It is a living form,

The loved, the lost, the won,

Won from the grave, corruption, and the worm.
"And is not this the Son

Of God?" they whispered; while the Sisters poured
Their gratitude in tears: for they had known the Lord.
'Yet now, the Son of God-

For such he was in truth-approached the hour
For which alone the path of thorns he trod;
In which to thee the power,

O Death! should be restored,-
And yet restored in vain:

For tho' the blood of ransom must be poured,

The spotless victim slain ;

He shall but yield to conquer, fall to rise,

And make the cold, dark grave a portal to the skies.'

This our readers will agree with us, is beautiful poetry, and poetry applied to the noblest purposes. The plate which illustrates (or receives illustration from) the poem, is from a scarce and celebrated print, by John Lievens,-a singular and striking composition, well engraved by Warren.

6

Besides these Scripture Illustrations', the most prominent articles are, The Neophytes', a tale, by the Author of The Seven Ages of Woman'; The Character of Nicodemus', by the late Bishop Heber; The Aymstrie Nighte-bell', a pleasant legend of olden time, by the Rev. E. Baines; an Irish story, from the fertile pen of Mrs. S. C. Hall; a tale founded on Fact', by Mrs. Opie; and a Colloquy between Luther and some of his brother Reformers, by the Rev. Dr. Cox. The Editors of the Literary Souvenir', Friendship's Offering', and 'The Amulet', have each, as an honourable expression of kindly feeling towards this new competitor, furnished a short poem; and some other popular names appear among the contributors. Upon the whole, if the Iris is not quite so attractive at first sight, as some of its gayer and older rivals, it will be found, perhaps, to contain a larger proportion of those solid and substantial qualities which are required for durable intimacies.

6

We have left ourselves little room to notice the Juvenile Annuals of this year, but they deserve our warmest praise, and they will win better approbation than even ours, from that little public' for whom they are designed. As Mr. Harrison singeth,

A blessing on your merry hearts,

Such readers I would choose,
Because you do not criticise,

And never write reviews.'

Should the literary fashion change, and all the costly Annuals

designed for children of a larger growth cease to be reproduced, we hope that these will not fail to make their modest appearance with the returning season. There is something exceedingly amiable, as well as laudable, in the emulation here displayed to provide entertainment united with instruction for the younger folk; nor can the talents of our female writers be more worthily or gracefully employed, than in this kindly service. Among the contributors to these Juvenile Annuals, are Mrs. Hemans, Miss Mitford, Miss Jewsbury, Mrs. Hofland, Mrs. Howitt, Mrs. Opie, the Misses Strickland, Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson, Miss Isabel Hill, Mrs. Rolls; also, Mr. Montgomery, Dr. Walsh, Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd, Archdeacon Wrangham, Bernard Barton, Mr. Roscoe, Thomas Pringle, Sneyd Edgeworth, the Author of "Recollections of the Peninsula," &c. The Muscle,' by Dr. Walsh, in Mrs. Hall's Forget Me Not, is an admirable paper, and we notice it chiefly by way of recommending a larger proportion of similar papers. Á Puzzle,' in the Juvenile Souvenir, is exceedingly well managed, and is a paper of the right kind: so is the Complaint.' Mrs. Hofland and Mrs. Opie both shine as writers of moral tales for children. Mr. Roscoe's volume, we have not had time to examine, but his name will be a voucher for its literary respectability. There are some very pleasing and instructive articles in Ackermann's Juvenile, but Mr. Shoberl does not understand the business of catering for the young folk quite so well as the ladies. Several of the tales are too long, and not quite of the right kind; but we must make room for

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

THE wind one morning sprung up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters, and whisking with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread-stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about;

And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes,
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went blust'ring and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colt's manes all about their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs, and stood sullenly mute.

So on it went capering and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the King's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags:
'Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, "Now,
You sturdy old oaks! I'll make you bow!"
And it made them bow without more ado,

And cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm:
There were dames with their 'kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd:

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had passed on, aud had met in a lane,
With a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain ;

For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.

There was a poor man, hoary and old,
Cutting the heath on the open wold;

The strokes of his bill were faint and few,

Ere this frolicsome wind upon him blew ;

But behind him, before him, about him, it came

And the breath seemed gone from his feeble frame;

So he sat him down with a muttering tone,

Saying, Plague on the wind! was the like ever known?
But now-a-days, every wind that blows,

Tells one how weak an old man grows!

