dig on the side, that drives the breath out of their body, and keeps them speechless for the rest of the night, while the stream of conversation, if it may be called so, keeps issuing in jets and jerks, from the same inexhaustible source, pausing but to become more potent, and delivering, per hour, we fear to say how many imperial gallons

into the reservoir.

Therefore, we cannot but smile at "the Stammerer's Complaint”—as put into his lips by Mr Tupper. He

is made to ask us

"Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth?
A restless panther to his cage immur'd?
A swift trout by the wily fisher check'd?
A wild bird hopeless strain its broken
wing ?"

Captive my mute interpreter of thought;
The seal of lead enstamped upon my lips,
The load of iron on my labouring chest,

The mocking demon, that at every step

Haunts me, and spurs me on—to burst in silence."

Heaven preserve us! is the world so ill off for woes-are they so scantthat a Poet who indites blank verse to Imagination, can dream of none worthier his lamentations than the occa sional and not unfrequent inconveniences that a gifted spirit experiences from a lack of fluency of words?

"I scarce would wonder, if a godless man,

We have; but what is all such sights
to the purpose? An eagle chained
cannot fly an inch-a panther in a cage
can prowl none-a trout "checked"-
basketted, we presume-is as good as
gutted a bird winged is already dish-
ed-but a stammerer, "still begin-
ning, never ending," is in all his glory
when he meets a consonant whom he
will not relinquish till he has conquer-
ed him, and dragged him in captivity
at the wheels of his chariot,
"While the swift axles kindle as they What if he were dumb ?

(I name not him whose hope is heaven-
ward,)

A man whom lying vanities hath scath'd
And harden'd from all fear,-if such an one
By this tyrannical Argus goaded on,
Were to be wearied of his very life,
And daily, hourly foiled in social converse,
By the slow simmering of disappointment,
Become a sour'd and apathetic being,
Were to feel rapture at the approach of
death,

roll."

Mr Tupper's Stammerer then is made to say,

"Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night,

Some undefined and horrid incubus
Press down the very soul,-and paralyse
The limbs in their imaginary flight
From shadowy terrors in unhallowed
sleep?"

We have; but what is all that to the
purpose, unless it be to dissuade us
from supping on pork-chop? Such op-
pression on the stomach, and through
it on all the vital powers, is the
effect of indigestion, and is horrible;
but the Stammerer undergoes no such
rending of soul from body, in striving
to give vent to his peculiar utterance
-not he indeed-'tis all confined to
his organs of speech-his agonies are
apparent not real-and he is conscious
but of an enlivening emphasis that,
while all around him are drowsy, keeps
him wide awake, and banishes Sleep
to his native land of Nod. We our-
selves have what is called an impedi-
ment in our speech-and do "make
wry faces," but we never thought of
exclaiming to ourselves,

And long for his dark hope,-annihilation."

Mr Tupper is a father-and some of his domestic verses are very pleasing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, and his sonnet to little Mary; but we prefer the stanzas entitled "Children," and quote them as an agreeable sample, premising that they would not have been the worse of some little tincture of imaginative feeling-for, expressive as they are of mere natural emotion, they cannot well be said to be poetry. We object, too, to the sentiment of the close, for thousands of childless men are rich in the enjoyment of life's best affections; and some of the happiest couples and the best we have ever known, are among those from whom God has withheld the gift of offspring. Let all good Christian people be thankful for the mercies graciously vouchsafed to them; but beware of judging the lot of others by their own, and of seeking to confine either worth, happiness, or virtue, within one sphere of domestic life, however blessed they may feel it to be;

"For the blue sky bends over all,' and our fate here below is not determined by the stars.

We like the following lines still better-and considered " as one of the moods of his own mind," they may be read with unmingled pleasure.

WISDOM'S WISH.

"Ан, might I but escape to some sweet spot,
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,

Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,

And good old customs crown the circling year;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,
And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm
To country quiet add their social charm;

"Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,

And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trode
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God;

"There would I dwell, for I delight therein !
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
Untainted by the soil of others' sin,
My own repented of, and clean again :

With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys, that never end.

"There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;

And learning nature's Master to adore,

Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.

"No envious wish my fellows to excel,
No sordid money-getting cares be mine;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,

Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine:
But, sweet benevolence, regale me well

With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed piety, be always near,
With calm content, and gratitude sincere.

"Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,

And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,

And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!"

But the best set of stanzas in the volume are those entitled Ellen Gray. The subject is distressing, and has been treated so often-perhaps too often-as to be now exhausted-or if not so, nothing new can be expected on it, except either from original genius, or from a spirit made creative by profoundest sympathy and sorrow for the last extremities of human misery.

