from speaking it, openly, boldly, and unqualifedly, when the public look up to us, as we know they do, and with some eagerness, in the present instance, for correct, ingenuous, and independent information, upon a subject of so much national importance as that of the Arts of the country.

No. 184, The Mother finding her Infant playing with the Talons of the Dragon slain by the Cross Knight.-H. Thompson, R. A.

In this picture we find nothing that can be said any wise to resemble a dragon, such as a hero of chivalry,-the Red Cross Knight,-would have encountered and slain, or any thing to inspire a mother with terror at beholding her infant approaching the talons of a dragon. Here is nothing to evince the prowess of a knight, or to alarm the tenderness of a parent. It is difficult to persuade ourselves that the artist, who but a few years ago produced "the Infant crossing the Brook," and even in the present Exhibition, "the Benighted Cupid," could have ushered into life a piece so flagrantly devoid of all character and composition as the present,-a picture

derstood. We could wish that Mr. Thompson would carry in his mind that, to become an Academician, is not always to be an artist; for we are compelled to say, that we should have passed this piece as unworthy even of the meanest notice, were it not that we feel a strong inclination to rescue the declining powers of this artist from that contempt and neglect into which a few more compositions of the same kind would inevitably plunge his name. In a word, we can scarcely speak of it with the common decorum of critics. How it got into the Exhibition we know not; but, as it is before the public, be it our care that it shall not escape without the lash it merits. (To be continued.)

FROM ELIZA TO ATLANTICUS, Written by the Right Hon. Dowager Lady Saye and Sele to her Husband, then Colonel Twistleton, serving in America.

WHILST hope and fear within my heart,

Alternate hold their reign;

My pleasures how shall I impart?

Ah! how declare my pain?
Will it at length be given to me,
Once more to hold thee here;
In that lov'd form, again to see,

All that my heart holds dear?
Ye lingering moments swiftly glide,
Ye winds propitious prove;
Ye skillful pilots kindly guide
A lover to his love!

Ah, haste my love, no moment lose,
Stern honour is abused;

Think now upon Eliza's woes,
Oh! hasten to her aid.

No more I'll grieve that roused to arms,
You glowed with mart al rage;
Since soft domestic tranquil charms,
At length your thoughts engage,

You'll bid adieu to war's alarms,
Resolved no more to roam;
You'll learn again to prize those charms,
Which ne'er are found from home.

ORIGIN OF THE MORNING BLUSH. As Tithonus reclin'd on the couch of Aurora, Just like some fond bee on the soft lap of Flora, "Of sweet kisses (she cried), love, still give me some more-ah;

"Let time, as he will, jog for me:" But the youngster quite tir'd now with kissing and toying,

Replied" My dear, rise! or the sun will be prying;

" All Nature, like me, is grown weary with lying, "And longs much thy fair face to see."

At this cold, unexpected remonstrance and warning,

With a look that bespoke disappointment and scorning,

Up started the beautiful Goddess of Morning,
And left her dull sweetheart in dumps;

If Cupid the secret had kept;

But he, in a talkative fit told his mother,
And she, quite unable such scandal to smother,
O! the gossipping Goddess, soon told it another,

Till at length to Fame's knowledge it crept. Now, as Fame such high characters loves most to worry,

This news put her breast in a wonderful flurry; She snatch'd up her trumpet, and flew in a hurry To sound it on every side:

Aurora, perceiving her name was thus blasted, Resolved, that as long as this earthly ball lasted, Her face still, while taking her daily trip past it, A veil of deep crimson should hide.

Hence arises the beautiful blush we discover, When morning the mountain's dim summit peeps over:

Reflection still flushes the cheek of the lover

Still her grief for detection remains;

In vain each fond Cloud the shy Nymph addresses:

She seems e'en to shun her attendants' caresses, And, while they with roses and pearls braid her tresses,

Her tears oft besprinkle the plains.

CONTENTMENT.

HAPPY the man, but O how few we find,
Who feels the pleasures of a tranquil mind,
Who meets all blessings in Content alone,
Nor knows a station happier than his own.
No anxious cares disturb his peaceful breast,
With life Content, and with Contentment blest:
No pangs
he feels to break his calm repose,
No envy fears, for he no envy knows:
To Man still faithful, and to God resign'd,
His body subject to its Lord, the Mind,

He must be good-for surely Heav'n ne'er meant,
Without strict virtue to bestow content.
'Tis not the glory false ambition brings,
The wealth of misers, or the pow'r of kings,
Nor all the fleeting joys by man possest,
Can give this earthly frame that heav'nly guest.
Whate'er the joys life's fleeting hours bestow
Arise from Virtue, and from Virtue flow.