But away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.
But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest,
On the sea-bird's rock, in the gleaming west,
Laughing, to think in its fearful fun,

How little of mischief it had done.'

We have room for only one more extract: it must be the following.

‹ LITTLE FLORA'S SONG,

‹ BY T. K. Hervey, Esq.

'Will you not buy my flowers ?—

I have been on the primrose-hill;

I have been where the lily builds silver bowers
On the edge of the singing rill:

I followed the bee where the sallow grows,
By the amaranth dim and pale ;

And I tracked the butterfly's wing to the rose,
In her palace of the vale!

Choose what you love the best!—

All culled in the cool, fresh morn,

For I wakened the lark from the tulip's breast,
In the depths of the waving corn!

A rainbow might have dyed this wreath,-
It has every scent and hue

That is born of the west-wind's wooing breath,
Or waked by the early dew!

Fragrant and sweet and fair!—

Yet, they neither toil nor spin;

But they have not known the touch of care,
Nor the taint of mortal sin!
Beside their beauty pure and lone,
The glow of earthly fame,
Or the pomp and pride of Solomon
Is a vain and empty name!

Is not my calling sweet?—

To dwell amid beautiful things,
Flowers giving perfume at my feet,
And birds-like flowers with wings.
Oh! happy they who shun the strife
Of pride or passion's hours,
And glide along the calms of life,
Like me, dispensing flowers.'

We must devote a separate article to the embellishments, considered as works of art, in our next number.

ART. VIII. LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

Mr. Douglas of Cavers has in the press, a Volume entitled, "The Truth of Religion."

Nearly Ready for Publication, A Historical Account of Discoveries and Travels in North America; including the United States, Canada, the Shores of the Polar Sea, and the Voyages in Search of a NorthWest Passage; with Observations on Emigration. By Hugh Murray, Esq., F.R.S.E. Illustrated by a Map of North America. 2 Vols. 8vo.

In the Press, Political Economy. An Inquiry into the Natural
Grounds of Right to Vendible Property, or Wealth.
Read. 8vo.
By Samuel

In the Press, Memoirs of Rear-Admiral Paul Jones; now first compiled from his original Journals, Correspondence, and other Papers, brought from Paris by his Heirs at the time of his Death, and from his Letters to his Relations in Scotland. Services under Prince Potemkin in the celebrated Russian Campaign Including an Account of his against the Turks, in the Black Sea, in 1788. 2 Vols. 12mo.

In the Press, Studies in Natural History; exhibiting a popular View of the most striking and interesting Objects of the Material World. By William Rhind, Member of the Royal Medical, and Royal Physical Societies of Edinburgh. Illustrated by Engravings. 12mo. In the Press, Oliver Cromwell, a Poem: in Three Books. Foolscap 8vo, and,

By the same Author, A Glance at London, Brussels, and Paris.

Mrs. S. C. Hall, the Editor of "The Juvenile Forget-me-Not," announces for early publication, a volume for the Young, under the title of "Chronicles of a School Room; or, Characters in Youth and Age."

We understand that the unpretending little Juvenile Annual, entitled "Affection's Offering," which made its first appearance last year, at the low price of Four Shillings, will be Published in a few days at the same price, with increased attractions. cluded some of the most eminent Contributors to its more costly comAmong its writers are inpetitors, namely, the Rev. Dr. Styles, Rev. Dr. Cox, Mrs. S. Č. Hall, Rev. J. W. Morris, Author of the Memoirs of Andrew Fuller, Charlotte Elizabeth, the late Rev. John Lawson, Missionary at Calcutta, Author of "The Maniac,' India," "Lost Spirits," and "Elegy to Henry Martyn;" Rev. G. "Orient Harping," ""Woman in Croly, A.M., Mr. Luscomb, Mr. Frederick Muller, Mr. Charles Swain, Mr. W. Holloway, &c. It also contains the Juvenile Prize Essays, an exclusively peculiar feature in this little Annual. The whole embellished with a series of elegant Wood Engravings, designed by Jarvis.

In the Press, Serious Questions for the consideration of all the Members of the Equitable Assurance Office, particularly those of the age of sixty-seven years and upwards. By an Old Member.