The following verse was added by the Author on a late occasion, when the toast of the "Highland Regiments, the Defenders of our Country," was given him to propose:—

But lift your cheer, and pledge with me
The valour of the glorious three:
The FORTY-SECOND, world renown'd;
The NINETY-THIRD, with victory crown'd;
The SEVENTY-NINTH, whose valiant name
Is wreath'd with many a field of fame,
With others of true Highland stem,
That guard VICTORIA's diadem.

Then set aside the lesser cup,
And lift on high the bowl,

And pledge the Highland Regiments all,
The men of loyal soul,

The men of dauntless soul,

The men of patriot soul!

SONG OF TRIUMPH,

ON FIRST HEARING OF THE VICTORY WHICH CROWNED THE BRITISH

ARMS AT INKERMAN.

NEWS, news, from the Crimea,
Another victory shout

Old Neptune wafts Britannia-
The Russ is put to rout!
Let ring the jubilant bells,

The cannon peal their thunder,

While we quaff to the host that quells
And tramples the Tyrant under.
Then raise in shouts the song,
And Victory! Victory! cry;
Let earth, air, sea, and sky
The joyous shouts prolong.

But a moan, too, o'er the wave
Like the sighing night-wind comes,
For the fallen thousand brave,
Making sad a thousand homes!
Ah, who can tell the wailing
For the brother, lover, son!

The grief all unavailing

For the well-beloved one!

Then sink in grief the song,
While heaves the burden'd sigh,
And tears bedim the eye
A thousand homes among.

Yet, let's dry each bitter tear,
Turn each grief to pensive joy,
For a glory crowns the bier
Of each noble British boy.

Hark, a gentle voice in air

Whispers, "Weep no more for me;

Britain's freedom be your care;

Give another one for me."

Then raise again the song,
And Victory! Victory! cry;
Let earth, air, sea, and sky
The joyous shouts prolong.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.

UPON the heights of Inkerman
Asleep the British lay,

The Russ stole up through fog and rain
To drive them in the bay.

Not here, or there, but everywhere
The legion wolves surround-
But the British Lion spurn'd his lair
And bristling, rampant frown'd.

They dream'd to throttle in surprise,
Or drive him in the sea,

But fierce he stood with kindled eyes
To crush them-not to flee.
Press'd from behind sprang forth in dread
The yelling hordes-in vain

The British Lion struck them dead

And vengeful shook his mane.

For every pool of British blood
A Russian river ran
Adown the hill-a gory flood

Roll'd back from Inkerman.
The Gallic Eagle swoop'd the plain
And swell'd the gory tide;
Ilis talons rent them once again
And spread the havoc wide!

News, news for the Czar Nicholas,
Will make his proud soul quake,
Rattle the life-sand through his glass,
And give his heart a shake.

In his own blood the avenging hand
Writes on his kingdom's wall
That he is balanced-cannot stand-
But totters to his fall.

Thoughts and Sentiments.

NEWTON AND THE APPLE.

WE have often, when in a lively humour, wondered if Newton ate the apple which suggested his sublime discovery. It would seem to have fallen ripe with age; and may we not, without irreverence, imagine him poising in his hand the tiny figure of a world, and musing in abstract mood on the cause which brought it to the earth, taking out his knife -with all his philosopher coolness, paring off its spherical coat and grate

fully mounching it; thus, like a man of sense, giving his body the advantage of the accident which had fed his mind with such a godlike growth of thought.

Newton and Eve are both alike in this

Their apples caused great Nature's face to change.

THAT OUR DESIRES ARE A SPUR TO OUR INDUSTRY; OR
THE BOY NEWTON AND HIS MOUSE.

IN the dull tread-wheel of our daily labour,
Who would strain ardently unless bribed to it
By beckoning desires? Behold the type

Of that which keeps this populous world astir,
And ever young and active, in the mouse-
The miller-mouse-which the boy Newton bribed
To serviceable action by a pile

Of dangling corn, to strive for, but ne'er reach,
Yet call its mettle forth.

LAUGHTER DISTINCTIVE OF MAN ALONE.

MAN is the only animal that laughs,
Conform'd by Nature to that happy mood-
His grand distinction this above the brutes,
Not Reason's self except. Your horse and dog,
Brown rat and elephant are reasoners sage;
But which of them can social jovial laugh?
Therefore I will the glorious privilege use,
And laugh-ha! ha!-till Nature cries, No more!

GOLD (The tempter shaking his money-bags.)
AY, that's the music beats Apollo's hollow;
Makes the old world wag his shrivell❜d leg
While Nature holds.

