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IT is no small praise to the projector of any plan, that his invention has been deemed worthy of imitation. In this point of view, Time's Telescope, it is hoped, may be considered deserving of some approbation, for it has given rise to a variety of similar works—pretty Flowers of Literature,—many of them born but to 'bloom, fade, and die.' We will not stay to weep over their untimely end,—or to inquire how much or how little of their fragile existence was derived from our sources of vitality:—Quiescant in pace!

Of the healthy state of our own Annual for 1826, our readers will be the best judges, when they examine its foliage and contemplate its flowers. Suffice it to observe, that, from the lovely garden of English Literature, it has been our study to cull the rose of elegance and taste, the lily of simplicity and purity, the tulip of endless variety, and the charming violet of modesty and humility; together with numerous rare plants and choice exotics, not before exhibited to public view.

Thanks to the kindness of our friends, our present volume offers strong claims to notice on the score of novelty, as well as of originality; and, although it does not become us to say, that, in this respect, Time's Telescope for 1826 surpasses its twelve predecessors, yet we may be allowed to observe that it exceeds them

in quantity, if not in quality; as, by the occasional adoption of a smaller type than that used in the body of the work, we have been enabled to insert a variety of interesting articles, which, from the contracted space allotted to our labours, must otherwise have been excluded from our pages.

In this volume, we have not been unmindful of the public taste for ornamental illustration, and have the pleasure of presenting to our readers the first British Engraving of CORREGIO'S CELEBRATED MADONNA AND CHILD, lately purchased by Government for the National Gallery;-and as Music and Painting are sister arts, we have added a beautiful original Melody, for which we are indebted to the unsolicited kindness of Mr. SAMUEL WESLEY.

It remains only to present our best thanks to our valued Correspondents for their several communications; particularly to MARY HOWITT, of Nottingham, for some beautiful Poems,—and to the REV.WM. FLETCHER, of Woodbridge, Messrs. WIFFEN, Wm. HOWITT, MOIR, RYAN, BRODIE, und BALFOUR, for their various contributions.-TO HENRY ELLIS, ESQ., Keeper of the MSS. in the British Museum, our especial acknowledgments are due, for many kind hints and communications; particularly as it regards some MSS. in the Lansdowne Collection, that have escaped the researches of our literary ferrets, and the extracts from which cannot fail of proving an agreeable novelty to our readers.

LONDON,
Nov. 14, 1825.

THE ECHO OF ANTIQUITY ;

An Entroductory Poem

FOR THE THIRTEENTH VOLUME OF TIME'S TELESCOPE,

BY J. H. WIFFEN.

WRITTEN IN YORK CATHEDRAL.

' And thou shalt be brought down, and shalt speak out of the ground, and thy voice shall be as of one that hath a familiar spirit, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust.' Isaiah xxix, 4.

I.

THE Sabbath of the year once more

Is come; Toil sleeps on Plenty's breast;

His shout among the sheaves is o'er,

And all on earth is joy and rest;

A golden light from east to west

Reigns o'er the noontide world; perfume
Yet haunts the lingering rose, though weak,
And yellow leaves all round me speak
Of Winter's hasting gloom.

II.

The Minster's melancholy bells

Chime sweet-we'll pace the solemn pile;
Hark to the organ's glorious swells

Through sweeping arch and columned aisle!
Illumined angels round me smile,

And rich from tinctured windows swim
Hues such as those Enchantment lends,
Whilst loud from many a voice ascends
The Hallelujah hymn.

III.

PRAISE TO OUR GOD! since TIME had birth,
Since Euphrates through Eden ran,
Still has his bounty compassed earth,
His pitying smile spoke peace to man;
Still, as of old, his rainbows span
The storm-truth quickens, guilt decays :-
Not always shall the curse of sin

Cling to us—happier times begin :—
Praise to our God, sing praise!

IV.

But not the organ's tuneful surge,

Nor chaunted hymn, though sweet they be,

So melts my spirit as the dirge,

Dear, pious bird! that flows from thee;
Who, in a sacred rivalry

Of choir and instrument, dost make

Thy mellow warblings heard above Their loudest peals, as though with love Thy little heart would break!*

V.

At thy blest call remembrance starts
From death, and, in bewildering train,
'The earliest joys that thrilled our hearts
In childhood's morn come round again;
When by the brook that through the glen
Ran wild, we paced in happy quest

Of Spring's first primrose, and, beguiled
By hallowed superstitions, smiled

To view thy crimson breast.

* A trifling, but not uninteresting occurrence.

VI..

Since then, what have not all sustained?
What guilt or toil, what loss or woe!
Hopes wrecked, vows laughed at, feelings chained
To ice, when tenderest in their flow,-
Love, injury, hatred, scorn!—and O
That flattery of the heart, when bloom

Tints some beloved companion's cheek,

With hues, which, whilst they charm, bespeak Sure union with the tomb.

VII.

They're past, the hours when Pleasure threw
Her nameless spell o'er slightest things;
The primrose blows as then it blew,

But where's the charm that made us kings
When all was won?—O TIME, thy stings
Are like the serpent's! whilst we tread
Thy steps, and taste the fruit that wooes,
Grief's fatal sentence quick pursues,
And strikes Illusion dead.

VIII.

Our ancient Fathers, where are they?
And the blest Prophets, do they live
For ever?-Pomp! give ear, and say
What answer the carved marbles give.—
The slumbering statues seem to heave
-on the spacious walls

With utterance,—

The scutcheon shakes-responsive tones

Rise from ST. WILFRID'S hallowed bones,

And Elfric waves his palls.