the "Father of his People," such scenes were carried on; and places called “speil houses," the most abandoned dens of debauchery, were kept open, with flags hanging over them, and the glare of painted lamps shining on their scarlet hangings-and music and laughter, and the obscene song, resounding from their hideous chambers!

I confess to you that I was thunderstruck with this in Holland; for I had been led to suppose that the Dutch were a highly phlegmatic and exceedingly moral people, without any great passions or great vices; and still more was I astounded when I learnt that these abominable places called "spiel houses," actually pay license to government; that the patriotic Dutch government, so savage against the Belgians, and savage at such national expense, actually derives an immense revenue from the encouragement it thus so generously affords to this unbounded licentiousness and depravity. I felt thankful that I belonged to a country of peaceful homes and household virtues-a country of churches and chapels of religion and christian charity-where the Sabbath echoes but the sound of the bell of prayer→→→ where the Bible is yet read by the humble cottager and where, as yet (unlike to Holland), the national banner has never been the standard of vice, but the signal of victory.

But to return. Rotterdam is intersected in all parts by canals, which, though they must cause a very pernicious and injurious effect on the health, by affording

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an undue degree of moisture to the air, yet afford many conveniences no doubt, to merchants, and convey the merchandise up to the very doors of their warehouses. The public buildings in Rotterdam are not, by any means, noble; and in none of their cities, not even in Amsterdam, can they for one moment pretend to compare with buildings of the same nature in London, and scarce with those of Edinburgh. Neither have the churches that splendour and magnificence characteristic of England.

The women, it struck me from what I first saw in Rotterdam, and afterwards in other places, were in many respects fully equal to ours in England; but they are quite inferior to the London ladies in that light springiness of gait, mingled with a certain dignity of demeanour -fair and brilliant complexion and dark eye-and that majestic and fascinating appearance so often passionately gazed on (passion mingled with regret that they can never be ours) amid the balls, routes, and operative representations of the English metropolis. And how can they bear that beastly habit among the Dutch, of constant smoking smoking at all times, in all places, and under all circumstances-smoking to such excess that is almost equally detestable as the whiskey drinking of the Irish, the atheism of the French, the opium eating of the Turks, the suspicious levity of the Italians, and the sulkiness of John Bull.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CAMPBELL.,

"And Cambell's epitaph shall be,

'Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he."
BARD AND MINOR POEMS.

Another light hath faded from the sky,
Another flower hath vanish'd from the earth;
Hot tear-drops fill each sympathising eye

For him, that pearl of genius, wit, and worth.

Ten years, ten mournful years, have glided o'er
When first this faithful hand rehears'd his praise ;
Since then the bard of Ettrick is no more,

Sweet Coleridge, Southey, master of the bays:- ›

And CAMPBELL-from the blue hills of Argyle,
Each forest, and deep glen, and misty vale,
From every mountain, continent, and isle,

Shall sound the loud lament, the bitter wail.

How large his soul! how noble was the man!
What glorious visions kindled in his brain :
Like sun-lit waves each beauteous image ran,
Bright, rainbow-hued as drops of April rain.

"From grave to gay, from lively to severe," He stalk'd or sported, merry or sedate;

Now as a fairy's song he charm'd the ear,
Now as a Titan was he fierce and great.

O, how divinely tripp'd the joyous hours,
Those festive moments, that harmonious glee!
What Protean colours gleam'd through Fancy's bowers,
What heavenly hues adorn'd Philosophy!

I see him now!—the orb'd, majestic head,
The polish'd brow, the Phidian nose, blue eyes,
The patriot look, the ever glancing smiles,
The thoughts inspired, and language of the skies.

Yea, proud was I to worship at thy feet,
Gamaliel, poet-father, Fancy's guide!
A critic thou, enthroned on highest seat,
A poet placed by Shakspere's, Milton's side!

In prose, or honey'd verse, alike a king,
Renown'd in Grecian, as in Roman glory;
Thou eagle-like could'st soar, or lark-like sing,
Now crown'd immortally in English story.

He is not dead! O say he is not dead!
"Fair Wyoming" records to endless time
The poet's fame, and binds his laurell'd head;

By "Susquehanah's shade" he stands sublime.

He is not dead!-the Paradise of Hope

Blooms with victorious garlands, heavenly flowers, With fresh delight shall future poets ope

Each page inspired among the summer bowers.

He is not dead!—Old England's mariners
Shall own the heart-quake and the shouts of war,
Red Linden quivered to his martial airs,
Nile, Copenhagen, tremble from afar.

He is not dead!—whilst Poland is alive,
And Poland's heart still cleaves to liberty:
In Poland's blood-stained annals he shall live,
A meteor-light in Freedom's cloudless sky.

He is not dead !-whilst Scotland's mountains stand, Loch Awe, Loch Katrine glow with burnish'd gold; His name shall star-like hover o'er the land,

Link'd with her BURNS!-her proudest sons of old!

Her woodland flowers lament him, the deep grove
Is musical with songs of lyre and lute!
All her broad forests murmur notes of love,
At his rich voice the nightingale is mute.

Her streams hear music sweeter than their own,
Stars in their spheres a melody more sweet;
Angels might listen to each heavenly tone,

And earthly lovers holier raptures greet!