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bly failing. We return to our original posi-, ballet about it. But creating a sensation about tion: Monsieur Jullien is a great man and a any thing always benefits somebody; and in talented : his quadrilles are only surpassed by this instance, whether the dancing-masters, the his camellias.

opera-dancers, the theatres, or the music-pubBut as yet there had only been a revelation lishers have benefited the most by its introducof the Polka to Easter-holiday makers. On tion), the end has been fully answered. the ensuing Thursday its name appeared in large letters on the affiches of the Italian Opera, for the benefit of ihose living on the entre sol of society. We say the “entresol,” because those above them knew it already, from their intercourse with the best Parisian circles;

LOVER'S EVENINGS ! but the intermediate people wished to learn it, -those parvenu gentilities who go to the Op

From the Literary Gazette. era, not to be amused, but because they imagine being constantly seen there gives them It is but putting the apostrophe at another position. The "Polka” was to be danced by point, and making it Lovers' Evenings, to inPerrot and Carlotta ; and the announcement, dicate how pleasant such evenings are.' Time no doubt, drew together a good many who had inimemorial they have been so; blessed with seen the others, people of inferior station, the hopes of Youth, dear to the memories of who boldly paid their eight-and-sixpence, or Age. crept in under favor of a newspaper admis- But though of a like enjoyable kind, the sion. “Now,” they thought, "we shall see Lover's Evening of which we have now to what the Pólka ought to be; for the others discourse is of an unlike description. It was have been mere divertissemens."

the first public appearance of the gentleman Well, the curtain rose, and discovered “an of that name, so well known and so highly interior.” It might be “ a palace, 16 a hall of popular as novelist, composer, artist, dramatist, audience," an apartment in the castle," "a and lyrist, as the expositor of Irish character, splendid saloon," or whatever sort of scene the and an illustrator of Irish music. Lover's exigencies of the piece demanded. Then Tales are among the raciest of his country's entered a grand procession of ladies and gentle- productions in that line; and his songs are men, more or less Bohemian, in costumes that sung from the court to the cabin,-touching in had done the stage much service. These natural pathos, or rich in national humor. A marched about, paired off, and promenaded patriotic ambition has, happily for those who together again, until the audience wondered | can hear them, induced him to deliver lectures what would come afterwards. Next followed on the music of Ireland, and embellish them a "pas de deux,” in which the scantiness of with examples from ancient times, from his drapery excited virtuous indignation ; and then admirable contemporary Moore, and (chiefly) Carlotia and Perrot bounded in, amidst the from his own compositions, either already cheers of the spectators, and the Polka com- chanted throughout the three kingdoms, or menced.

novelties which, from their beauty both in lanWhat it was cannot very well be defined: guage and melody, must speedily partake of to us it appeared a species of double Cracovi- the same enviable notoriety. On Wednesday, enne run mad. Carlotta pointed her toes up the handsome concert-room of the Prince's wards, and clicked her brass heels together, theatre was crowded, centre, reserved seats, and Perrot did the same; then they walized in and orchestra, with as fashionable a looking unequal time, and leant backwards, and for- throng as we have ever seen on a similar ocwards, and sideways, and against one another, casion. At eight o'clock the lecture began; and turned each other round, until they finally and, except the interruptions of numerous spun off amidst universal applause, and the in- bursts of applause or laughter, the silent attense bewilderment of the spectators, now tention paid to the whole till nearly eleven greater than ever, as to what the Polka was o'clock * was the best tribute that could resupposed to be.

For surely nobody would ever ward the successful efforts of Mr. Lover. attempt all those evolutions in a ball-room!

