LIVES there no trophy of the hero's fame,
No proud memorial to record his name,
Whose vengeful sword o'er Israel's fated land
Stamp'd iron bondage with a conqueror's hand?
Beneath yon sacred hill's imperial mound,

With ruin'd shrines and fallen columns crown'd,
Where Rome's dread Genius guards each mouldering stone,
The cradle of her empire, and her throne;
Titus, thy Arch proclaims the peaceful sway
Of taste, ennobling Triumph's proudest day;
Survives, the Forum's grandeur.to recall,
And weep deserted o'er its country's fall.

Though dimm'd the outline now, not time o'erthrows
Th' unrivall'd grace which in each fragment glows;
And Genius beaming through each ruin'd part,
Displays the glories of immortal Art,

With mingling beauties crown'd the columns tower,
Ionia's graceful curve, and Corinth's flower,

And tapering as they rise aloft in air,

The sculptur'd frieze and votive tablet bear.

From o'er each column Fame exulting springs,

Seems stretch'd for flight, and waves her golden wings;

Yet linger not! within the circling space

The storied walls more radiant beauties grace,
In warlike pomp the triumph's rich array
Leaps from the living marble into day.
High on his car the victor borne along,
Hears with exulting heart th' applauding throng;
With sparkling eye surveys the sacred spoil,
And feels one hour o'erpay long years of toil.
Lo! Judah's swarthy sons before the car,
The wither'd remnant of disease and war!
Rebellious passions light their faded cheek,
And all the bitter pangs they dare not speak:
And shall these trophies from His temple torn,
The living God, some idol shrine adorn?
Shall we, shall Aaron's sons no more rejoice,
Nor breathe yon trump with Conquest's silver voice,
From Salem's holy mountain heard afar,

In days of festal gladness and of war?

Is then the seven-branch lustre sunk in night,
Which shed o'er Israel's fate mysterious light?
Or shall its golden lamps with heathen flame
Gleam as in scorn to point at Sion's shame ?
Yes, it is quench'd! till Judah's captive maid
Wake from her woes beneath the palm-tree shade,
Recall her wandering sons, abjure her pride,
And bless the Anointed King she crucified!
Th' unfaded crown of David's glory claim,
Yon Arch o'erthrown, and Rome itself a name.

* For a description and representation of this interesting monument, see vol. xcı. i. 489.

P R E F A CЕ.

THE half-yearly Preface is by no means that part of the Volume which we present with most confidence. Relying as we do on our Literary Friends to fill the majority of our pages, we feel that our own communications ought to be something more than formal. But, though many may not perceive the difference between the characters of Author and Editor, they will acknowledge that which exists between the nurse and child, and, by analogy, that the one is strictly accountable for the faults of the other.

Those who take any pleasure in Literary History, must be acquainted with the rise and progress of Periodicals: at their first appearance, scarcely a century ago, few could have discerned that such would have become the most eligible method of diffusing instruction equally among all classes. Difference of style may confine a work to certain degrees of society, but it is the peculiar advantage of Magazines, that they embrace all. History is not adapted to the boudoir, or novels to the study, but the Magazine conforms to every taste, leaving to the reader the trouble of selection alone. Much, then, as we rejoice in the progress of Periodical Literature, and kindly as we view the thousand imitators of ourselves, we cannot but feel an honest pride at the eminence we have preserved. The Literary Bills of Mortality assign various causes for the decease of our followers: the death of an Editor, or the change of taste, is the usual apology of unsuccessful aspirants; but whilst we can retain our valuable Correspondents, we may smile at the mutability of fashion. We have seen out more Magazines than we can reckon; Journals have had their day, and Miscellanies have been mingled with the dead. assume an exemption from the common fate would be arrogant; but when we look on the long series of our Volumes, and reflect how frequently they are referred to as authority by the Topographer, the Historian, and the Biographer, we feel a conscious pride in the certainty of their co-existence with Literature itself.

Το

Having thus explained every thing of a private nature, it remains to cast the usual glance at "things in general." Perhaps a fitter sea