Than does the embroider'd canopy to kings?"


J.H. Wiffen, dating from the sentimental seclusion of Woburn Abbey,
a song replete with all the grace and imagination of his "Ionian
Hours."--Charles Lamb, the "deep-thoughted Elia," introducing us to the
maidenly residence of his cousin Bridget; delighted with delighting; his
fancy expatiating on a copious medley of subjects between the stiff
Mandarins on the old fashioned china, and that _Beaumont and Fletcher_,
the purchase of his rigid economy, ere his talents had brought him fame
and fortune.--Letitia Landon "the English Sappho," a being existing but
in the atmosphere of love and flowers; equally sensitive at the opening
of a violet as at the shutting of a rose. But our list of the living is
too extended; and we will speak of some of the departed.

Interspersed with the emanations of our existing bards, we have,
occasionally, those precious _morceaux_ which have been bequeathed us by
the illustrious dead. Trifles, yet how esteemed! Remembrances of Byron,
with his fiery impetuosity, spurning the trammels of worldly sorrow;
and prescribing death as a _panacea_ for his lamentable despair; yet
subduing us with refined regrets, as he was wont, in his changing mood,


"To sun himself in heaven's pure day."


Shelley, misanthropically commencing with the turbulence of the chainless
sea: a spirit matured to madness by the overawing and supernatural terrors
of German romance: as he asserts himself to be, in his lamentation for the
author of Endymion, one who