C.

LINES

Addressed to a Young Lady, by a Friend who has supplied a Mother's place, accompanied by a Ribband bought at a Country Fair.

A ribband to adorn the hair

Of her who should a bandeau wear,
Of orient pearls and diamonds bright,
Had Madam Fortune acted right;
And giv'n thy friend the means to prove,
By richer gifts, a mark of love.
Yet trifles, my dear girl, they say,
Affection's motive will convey;
Then may the silken boon impart,
The soft sensations of a heart,
Where love maternal fondly-reigns,
Confined by Friendship's granate chains;
That beauteous flow'r, which still would blow
Amidst Siberia's chilling snow;

*

Or in Egyptia's sandy plains
Would flourish, without nurturing means;
Tis in this breast the plant will find
No Eastern blast, no Northern wind;
But, shielded by affection's pow'r,
Unfading sweets perfume the flow'r.
Time, which all other things decays,
Strengthens its root-for, like the Bays',
Eternal verdure decks the ground
Where Friendship's favourite plant is found.

ODE TO A CRICKET,

ON A COTTAGE HEARTH.

LITTLE guest, with merry throat,

That chirpest by my taper's light,
Come, prolong thy blithsome note
Welcome visitant of night.
Here enjoy a calm retreat,

In my chimney safely dwell,
No rude hand thy haunt shall beat,

Or chase thee from thy lonely cell.
Come, recount me all thy woes,
While around us sighs the gale;
Or, rejoic'd to find repose,

Charm me with thy merry tale. Say what passion moves thy breast? Does some flame employ thy care? Say with love art thou opprest?

Or mournful victim to despair? Shelter'd from the wintry wind,

Live and sing, and banish care; Here protection thou shalt find,

Sympathy has brought thee here."

*Alluding to the poetic description of the goddess, who is represented with a garland of pomegranate flowers,

MORAL AND NATURAL BEAUTY.

SWEET is the voice that soothes my care,
The voice of love, the voice of song;
The lyre that celebrates the fair,

And animates the warlike throng.
Sweet is the counsel of a friend,

Whose bosom proves a pillow kind,
Whose mild persuasion brings an end,
To all the sorrows of the mind.
Sweet is the breath of balmy spring,
That lingers in the primrose vale;
The woodlark sweet, when on the wing
His wild notes swell the rising gale.
Sweet is the breeze that curls the lakes,
And early wafts the fragrant dew,
Thro' clouds of hovering vapours breaks,
And clears the bright etherial blue.
Sweet is the bean, the blooming pea,
More fragrant than Arabia's gale
That sleeps upon the tranquil sea,
Or gently swells the extended sail.

Sweet is the walk where daisies spring,

And cowslips scent the verdant mead :
The woodlands sweet where linnets sing,
From every bold intruder freed.

But far more sweet the virtuous deed,
The hand that kindly brings relief;
The heart that with the widow bleeds,
And shares the drooping orphan's grief.

I love the tear, the pearl of woe,

That decks the sympathising eye, To see the stream of sorrow flow, To hear the deeply heaving sigh.

ODE TO CYNTHIA. SISTER of Phoebus, gentle Queen, Of aspect mild, and brow serene, Whose friendly beams by night appear, The lonely traveller to cheer. Attractive power, whose mighty sway The ocean's swelling waves obey, And, mounting upward, seem to raise A liquid altar to thy praise. Thee, wither'd hags at midnight hour Invoke to their infernal bow'r; But I to no such horrid rite, Sweet Queen, implore thy sacred light; Nor seek, while all but lovers sleep, To rob the miser's treasur'd heap. Thy kindly beams alone impart To find the youth who stole my heart, And guide me from thy silver throne To steal his heart, and find my own.

A.

A LUNARIAN.

Up mounts the mower from his lowly thatch, Well pleased the progress of the spring to mark, The fragrant breath of zephyrs pure to catch,

And startle from her couch the early lark;More genuine pleasures sooth his tranquil breast Than high-thron'd kings can boast,-in eastern glory drest.

The pensive poet through the greenwood steals, Or treads the willowed banks of murmuring

brooks,

Or climbs the steep ascent of airy hills,

Or pensive sits beneath the branching oak, Whence various scenes, and prospects wide below,

Still teach his musing mind with fancies high to low.