The truth is this. The Polka is in itself as * Too late, however, and we are of opinion simple as the waltz; it is, in fact, a species of that no treat of the kind should exceed two waltz in Cracovienne time, if we may be al- hours, and conduct us into midnight. Encores, lowed to say so. Two people can dance it as it is true, interfere with and destroy previous cal well as two dozen, beginning or leaving off culations of time; but in London, with its diswhenever they please ; but, as the first half | tances, many people desire to leave public places minute shows completely what it is , a different others in the upper ranks of life have often

to arrangement was necessary for the stage, and visit private parties. Care should be taken to various figures were introduced, at the option, and according to the taste of the ballet-master quit what is so agreeable to us in the middle of

meet these requisites; for it is very annoying to or mistress. That it will ever become as pop: our pleasure, and hardly less so to notice perular in London as on the Continent we much sons obliged to depart in order to avoid too late doubt. There is, at the best, too much of the hours.

His own voice is of limited power ; but Of a livelier character is what is wanted in physique is abundantly made up in genuine expression. The bard is

1. There's no such Girl as mine. the true interpreter of his own ideas; and to

“Oh, there's no such girl as mine, us an emphasis is worth more than the high

In all the wide world around; est note ever reached by vocal organ. We

With her hair of golden twine, love meaning far better than flourish, a vibra- And her voice of silver sound. tion of our heart's strings beyond the purest Her eyes are as black as the sloes, shake ever executed, and a simple feeling of And quick is her ear so fine, emotion above any pitch of tone that would And her breath is as sweet as the rose, astonish the world. When rarely united (as in There's no such girl as mine! one of the applauding audience who sat not far from jus, Mrs. Alfred Shaw), the finished pow

Her spirit so sweetly flows,

Unconscious winner of hearts, ers of music and just expression are indeed

There's a smile wherever she goes, irresistible. But to return to our theme. After

There's a sigh wherever she parts; some pertinent and interesting introductory

A blessing she wins from the poor, remarks, Mr. L. sang a new song, called To court her the rich all incline, Whisper Lou, of which it is enough to say that She's welcome at every doorit deserves a place beside his Angels' Whisper O there's no such girl as mine! -"A baby was sleeping." He then proceeded to speak of the ancient harp and harpers, of

She's light to the banquet-hall,

She's balm to the couch of care ; the remarkable names given to the strings of the instrumeni, and other matters of curious In sorrow, in mirth, in all,

She takes her own sweet share lore, interspersed with many amusing anec

Enchanting the many abroad, dotes, and old as well as modern traits of Irish

At home doth she brightest shine; character. Every division was followed by a

"Twere endless her worth to laud song, duet, or trio, aptly brought in, and

There's no such girl as mine!" charmingly sung by Miss Cubitt

, a Miss Rollo Dickson, and the author. Among these, the

At the end, the room rose and loudly cheerglowing benevolence of the Four-leaved Shamed this most entertaining and characteristic berock, sung by Mr. L.; Carolan, sung

by Miss ginning of a long course of " Irish Evenings," Cubitt; Molly Bawn, sung by Miss Dickson ; which, like Wilson's Scotch, will delight the and, in conclusion, Coo Coo (a new song), public, no matter to which of the three kingalso sung by this young lady; and Widow doms they belong. Vachree, by Mr. Lover ;-were lauded to the echo. The story of the “Curse of Kishogue” was told with inimitable drollery. And of new songs, destined for equal popularity with their predecessors, we may quote the following:

ExpeditION INTO THE INTERIOR OF SOUTH

AMERICA.–Our neighbors are honorable comWhisper Lowo.

petitors in the field of geographical enterprise

and scientific exploration. "Accounts have “ In days of old, when first I told

been received of the Comte de Castelnau's A tale so bold, my love, to thee,

expedition into the interior of South America, In falt'ring voice I sought thy choice,

dated from Sabara, one hundred and fifty And did rejoice thy blush to see; With downcast eyes I heard thy sighs,

leagues north of Rio Janeiro, and some of the And hope reveal’d her dawn to me,

fruits of its labors, a collection of objects of As soft and slow, with passion's glow,

natural history, have already reached Paris. I whisper'd low, my love, to thee.

The Comte Ange de Saint Priest, who lately published a collection of drawings of Mexican

antiquities, (Athen. No. 814,) has submitted to The cannon loud, in deadly breach,

the king a project for a scientific exploration of May thunder on the shrinking foe; 'Tis anger is but loud of speech,

the provinces of Yucatan, Chiapas, and Cen

tral America; and a commission, composed of The voice of love is soft and low. The tempest's shout, the battle's rout,

eminent members of the Institute, has been Make havoc wild we weep to see ;

formed to organize the expedition, direct its But summer wind and friends when kind labors, and trace its route. The king has All whisper low as I to thee.

created the bishop of Iceland a chevalier of

the legion of honor, in acknowledgment of the Now, gallants gay, in pride of youth,

services rendered by him to the Iceland ExSay, would you win the fair one's ear?

ploring Scientific Commission; and the Gen. Your votive prayer be short and sooth,

graphical Society has awarded its gold mis And whisper low, and she will hear. dals, for the most remarkable contributions to The matin-bell may loudly toll

geographical literature, to M. H. de Hell, for The bridal morn when all may hear; his journey to the shores of the Caspian Sea, But at the time of vesper-chime

and to M. d'Arnaud for his travels to the Oh whisper low in beauty's ear.”

sources of the White Nile.- Athen@um.

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How light upon the ear
Breathes the soft murmur of the evening gale,
Wringing from memory full many a tale
Of home, and youth, and love, ah! visions frail,

From the Dublin University Magazine, : As they were passing dear.

I SIGH IN VAIN.
The whirlwind in its might,
That vanquisher of earth, the hoarse, the loud

I sigh in vain
Scourger of ocean, ruler of the cloud,

For freedom, and my spirit long bath pined What is the whirlwind ?-what but passion's To tread the dark green hills of earth again, crowd

To drink the mountain-wind. Of feelings as they smite.

More blest than I, How o'er the ravaged earth

On silver wing the sea-bird far may roam, Are strewn the fragments of her summer prime,

Seek the glad sunshine of the azure sky,
Like blighted joys that lie in after time

Or the bright billow's foam.
Upon the aching heart, whose only crime
Was to give passion birth.

The forest deer

Are in the green wood bounding wild and free, The night wind sweeps along,

While, fevered and heart-sick, I languish bere With fitful cadence sigbing on its way,

In lone captivity
As if the spirits of the bright, the gay,
The loved, the lost, were in its mournful play,

The bright sunshine
A melancholy throng.

That warms the earth and lights the lonely sea,

May gladden every heart and eye save mine, How soft its gentle kiss

But scarce may beam on me.
And can it be that spirits from above,
Thus on the pinions of the night-wind roye,

I pine alone,

There is no smile to soothe the captive's woeFanning the fever'd cheeks of those they love, And whispering of bliss ?

No kindly breathing voice, whose gentle tone

Forbids his tears to flow.
But now the morning breeze

Night's raven wings
Steals o'er the earth with fragrance on its wings, May fan the mourner to a brief repose;
Filling the soul with bright imaginings;

But the sweet pause from sorrow which she brings,
The flow'ret opes its bud, the wild bird sings- On me she ne'er bestows.
There's music in the trees.

For when the stars What says the breeze of morn ?

Begem the dark arch of the midnight sky, That gentle hope within the human breast, Sadly I watch them through my grating bars, May thus breathe sweetly, calming it to rest, As they sail silent by. Thus sing of happiness and regions blest, To comfort the forlorn.

Or if I lay

Me down on my straw bed, and seek to sleep, Then have not winds a voice ?

In tortured visions scenes now far away Is there not language in each magic sound ?

Will by my spirit sweep.

My throbbing head!
Oh, that my burning fantasies were o'er,
And thou wert laid cold in thy last low bed,

To dream of earth no more.

Dear though it be to seek a loved one's tomb,
There pouring forth affection's fond revealings,
This robs not death of its repelling gloom,
This hath not power to heal the wounded feelings.

Man was not made

But thou, O Christian Mother, need'st not fear To waste in lone captivity away;

The trial, though the child of thy devotion Far better 'twere in quiet to be laid,

Should find a grave,-dark, fathomless, and drear, Mouldering in dull decay.

Beneath the whelming billows of the ocean. Welcome then, Death!

Or lay unknown, unwept, in foreign ground, 'Too long thy seraph wing hath stayed from me. Come, break this chain, and steal this Auttering Where wild weeds cluster o'er the sun-burnt

Amid conflicting scenes of war and danger, breath,

mound, And set my spirit free.

Trampled beneath the footstep of the stranger.

Yet Faith shall in thy sorrow show to thee
A day when ocean and when earth shall tremble,
And from the plain, the cave, the field, the sea,
The Lord shall bid the slumbering dead assemble.

From the Metropolitan.

There shall He re-unite his severed ties,
There shall his people gaze upon each other,
And mid the rest thy dear one shall arise,
Greeting with smiles his fondly loving mother.

THE ARAB MOTHER,

BY MRS. ABDY.

And proving that the lone and distant grave

Is but a brief and passing habitation; « In the march of a caravan, it is customary to bury the That Death the body can alone enslave, dead by the way-side, and I have known a poor mother carry | And souls endure no lasting separation ! the corpse of her infant for hours, loth to tell the secret which must entail a perpetual separation.” - Mr. F. Ainsworti's Tales of the East.

Slowly and sadly o'er the desert wild
A wearied throng their languid way are keeping;
The mother to her bosom clasps her child,
How tranquilly the gentle babe is sleeping !

From the Metropolitan.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

All marvel when its eyelids shall unclose,

SPRING, AND THE CONSUMPTIVE. Listing to hear its murmured accents breaking; They see not in that infant's calm repose The deep and dreamless sleep that knows not waking

The Spring! the Spring! O the joyous Spring!

It is coming again! I can feel its wing But she, the mother, knows that death is there,

On the green hill top, in the sylvan vale, And struggles not against the sad conviction :

And it fushes the cheek that is wan and pale ; How can she silently her trial bear?

And the mother dreams, as she looks on her boy, How can she still the outbreak of affliction ?

That flush is the herald of future joy ;

And fancies she sees in his bright young eye How can she light and careless speech command, The promise so dear, that he will not die. And veil ber agony from each beholder,

But the beautiful bloom that lights his cheek, Locking within her own the little hand

Is the fading fire of a flame so weak, That every moment in her grasp grows colder ? That the breath of Spring does but fan to con

sume, Oh! she can deck with mimic smiles her face, And soon his cold ashes will rest in the tomb. Fearing lest force the child from her should sever; The wayside grave—the desert resting-place

The Spring! the Spring! O the joyous Spring ! These, these would tear her from her babe for ever. It brings life and death on its roseate wing;

And the pale consumptive must bow his head And therefore doth she nerve her struggling To the green sod, that covers the lonely dead. powers,

When the violet basks in the genial ray, Calling up pleasant images to cheer her

And the wild-bird sings on the leafy spray, Of the fair shady tomb o'erspread with flowers, His bloom will be gone, and his voice will be Where she may still preserve her darling near her. hush'd,

Aud the heart of the mother lie lone and crush'd : Deep is the fountain of a mother's love,

But a richer Spring will revive the bloom Ever within her tender bosom springing, Of that pale shrunk boy, in his timeless tomb, Yet must our chastened reason disapprove

And his soul will take flight on a brighter wing, The love to outward signs thus wildly clinging. Than heralds the path of the golden Spring.

From the Metropolitan. COME TO THE WOODLANDS.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

The Spring! the Spring! O the joyous Spring,
Shall a thousand holy mem'ries bring,
of the beautiful flow'rs that have pass'd away,
To bloom in the light of eternal day.
Oh! why should we mourn, when the young

heart breaks,
Ere the guard of its virtues its post forsakes,
To let the wild passions of earth come in,
That stain the pure blossoms of youth with sin ?
Then weep not, fond mother, his young life's close,
Though he fall in his bloom, like the first Spring

rose ; Say, what can'st thou offer so fitly to heaven, As the flow'r in the beauty with which it was

given?

O Come to the woodlands! the young moon is

wreathing Her bright silver tresses with garlands of dew; O come where the music of nature is breathing! And the eglantine spreads its wild roses for you: Where glow-wo

worms are peeping, The wild fawns are sleeping, The nightingale thrilling his sweet roupdelay;

The hymn of the night breeze

Is heard in the pine trees, O Geraldine ! come to the woodlands away! The twilight is fading, the night is advancing,

The spring's sweetest odors are loading the gale; O come where the fairies by moonlight are dane

ing! To song and to minstrelsy, down in the vale :

O'er violets, dripping

With dew, they are tripping, Around the old oak, in their revels so gay ;

Thy sweet eye is brighter,

Thy footstep is lighter,O Geraldine ! come to the woodlands away!

From the Spectator.

STANZAS.

BY BABOO GOVIN CHONDER DUTT,

A native of Bengal.

From the Athensum,

Where is the gay melodious voice,

O where the mirthful tone,
That bade my kindred soul rejoice

In hours forever gone?
For ever gone!-aye-with that name

A thousand memories throng, The gende look, the soothing word,

The silvery laugh and song!

The lofty hall, and trelissed bower,

Where waved the stately plume, And brightly glanced the midnight gem,

And powers breathed rich perfume,They flash o'er memory's darkened eye,

Like lightnings through a storm, And with them starts to claim a sigh

Each well-known friendly form.

MORN AT SEA. 'Tis glorious on the waters, (when young mora

Shows in the golden east his rosy face,

Laughing to see night's swift retreat,) to trace Our path midst spray and foam, like blossoms torn From the green hedgerow, when May clotbes the

No soft lamp pours its silvery ray

Through yon proud chamber's gloom, All silent is the mouldering way

Where censers breathed perfume; But still resounds the lark's sweet notes

Amid these scenes so fair, And still on morning's wings she floats

To woo the fragant air !

Though cold be Beauty's crimson cheek,

And dim her laughing brow, And her blue eye no more bespeak

A mind as pure as snow, Yet still the rose blooms wild around,

The Queen of Eastern flowers, And still the clashing waves resound

Beside the forest bowers !

But hush'd is music's mirthful voice,

And silent is each tone,
That bade my kindred soul rejoice

In hours for ever gone !
And nature's sights are nothing now-

A leaf, or breath of airUnless, departed friends! with you

Their glory I can share.

thorn
In robes of purest white. With rapid race

The light sail coyly flies the wind's embrace,
Eager to be pursued the while. As corn
Bends to the Autumn breeze, so bends the mast;

While like a sportive dolphin seems my boat;

And I, Arion on his back, may float, And glimpse the mermaid as we hurry past, Peering into the depths; where broken rocks Protect sea flow'rs to deck their braided locks.

From the Metropolitan.

SONNET.

BY G. B. COWELL.

'Tis glorious, some bright evening, to behold,
As sinks the chariot of the lord of day,
The clouds, in garments robed of purest gold,
Throng on all sides and close around his way.
Thus were the Muses wont, methinks, of yore,
To fit before the blind old Homer's mind,
And breathe the magic of that heavenly lore
Which still enthralls the heart of all mankind.
Thus did they float before his mind's keen eye,
In such rich colors, such bright radiance drest,
As lightly gliding from their thrones on high,
Those heavenly thoughts they planted in his

breast, Thoughts, which ne'er fade, though centuries Whose blossom blooms with immortality!

'roll by,

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