And must your manly Irish limbs still drag it to the grave?
And thou, my son, yet have a son, foredoomed a slave to be?
Whose mother, too, must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee.


Here, too is an exquisite snatch--on Memory:

Fond Memory, like a mockingbird,
Within the widow'd heart is heard,
Repeating every touching tone
Of voices that from earth hath gone.


Queen Catharine's Sorrow is a ballad of mournful minstrelsy. Next is
the Bard's Address to his youngest Daughter, by Mr. Hogg--beginning

Come to my arms, my dear wee pet!
My gleesome, gentle Harriet!


with all the sweetness and affection of shepherd love. The Poet's Oak,
by Allan Cunningham, is a beautiful finish to the volume, which is
altogether equal to any of its compeers.

The Illustrations, twelve in number, may challenge comparison with those
of any similar work. Lyra, the frontispiece, after Wood, by T.A. Dean,
is one of the loveliest creations of art; Vesuvius, after Turner, by
Jeavons, is a most elaborate picture of that sublime spectacle of
Nature; Echo, from Arnald's picture in the last exhibition, is finely
executed by Goodall; and with still greater fidelity, Wilkie's Reading