ELLEN GRAY.

"A starless night, and bitter cold;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street

Swept onward thick and fast;

"When crouched at an unfriendly door, Faiut, sick, and miserably poor,

A silent woman sate;

She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.

"Was I to pass her coldly by, Leaving her there to pine and die,

The live-long freezing night? The secret answer of my heart Told me I had not done my part In flinging her a mite.

"And for a home,—would I had none !
The home I have, a wicked one,

They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin :

"I see your goodness on me frown;
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may
Tell the sad story of her grief,-
Though heav'n alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.

"My mother died when I was born:
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,

Upon the workhouse floor;
My father, would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
-I dare not tell you more.

"And I was bound an infant-slave,
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,

A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then;

"My heart was pure, my cheek was fair,
Ah, would to God a cancer there

Had eaten out its way!

For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began

To mark me for his prey.

"And month by month he vainly strove

"She look'd her thanks,--then droop'd To light the flame of lawless love

her head;

'Have you no friend, no home?' I said.
'Get up, poor creature, come,

You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,-speak,
Or whither help you home?'

"Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray Has had no friend this many a day,

And, but that you seem kind,— She has not found the face of late That look'd on her in aught but hate, And still despairs to find :

In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror and my pest!

"Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;

I liv'd, I died, a life of dread,

Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day

Of wrath and ruin came;

We do not think the idea very happy of "Contrasted Sonnets"—such as, Nature-Art; The Happy Home The Wretched Home; Theory-Practice; Ritches-Poverty; Philanthropic Misanthropic; Country-Town; and so on-and 'tis an ancient, nay, a stale idea, though Mr Tupper evidently thinks it fresh and new, and luxuriates in it as if it were all his own. Sometimes he chooses to shew that he is ambidexter-and how much may be said on both sides leaving the reader's mind in a state of indifference to what may really be the truth of the matter-or disposed to believe that he knows more about it than the Sonnetteer. The best are Prose and Poetry-and they are very good-so is "Ancient," but Modern is very bad-and therefore we quote the three

PROSE.

"That the fine edge of intellect is dulled,

And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure,
And the numb'd heart so deep in stupor lulled

That virtue's self is weak its love to lure,

But pride and lust keep all the gates secure,
This is thy fall, O man; and therefore those
Whose aims are earthly, like pedestrian prose,
The selfish, useful, money-making plan,
Cold language of the desk, or quibbling bar,
Where in hard matter sinks ideal man:
Still, worldly teacher, be it from me far

Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band
Poetic all, though not so named by men,

Who have swayed royally the mighty pen,

And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand."

POETRY.

"To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill,
To raise and purify the grovelling soul,
To warm with generous heat the selfish will,
To conquer passion with a mild controul,
And the whole man with nobler thoughts to fill,

These are thine aims, O pure unearthly power,
These are thine influences; and therefore those
Whose wings are clogged with evil, are thy foes;
And therefore these, who have thee for their dower,
The widowed spirits with no portion here,

Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower:
For thine are pleasures, deep, and tried, and true,
Whether to read, or write, or think, or hear,
By the gross million spurn'd, and fed on by the few."

ANCIENT.

"My sympathies are all with times of old,

I cannot live with things of yesterday,
Upstart, and flippant, foolish, weak, and gay,
But spirits cast in a severer mould,
Of solid worth, like elemental gold:

I love to wander o'er the shadowy past,
Dreaming of dynasties long swept away,
And seem to find myself almost the last
Of a time-honoured race, decaying fast;
For I can dote upon the rare antique,

Conjuring up what story it might tell,
The bronze, or bead, or coin, or quaint relique ;
And in a desert could delight to dwell

Among vast ruins,-Tadmor's stately halls,

Old Egypt's giant fanes, or Babel's mouldering walls,"

Mr Tupper has received much praise from critics whose judgment is generally entitled to great respect-in the Atlas-if we mistake not-in the Spectator-and in the Sun. If our censure be undeserved-let our copious quotations justify themselves, and be our condemnation. Our praise may seem cold and scanty; but so far from despising Mr Tupper's talents, we have good hopes of him, and do not fear but that he will produce many far better things than the best of those we have selected for the appro

bation of the public. Perhaps our rough notes may help him to discover where his strength lies; and, with his right feelings, and amiable sensibilities, and fine enthusiasm, and healthy powers when exercised on familiar and domestic themes, so dear forever to the human heart, there seems no reason why, in good time, he may not be among our especial favourites, and one of "the Swans of Thames"-which, we believe, are as big and as bright as those of the Tweed.

Alas! for poor NICOL! Dead and gone-but not to be forgotten-for aye to be remembered among the flowers of the forest, early wede away!