fakes a high rank among similar productions of the present century. To great simplicity and womanly tenderness of feeling, she unites at times a conciseness and vigor of expression which are not often surpassed. A good idea of her various styles may be gathered from the following pieces:

DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFORT.

Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall
Who begs to be admitted to your presence.
Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends?
Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger.
Lady. How looks her countenance?

Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled,
Methought I could have compassed sea and land
To do her bidding.

Lady. Is she young, or old?

Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair,
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he, too, had been awed.

Lady. The foolish stripling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature?
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
She scarcely does surpass the middle size.
Lady. What is her garb?

Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it..

She is not decked in any gallant trim,

But seems to me clad in her usual weeds

Of high habitual state; for as she moves,

Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,

As I have seen unfurléd banners play

With the soft breeze.

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;

It is an apparition thou hast seen.

Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.]

It is an apparition he has seen,

Or it is Jane de Montfort.

THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,

As bright the blazing fagot glows,

Who, bending to the friendly light,

Plies her task with busy sleight;

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

1 This has been pronounced a perfect picture of Mrs. Siddons, the actress.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye; Then onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,

As oft beyond thy curving side

Its jetty tip is seen to glide;

Till, from thy centre starting fair,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay:

For then beneath some urchin's hand
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy purr,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;

While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with alter'd air To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade Of home unsocial spends her age, And rarely turns a letter'd page;

Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.

Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,、
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour;
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower;
On flower and tree loud hums the bee;
The wilding kid sports merrily:
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Showeth when good fortune's near.

Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And bathe thee in the breezy air;
The rolling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam;
And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,
Will waft good fortune on its way.

Up! time will tell: the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chiméd well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone;
The active day, so fair and bright,
May bring good fortune ere the night.

THE OLD SOLDIER.

The night comes on apace;

Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths;
Now every creature looks around for shelter;
And whether man or beast, all move alike
Towards their homes, and happy they who have
A house to screen them from the piercing cold!
Lo! o'er the frost a reverend form advances,

His hair white as the snow on which he treads,
His forehead mark'd with many a care-worn furrow.
Whose feeble body, bending o'er a staff,

Shows still that once it was the seat of strength,
Though now it shakes like some old ruin'd tower.
Clothed indeed, but not disgraced, with rags,
He still maintains that decent dignity

Which well becomes those who have served their country.
With tottering steps he gains the cottage door:
The wife within, who hears his hollow cough,
And pattering of his stick upon the threshold,
Sends out her little boy to see who's there.
The child looks up to mark the stranger's face,
And, seeing it enlighten'd with a smile,
Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in.

Round from her work the mother turns her head,
And views them, not ill-pleased.

The stranger whines not with a piteous tale,
But only asks a little to relieve

A poor old soldier's wants.

The gentle matron brings the ready chair,

And bids him sit to rest his weary limbs,

And warm himself before her blazing fire.
The children, full of curiosity,

Flock round, and with their fingers in their mouths,
Stand staring at him; while the stranger, pleased,
Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee.

Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet,

And prates and laughs, and plays with his white locks. But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face:

His thoughtful mind is turn'd on other days,

When his own boys were wont to play around him,

Who now lie distant from their native land,

In honorable but untimely graves;

He feels how helpless and forlorn he is,

And big round tears course down his wither'd cheeks.
His toilsome daily labor at an end,

In comes the wearied master of the house,
And marks with satisfaction his old guest

In the chief seat, with all the children round him.
His honest heart is fill'd with manly kindness,
He bids him stay and share their homely meal,
And take with them his quarters for the night.
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts,
And by the simple hospitable board
Forgets the by-past hardships of the day.

FAME.

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When, but for those our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed,

A desert bare, a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,-
The lofty marks of what hath been.
Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When memory of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

To few writers of the present century has English poetry been more indebted than to David Macbeth Moir, not only for his own productions, but for his genial and discriminating criticism on the poetry of others. He was born at Musselburgh, about six miles southeast of Edinburgh, on the 5th of January, 1798. From the schools of his native town he passed to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued his medical studies with diligence and success. Having received the diploma of a surgeon, he established himself in that Capacity in his native place, where he soon acquired an extensive practice.

Dr. Moir was but about nineteen years of age when he committed his first verses to the press in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine, under the signature of the Greek letter (1); and hence the title of "Delta" was usually given to him in the literary world. For more than thirty years he continued to enrich the pages of that Magazine with a series of poems, which would be remarkable were it for nothing but the profusion with which they were poured forth. But they possessed many and high qualities,-a great command of language and numbers, a delicate and graceful fancy, and a sweet, pure vein of tenderness and pathos. "Delta," wrote Professor Wilson, "has produced many original pieces, which will possess a permanent place in the poetry of Scotland. Delicacy and grace characterize his happiest compositions; some of them are beautiful, and others breathe the simplest and purest pathos." Nor less decisive is the praise of Lord Jeffrey. "I cannot," he writes to our author, "resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and, I hope, 'bettering,' emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what you have written is more genuine pathos than any thing, almost, I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower recommendations indifferent."*

In 1831, Dr. Moir published his Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine; being a View of the Progress of the Healing Art among the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and Arabians,-a work of great research and diversified erudition. In 1843 he published his Domestic Verses, which were received with great favor