practices of self-torture; because it is a system best adapted for our happiness here as well as hereafter." "Hospitality is one of the virtues which commerce destroys. The comforts and advantages of civilization are not to be had gratuitously; many a violet has been rooted up by the plough."

"A curse seems to have lain upon Constantinople from its foundation. Villains and fools, in miserable succession, have tyrannized there, from the cruel-bypocrite its founder, down to the stupid savages who are daily destroying the monuments of his power. Athens, Rome, Paris, London, have all had their periods of enormity; but this city has never been the seat of virtue, or science, or glory; it presents to us only the spectacle of perverted power, vices the most monstrous, and barbarous learning, even more mischievous than the beastly ignorance which has succeeded it. The misanthropist who would wish to inspire others with his own contempt and abhorrence of mankind, the atheist who would persuade us to disbelieve the existence of God, because of the depravity of man, should write the history of Constantinople." "The American Constitution is not wholly consistent in intrusting the federative and executive powers (which Locke was for separating) to one individual president. It would be more natural to appoint three presidents, one every two years, and to let the oldest president go out by rotation. The prevailing party would usually have two, at least, of the presidents in its interest; so that the system of politics would remain as at present; but the danger of individual aggrandisement, of personal royalty, which the Americans seem to rate high, and to use as a cry of alarm, would be greatly diminished. The probability of inconstancy, and sudden change in diplomatic politics would also be diminished: and the probability of splitting into two distinct empires, if the northern states should, at any future period, with local unanimity, chnse a federalist president; and the southern states, with equal unanimity, an antifederalist. Of such geographical parties there is certainly some danger."

A. A. R.

the race who would my heart engage

Must not let thirty fears of ape

This stative of the

widdle Res

His features pleasing to
Wow sunt beldour

His

Cheerful alver

at home

"LALLA ROOKH," A POEM, BY T. MOORE, ESQ. "OH! best of delights, as it every where is, To be near the loved one; what a rapture is his, Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the lake of CASHMERE, with that one by his side! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent son of ACBAR*

When, from power and pomp and the trophies of war,
He flew to the valley, forgetting them all,

With the Light of the Haram, his young NOURNAHAL.
When free and uncrowned as the conqueror 1oved,
By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match;
Aud preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world!

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss;
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here, and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of Heaven in his dreams!"
The Light of the Haram.

* Jehauguire was the son of the great Acbar.

MY COTTAGE.

MY cot is called the sweetest cot
Of all the woodland plain,
And mine is deemed a happy lot,
By every nymph and swain.

They little think that loved retreat
May be the house of care;
They little think in cot so sweet,
That grief may harbour there!

Here blooms, 'tis true, the fragrant rose,
And woodbines twine around;
The perfumed air with incense glows,
And daisies paint the ground.

The blackbird's deep and mellow note
Floats on the gentle breeze;
The linnet strains his little throat,
In varied song to please.

But what are nature's charms to me?
In vain the roses blow!

In vain the woodbine climbs the tree!
In vain the daisies grow!

And ah! how vain the blackbird's art,
And linnet's jocund lay!

Music is torture to this heart,

That once was light and gay.

For, while they warble through the grove, In solitude I pine;

Each little songster has his love,

But where, alas! is mine?

While other maids my cottage eye,
And praise each beauty there,
Ah! one there is that passes by,
Nor calls the picture fair.

"Tis she has stolen my roses' sweets,
On her fair check they shine;
The lily with the snow drop meets,
Upon her neck divine.