But I nor with the day awake to joy,

Lost are to me the charms of Nature's face,

No magic dreams my morning thoughts employ,
And darkness holds the place of light and grace.
Nor bright the sun nor green the meads appear,
Nor colour charms my eye, nor harmony my ear.
For, void of gentle grace and manners mild,
With leaden rod stern discipline restrains;
And pedantry, of learned pride the child,
My roving genius binds in Gothic chains.
Nor more my Muse, by Dulness' wand opprest,
Can whisper to my soul sweet songs of

and rest.

peace

SUNRISE, IN THE COUNTRY. WHILE drowsy Somnus bows the slumbering head,

I through the fields pursue the cheerful way, Where verdant beauties the fair world o'erspread, And gladden'd Nature hails the Spring of Day. What rich perfumes now float upon the gale! What various odours fling their sweets around! What balmy fragrance does the sense inhale! What scented flowrets deck the painted ground! How sweet, ere Sol illume yon heathy moor, To climb the hill at early opening dawn, Thankful to view him brightly-rising pour Effulgent glories o'er the dewy lawn. Can crowded rooms, or artificial light, Inipress the mind with ra stures such as this? Can they afford such exquisite delight?

Can they infuse so ca'm, so pure a bliss? Hark! what sweet music sounds from every spray; See where the lark, on yielding air afloat, Through the thin e her holds its steady way, And loud and clear distends its little throat.

E'en Philomela lingers still behind,

Nor seeks the dark recesses of the wood, Her notes still quiver in the murmuring wind, While twittering swallows play upon the flood.

Can Mara's voice so sweetly charm the soul?

Or Braham's skill so melt with joy the heart? Can Handel's self so soothingly controul The burst of passion, or keen sorrow's smart? Hence! tinsell'd splendour; "Hence! deluding joys;"

And thoughtless mortals with your snares deceive;

Give me this charm refined, that never cloys:
Fantastic follies I for ever leave.

WAT.

TO A GENTLEMAN
ABOUT TO SAIL FOR AMERICA.
SINCE on the Ocean's boundless deep,
Once more impell'd by fate you go,
The Muse the trembling wire would sweep,
And soft invoke each gále to blow.

Long has it been our doom to roam,
With hearts by firmest friendship bound,
(The world at large our only home)

O'er many a wide expanse of ground.

At Philadelphia's sad confine,

Where death stalk'd round with aspect wild,

We saw the widow vainly pine,

And heard the mother mourn her child :

While desolation mark'd the scene,

And groans of mis'ry fill'd each gale, Where dance no more rejoic'd the green, Nor song re-echo'd from the dale.

May no such griefs again demand

The sigh of pity from thy breast,
But jocund pleasure's mirthful band
Sooth ev'ry baleful care to rest.
Then festive let thy moments flow,

While round thee roars the briny flood;
May ev'ry breeze auspicious blow,
And nought provoke the wat'ry God.

ON COURTSHIP. WOULD you act the prudent lover, Still maintain the manly part; Let not downcast looks discover All the sorrows of your heart. Women soon the truth divining, Slily laugh, or sharply rail, When the swain, in accents whining, Tells his melancholy tale.

Nor, by sanguine hopes directed,
Use a victor's haughty strain;
Every nymph, by pride protected,
Learns to scorn the forward swain.

Him for conquest love shall fashion,
Him the Graces all attend,
Who with the most ardent passion

Joins the Lover and the Friend."

THE attention of the public for the last month has been chiefly occupied by the trial of Lord Melville, which was brought to a conclusion on Thursday the 12th of June, when the Noble Lord was acquitted on every charge that was exhibited against him. The different opinions with respect to his guilt and innocence are now laid at rest-the highest tribunal of the English law has pronounced his acquittal; whatever, therefore, may be thought, it is at least decent that nothing should be expressed. As it is important that an occurrence of this kind should be put upon record, we have been induced, for the gratification of our readers, to give an abstract of the charges, and a correct list of the Peers who voted, either for the acquittal or condemnation of the Noble Lord.

An interval of near an hour now took place, occupied in casting up the votes; after which the Lord Chancellor rose, and addressing himself to Lord Melville, who stood uncovered at the bar, spoke to him nearly as follows:

"You, Henry Lord Viscount Melville, have been ACQUITTED by your Peers of all the Articles of Impeachment exhibited against you by the Honourable the Commons of the United Kingdom, and of all matters and things therewith connected, and your Lordship is dismissed accordingly."

As soon as the Judgment was pronounced, Lord Melville's friends flocked around him, eager to congratulate him on the issue of his cause. His Counsel, too, were congratulated on their success, and the faces of his Lordship's friends all wore a holiday aspect.