And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes;

And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies,

Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay,

and how much it may be injured by a harsh line, an imperfect or forced rhyme, a defective syllable, or, as is often the case here, an unfortunate [ occurring in the middle of a stanza. Others, however, are fortunately in a more finished state; and

sweet sighs

Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had arous'd from that full heart and

brain.

And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace

went :

Now lingering on the pools, in which abode

The calm and darkness of the deep content

In which they paus'd; now o'er the shallow road

Of white and dancing waters, all besprent

With sand and polish'd pebbles :—mortal boat

In such a shallow rapid could not float.

And down the earthquaking cataracts, which shiver

Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear

A subterranean portal for the river,

It fled, the circling sunbows did upbear

Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way.

By far the greater number of the pieces which the present volume contains are fragments, some of them in a very unfinished state indeed; and though we approve the feeling which led the friends of Mr Shelley to collect thein all, we question whether a selection, from the more finished pieces, would not have been a more prudent measure, as far as his fame is concerned. It dissolves entirely the illusion which we wish to cherish as to the intuitive inspiration-the estro of poetry-to be thus admitted, as it were, into the workshop of Genius, and to see its materials confused and heaped together, before they have received their last touches from the hand of the poet, and been arranged in their proper order. And it is wonderful how much the effect of the finest poem depends on an attention to minutiæ,

that much is wanting, which the last touches of the author would have given, we have no fear but that, imperfect as they are, they will bear us out in what we have said of the powers of the poet.

What a quiet stillness breathes over this description of

The Pine Forest

OF THE CASCINE, NEAR PISA!
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep,
The smile of Heaven lay.

It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.

We paused amid the Pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude,

With stems like serpents interlaced. How calm it was !-the silence there

By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound. The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew,
With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat

Of the white mountain's waste,
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced ;-
A spirit interfused around,
To momentary peace it bound
A thinking, silent life,

Our mortal Nature's strife.
For still it seemed the centre of

The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love

The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocusses that grew
Under that ilex tree,
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?

We stood beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulphed in a world below ;—

A purple firmament of light,

Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And clearer than the day

In which the massy forests grew,

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.

Like one beloved, the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast

Its every leaf and lineament

With that clear truth expressed.

There lay for glades and neighbouring lawn,

And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
Within an Elysium air,

An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.

Until a wandering wind crept by,

Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye -
Blots thy bright image out.

For thou art good, and dear, and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S's mind,
Than calm in waters seen.

We should pity any one who could peruse the following affecting lines, entitled "Stanzas written in dejection, near Naples," without the strongest sympathy for their unfortunate author.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolv'd in star-show'rs, thrown:

I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measur'd motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share
in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'dNor fame, nor pow'r, nor love, nor leisure.

Others I see whom these surround,

Smiling they live and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,

As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament, for I am one

Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet.

The following lines also appear to us extremely beautiful, though, in order to preserve the full effect of the rythm, they require some management in the reading.

Lines.

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead-
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute :

No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest,
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.
O, Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high:

Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave the naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

The following appear to us very much in the style of our old English lyric poets of the age of Charles I. Song

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me

Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt seoff at pain.
Spirit false thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure; Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night; Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost ;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me VOL. XV.

What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee-

Thou art love and life! O come,
Make once more my heart thy home!

Mutability.

The flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies; What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare! Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy and all
Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou-and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.

Swifter far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come and gone:
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,

Pansies let my flowers be:
On the living grave I bear,
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me. The longer poems, from which we have made no extracts, we think less interesting, though some of them, and particularly the Triumph of Life, an imitation of Petrarch's Trionfi, are written with very peculiar power and originality. Some translations are also included in this volume, of which the Scenes from Goethe's Faust, and Calderon's "Magico Prodigioso," are the most interesting.

C

THE public are aware that the present system of the forms of adninistering justice in Scotland has been almost entirely regulated, since the Union, by Acts of Sederunt. It is undeniable that great abuses now exist. They have been forced upon the attention of the Legislature by the extraordinary number of appeals from Scotland, in comparison with those from England and Ireland. Some think that all the evils which have arisen are to be traced to the Bench; others, that "the principal point is, that Government shall do its duty by giving us learned, experienced, and conscientious Judges, who have not to learn their law on the Bench."-(Opinion of Mr Forsyth, Advocate, p. 146. All are agreed that our forms of process "stand in need of some improvement, or at least of some alteration," and that "there never can be a better opportunity than the present, for discussing and ascertaining what are the improvements or alterations most proper to be adopted, and how they can be most effectually carried into execution."-(Opinion of Mr Swinton, W. S.)

This subject originated in the Report of a Committee of the House of Lords. Afterwards, the Act of 4 Geo. IV. c. 85,"to the intent that salutary regulations should be made and established," authorised his Majesty to appoint Commissioners to inquire into the forms of process in the Courts of Scotland, and appeals in the House of Lords. The Presidents of the Session, Exchequer, and Jury Courts, two Ordinary Judges of the Court of Session,-one of the Barons of Exchequer,-the Lord Advocate and Solicitor-General,-two Masters in Chancery,-two English Barrisers, two Scots Advocates, and one

Principal Clerk of Session, were ap pointed Commissioners; and Royal instructions were issued to those Commissioners. The opinions of several eminent and learned persons in Scotland were taken. Those opinions, in an Appendix, and the Report of the Commissioners, have been printed. An Act of Parliament has been since introduced, which, after a considerable struggle, was got postponed till next Session, in order to afford the people of Scotland an opportunity of expressing their opinions. This liberality on the part of the Legislature, although nothing more than what the people were entitled to expect, will, no doubt, be duly appreciated by the public. It is, indeed, more liberal than any measure established by the Acts of Sederunt of the Scotch Judges since the Union, as to any of which it was never thought necessary to take the opinion of the country.

It has been truly observed, that no measure since the Union has been set on foot, which is likely to be attended with more important results to Scotland than this Commission; and no Scotsman can await the resolutions which may be adopted, without the most anxious solicitude."

(Opinion of Mr Put. Robertson, Advocate.)

While appeals are competent to the House of Lords, and decided by an English Judge, it is not difficult to anticipate, that, in the progress of time, the Scotch forms and principles of law must be assimilated to those in England. From a conviction that the English system, upon the whole, is better adapted for dispatch, and the impartial administration of justice, than the Scots system, and that the mode of administering justice in England has been attended with