and we are sorry for it. The _Rustic Wreath_, by Miss Mitford, is very
sweet; the _Cacadore_, a story of the peninsular war, is a soul-stirring
narrative; there is much pleasantry in Mrs. Hofland's _Comforts of
Conceitedness; Virginia Water_, by the editor, could hardly be written
by his fireside--it has too much local inspiration in every line;
_Auguste de Valcour_, by the author of _Gilbert Earle_, is in his usual
felicitous vein of philosophic melancholy; Miss Roberts has a glittering
_Tale of Normandy_; the _Orphans_, by the editor, is simple and pathetic;
_Palinodia_ we subjoin:--


There was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears,
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The days are gone! no more, no more,
The cruel fates allow;
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,
I'm not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight--
I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain's brow;