GENIUS.

WHY, what is Genius but the thirst divine,
Largely to drink of Truth at Nature's hand,
And make itself immortal?

LOVE.

LOVE is that beam

Of sunshine on our shady hill of life
Which makes its state look golden.

VIRTUE.

TRUTH, Honour, Justice, Mercy, are the gems—
Precious beyond the price of utmost gold-
Which Virtue hangs upon her votary's neck.

MERIT.

MERIT respect and honour, though it stands
Before you clothed in rags; unless some vice
Of wrecking import flout its nakedness.

THE LEGISLATOR AND WARRIOR.

To conquer in the battlefield is glorious;
But to give laws, firm justice to establish,
Vice to restrain, and violence suppress,
Is a still nobler triumph.

A PROUD MAN IN ADVERSITY DESCRIBED.

HE may be humbled, but he is not humble;
His state is low but not his disposition;
An humble carriage masqueth his proud spirit,
And 'neath his mantle of humility
Lurks Lucifer's own pride.

Reviews.

THE MYSTIC.*

To define poetry is as difficult as to define beauty, and in fact to frame a simple definition that might include all that is styled poetry, would be difficult indeed. Perhaps we cannot define it otherwise than poetically-the "giving to airy nothing a local habitation and a name." But, remember, these poetical airy nothings are substantial thoughts, if they are not substantial things. Our castles in the air are at least built after the fashion of our castles on the earth. Works of fiction are modelled after those of truth-at least they must never pass the boundary of truth;-and yet the poetry of man is airy nothing contrasted with the poetry of Nature-mere idols of the imagination when contrasted with the sublime ideas of God; and he is the greatest poet who has capacity to discern and power to give expression to those ideas bodied forth in Nature. The breeze sweeping over a landscape-is it not missioned to stir the heart as well as the dancing leaves? Yes, let us open the heart to every influence of Nature, and she shall thrill us with emotions to which we have only to give a musical utterance. But your true poet, some will say, though he receives his materials from Nature, moulds them anew into plastic creations of his own. A poet truly, but not of so high a rank as the poet-priest of Nature, who alone may lay claim to true poetic inspiration.

It is a darling sin of man to worship the workmanship of his own hands. This is but a falling short of the capacity and power of our nature; for, assuredly, if we seck, we shall find objects of poetical worship around us, and need not elaborate them from the conceits of our own imagination. A beautiful thing, beautifully conceived, and beautifully expressed, might be made the definition of poetry.

This, however, goes no farther than the production of poetic thought. Their elaboration into consistent and appropriate forms constitutes poetic art. As Nature is the standard of true poetic

"The Mystic and other Poems." By Philip James Bailey, author of "Festus." Second Edition. London: Chapman and Hall. 1855.

thought, so is it of true poetic art. Need we define Nature? Has not the Creator defined it in our consciousness? But Nature, which we make our standard, because it is the great lesson-book given us to peruse, is but the medium of inspiration-the concrete form of the absolute ideas of God-the means whereby the Being whose attributes are goodness, truth, and beauty, rouses in the souls that have emanated from Him, and bear His image, the universal, necessary, and eternal ideas that are to form intelligence for the life hereafter.

Nature, embracing its noblest part-humanity—is the poet's exhaustless store for his beautiful themes. With a keen intelligence and a feeling heart he proclaims the true, the good, the beautiful, revealed in both. But humanity is especially his theme, for its destiny is the consummation of all earthly things. From the hill top to which he has climbed he sees the breaking dawn sooner than those below in the valley-can he do otherwise than hail it in a joyful strain? he looks down upon the darkness below-can he do otherwise than lament? They might all have climbed to the same height, but they would not. Henceforth he mingles with them only to scourge vice out of the temple of their heart, and fire their bosom with the virtuous hopes that burn in his own. There are those certainly that sing to degrade, or simply to amuse; but with them we have nothing to do, unless in the way of warning. The poet's hallowed fire ought to purify alone.

First, then, of poetry in its nature. Our highest department is truth beautifully conceived and beautifully expressed, such as

The quality of mercy is not strained—

It droppeth as the gentle dews from heaven
Upon the place below. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
"Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway--
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Think of this,
That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

Here the

The thought is beautiful, sublime in itself, which is all the more appreciable that it is most beautifully expressed. reason grasps and expresses the thought through the imagination; whereas in the other kind, the imagination, or as we often call its lighter play, the fancy, conceives or creates, and makes reason subservient. Examples of the latter may be abundantly found among the Italian minor poets. We shall translate, for illustration, from Metastasio: