Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear Upon the eyelids of a village-child! Mark! where a light upon those far-off

waves

Gleams, while the passing show'r above our head

Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues Of the fast-fading rainbow,-such is life!

Let us go forth-the redbreast is abroad, And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again."

Pity indeed, that one who thus loves nature, and is by nature thus beloved, and rewarded by inspiration, should occasionally have so little regard to truth! This shower, however, so exquisitely described in its death, has not only refreshed earth and sea, but Mr Bowles's genius, till it glows as green as emerald." We cannot, at this late hour of the night, (“ae wee sma' hour ayont the twal,)" accompany him in all his rambles along sea-shore, and through inland wood. But during all those descriptions, never has the influence of that shower--real or ideal-been out of his imagination, till at last it absolutely causes another Deluge. To be serious-we know not where to look in Modern Poetry-in Wordsworth, Southey, or James Montgomery, for a descriptive passage, fuller of feeling and fancy, than the follow"Vision of the Deluge." ing

"The Vision of the Deluge! Harka trump !

It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern He stands, while the awak'ning thunder rolls

Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands

Upon Immaus' height!

No voice is heard
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!
He sounds again his trumpet; and the
clouds

Come deep'ning o'er the world!-
Why art thou pale?
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of th' Almighty pass'd
O'er the abodes of man, and hush'd, at

once, The song, the shout, the cries of violence, The groan of the oppress'd, and the deep

curse

Of Blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,

And mocks the deeper thunder! Hark! a voice'Perish!' Again the thunder rolls—the

Earth

Again it came at ev'ning-fall, and lo,
An olive-leaf pluck'd off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from
its bill,

And kiss'd its wings again, and smilingly
Dropp'd on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more; and watch'd
its flight,

Till it was lost amid the clouds of Heaven:

Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,

Its mournful mistress sung this last fare well:

'Go, beautiful and gentle Dove,

And greet the morning ray;
For lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm are pass'd away,
No longer drooping, here confined,

In this cold prison dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee

well.

'Oh! beautiful and gentle Dove, Thy welcome sad will be,

When then shalt hear no voice of love,

In murmurs from the leafy tree: Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find, From this cold prison's cell: Go, then, to sunshine and the wind, Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well.'

Vanquish'd beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ.'

Hark! the clock strikes !-The sha

dowy scene dissolves,

And all the visionary pomp is pass'd!
I only see a few sheep on the edge
Of this aerial ridge, and Banwell tower,
Grey in the morning sunshine, at our feet,"

"The subject is stale-old-wornout-threadbare-soiled-pawed upon"-ever and anon exclaims yon blockhead on opening a poem-or passage of a poem, thereby libelling the Great Globe itself, and all that it inherits. What does the blockhead mean? The age of the world is known to a nicety-which is more than you can say of that of many an elderly young lady, who was no chicken at the era of the French Revolution. The world is neither young nor old-but middle-aged; nothing about her is stale; she is as fresh, without being flat, as a flounder. But if she were as old as the hills, what would that sig nify to a Poet. He could wash six thousand years off her grey head, and restore her to a youthful Paragon. To genius, all creation is for ever new-in immortal youth. Towers and temples decay; but the "innocent brightness of the newborn day" that shall rise to-morrow,

Earth

far off, in light,

The ascending dove is for a moment seen, The last rain falls-falls gently and unheard,

Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up! Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,

Behold a Cross!-and round about the Cross,

Lo! Angels and Archangels jubilant, Till the ascending pomp in light is lost, Lift their acclaiming voice, Glory to thee,

Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee, Lord God of Hosts; we laud and magnify Thy glorious name, praising thee ever

first morn that dawned on Eden. "Seas will row and rivers flow" till time sinks in eternity; but seas and rivers will never be old-that is to say, older than they ought to be-as long as there is one Poet's eye left to look on them, undimmed by dust. When all mankind are dead and buried-the last man perhaps in the same spot with the first-Peter Tomlinson, junior,with Father Adam, then this world will feel herself getting too old-will groan through all her But while the soul of man lives, she, skeleton, and disappear in Chaos. the mighty mother, will never complain of old age. Cybele will nurse her children at her thousand breasts, still flowing with milk and honey. There may be some truth in what Solomon said, "there is nothing new under the sun;" but there is far more truth in what we say, "there is nothing old under the sun." Nature is preserved by her elements in a perpetual youth, far more wonderful than that of Ninon D'Enclos-and

WHEN the learned, amiable, and lively writer of these volumes was exploring the bibliographical treasures of the library of St Genevieve at Paris, he informs us, that " frequently, during the progress of his examinations, he looked out of window upon the square or area below, which was covered at times by numerous little parties of youths, (from the College of Henry IV.,) who were partaking of all manner of amusements characteristic of their ages and habits. With and without coats, walking, sitting, or running-there they were! All gay, all occupied, all happy!-unconscious of the alternate miseries and luxuries of the Bibliomania!—unknowing in the nice distinctions of type from the presses of George Laver, Schurener de Bopardia, and Adam Rot―uninitiated in the agonising mysteries of rough edges, large margins, and original bindings! But

Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.'"

In a somewhat similar state of blissful ignorance we profess ourselves to be, so far as relates to Bibliomanical miseries, agonies, and luxuries. We have not, certainly, arrived at that degree of sensibility in these matters, that our nerves would thrill with responsive delight to the sound of a "crackling copy" of Virgil, printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz, or our blood run cold at the sight of a lovely Wynkyn de Worde," cruelly cropped," by some bibliopegistical barbarian; neither should we faint, at discovering that our PSALTERIUM Latine, printed by Fust and Schoiffer, 1457, (if we had one,) measured only thirteen inches, five-eighths, by nine and three-eighths; while that in the Royal Library at Paris, measured exactly fourteen inches by nine and a half. We have no pretensions, we freely admit, to these refined susceptibilities of either rapture or misery; and therefore we shall give ourselves no bibliomaniacal airs; but, at the same

time, we mean strenuously to assert our capabilities for becoming a genuine RoXBURGHER, a true BIBLIOPHILE, and an ardent devotee of FIFTEENERS. We know what it is, to enter a goodly room, filled with books, and to luxuriate in the aromatic bliss of their bindings-or to gloat upon the outward charms of well-stored shelves, with an antepast of their inward treasures. We cannot look unmoved upon a FIRST EDITION, or feel no kindling emotions in our bosoms at the sight of black-letter and time-honoured pages. We love to gaze upon the autographs of the illustrious dead-and our hearts would pant almost to suffocation, if we could hold in our hands an undoubted MS. of Shakspeare; we can examine with pensive delight the words and letters traced by fingers that once recorded the noble thoughts of a noble mind; and we have stood many an hour, equally regardless of an August sun, or a December wind, rummaging over the dusky heaps of book-stalls in courts, alleys, and narrow lanes. With these propensities, which we thus freely acknowledge, not even the Vice-President of the Roxburghe Club himself should convince us we were not intended by nature for bibliomaniacs, though circumstances may have prevented us from becoming so; in the same way that " village Hampdens” and “mute inglorious Miltons" have been doomed, by fortune, to remain ploughmen and farmers all their lives.

We have thought it necessary, at the risk of having more egotism laid to our charge than we deserve, to set forth these our qualifications, before we proceeded to notice a work, which can be properly noticed only by a critic so qualified; though we are willing to confess, our author writes with so much bibliomaniacal onction, when describing bibliogra phical gems and rarities-editiones principes-UPON VELLUM, &c. that he inspires the reader with his own feelings, and communicates a portion of his own enthusiasm to those who

are not so deeply initiated in the mysteries of bibliomania as himself. We doubt, indeed, if there can be found a duplicate Dibdin; another copy, equally tall, uncut, uncropped, rough-edged, large margined, and crackling. No! Among the rarities of the Bibl. Spenceriana must unquestionably be ranked our bibliographer himself, of whose labours we shall now discourse.

In the outset, we have to say, that we heartily rejoice at meeting with these labours in their present form. Our readers need hardly be told, that the first edition of this work appeared some eight or nine years ago, with a splendour of graphic embellishment, and a beauty of typographical execution, which necessarily fixed such a price upon it, that it was accessible only to the more opulent purchasers of books. Upon this subject, Mr Dibdin "tells a tale," in a note at p. 34 of vol. i., which we have read with regret. "The expense," says he, " attending the graphic embellishments alone, of the previous edition of this work, somewhat exceeded the sum of FOUR THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED POUNDS. The risk was entirely my own. The result was the loss of about L.200, exclusively of the expenses incurred in travelling about 2000 miles. The copperplates (notwithstanding every temptation, and many entreaties, to multiply impressions of several of the subjects engraved) were DESTROYED. There may be something more than a mere negative consolalation, in finding that the work is RISING in price, although its author has long ceased to partake of any benefit resulting from it." Another of these negative consolations is dwelt upon with some complacency, in a note at p. 41 of the Preface. "It is more than a negative consolation to me," he observes," to have lived to see the day, that, although comparatively impoverished, others have been enriched by my labours. When I noticed a complete set of my lucubrations, on LARGE PAPER, valued at L.250, in a bookseller's catalogue, (Mr Pickering's,) and afterwards learned that this set had found a PURCHASER, I had reason to think that I had deserved well of the literature of my country; and I resolved to have mihi carior' in con

sequence."" If my reward has not been in wealth," he exclaims, in the text to which the above note is appended," it has been in the hearty commendations of the enlightened and the good—' mea me virtute involvo.' We could have been well pleased, and so we doubt not could Mr Dibdin, had he gathered "golden opinions," as well as laurels ; had he enriched his pocket, while he adorned his brows; but sure we are, judging of him by his own words, had the alternative been offered him, his choice would have coincided with his actual position.

Before we notice some portions of the new matter contained in this second edition, we feel it will be doing an acceptable service both to the author, and to the general reader, to describe what are the leading features which distinguish it from its predecessor. And this we cannot do in fewer words than are employed by Mr Dibdin himself.

"It will be evident," he observes, "at first glance, that it is greatly 'shorn of its beams,' in regard to graphic decorations and typographical splendour. Yet its garb, if less costly, is not made of coarse materials; for it has been the wish and aim of the publishers that this impression should rank among books worthy of the distinguished press from which it issues, (the Shakspeare press of W. Nicol.) Nor is it unadorned by the sister art of engraving; for, although on a reduced scale, some of the repeated plates may even dispute the palm of superiority with their predecessors. Several of the groupes, executed on copper in the preceding edition, have been executed on wood in the present; and it is for the learned in these matters to decide upon their relative merits.

To have attempted portraits on

wood, would have inevitably led to failure. There are, however, a few new plates, which cannot fail to elicit the purchaser's This edition has particular attention. also another attraction rather popular in the present day, which may add to its recommendation even with those possessed of its precursor. It contains fac-similes of the autographs of several distinguished literati and artists upon the Continent.""So much respecting the decorative department of this new edition of the Tour. I have now to request the reader's attention to a few points more immediately connected with what may be considered its intrinsic worth. In the first place, it may be considered to be an edition both