every page of the father of the British drama. Although his chief forte consists in delineating the various characters and dispositions of mankind, it cannot be denied that he is sometimes peculiarly excellent in descriptive poetry, as that exquisitely beautiful line in the Merchant of Venice will amply prove,― "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank :" which presents as elegant, and as natural an image as was ever perhaps expressed in so few words. Not to trespass any farther on the good nature of my readers, I shall select but one more passage to substantiate my affirmation, and leave the superior merit of the lines to plead their own excuse for insertion : -look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: To recommend Shakspeare by quotations, would be a task as endless as to number the sands of the sea-shore; he who would become acquainted with his beauties, must attentively and carefully peruse the writings of the venerable dramatist; for with whatever judgment and attention the selections are made, there are many gems so intimately blended with other passages, that to extract them would be to destroy the sense, and mutilate the beauty of that which we seek to recommend. I regret that my narrow limits prevent me from farther pursuing this interesting subject, which, like the opening spring, continually unfolds new objects of admiration to the delighted observer. G. S. ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE. Weep, Anglia, weep! for the son of thy glory Has fall'n in the battle 'midst thousands of slain; Where the horse and his rider, death-stricken and gory, Bedew'd with their life-blood Quebec's desert plain. Weep, Anglia, weep! for thy hero has perish'd, He is fall'n and he fell in the land of the stranger, He has fall'n, like a Briton,-'midst carnage and danger, Hail, glorious Wolfe! who, by victory guided, grave; Rejoice in thy lot: not kind fortune upbraiding, * * * AN ODE TO WALKINGAME. Hail, Walkingame! supreme, sublime, Thy arithmetical ideas. To every charm thou add'st a power, And three per cents, and pecks of peas, More money is in thee ('tis true), Than all the mines of rich Peru; To tutors an assistant come, To aid in making out a sum; (Not that I want it, but I say There are some other folks that may.) Thou bringest scholars up to count, O'er algebraic heights to mount; In mathematics to subdue Both parallels and angles too. Hail, "confusion worse confus'd," Than any mortal e'er abus'd; Hail, too, thou strange and motley crew, Of things incredible, but true. AN EPITAPH. Beneath this turf reclines, in tranquil rest, Who once, like thee, with life, with youth was blest : Let this suffice, he was not virtue's foe. If, as their monarch, millions felt his hand; Or, change the scene: a beggar here suppose; Though prince or pauper, rich or poor he be, Whate'er he was, this grave's his narrow home; Copy his virtues, nor his foibles see; A heap of dust he is, as thou shalt be. Z. FRAGMENT OF AN OLD MS. DURING a visit lately at a friend's mansion, in the North of England, I was peculiarly gratified by the perusal of several old manuscripts relating to the history of the family in the "good old times." good old times." The following particularly attracted my notice; having obtained my friend's permission, I hasten to avail myself of the present opportunity to lay it before the public. It is with regret I mention, that several pages have been obliterated by the lapse of time, and not even the greatest industry on my part has been able to decipher their contents. With the exception of a few slight alterations, and rendering the language more adapted to modern ears, it is precisely in the same state as when I discovered it. G. S. Beautifully situated at the base of the lofty hills of Cheviot, in a sequestered spot formed by a romantic and magnificent forest, the almost impregnable castle of Glenalvon proudly upreared its frowning battlements. The noble owner of this extensive domain, was Reginald, whose opening manhood gave fair promise that he would one day shine pre-eminently among the gay and gallant nobles who adorned the court of the chivalrous Richard. At the period when our history opens, he had just completed his one-and-twentieth year. To a generous, brave, and undesigning disposition, nature had added a form cast in one of her fairest moulds. A tinge of melancholy oft overshadowed his noble brow, which arose from frequent reflection on the lamentable and untimely death of his parents. His father had been cut off in the prime of life, not without suspicion of treachery. His mother, overcome with grief at the death of her lord, sunk into a disease from which she never recovered, and died, leaving him an orphan at the age which most needs párental tenderness. Oft would he wander in the thickly |