readers by transcribing, in conclusion, Mr. Wolff's translation of a Hymn which forms part of the Liturgy now in use among the Caraites in Jerusalem. 'Cantor. On account of the palace which is laid waste : People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the temple which is destroyed : People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the walls which are pulled down : People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of our majesty which is gone: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of our great men who have been cast down: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the precious stones which are burned: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the priests who have stumbled: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of our kings who have despised him : People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. We beseech thee, have mercy upon Sion. Cantor. Make haste, Redeemer of Sion. Cantor. May beauty and majesty surround Sion. People. Make new again the ruins of Jerusalem. Cantor. May the royal government shine again over Sion. Wolff's First Journal, pp. 266, 267. ART. VI.-1. Epistles in Verse. London. 1828. 8vo. pp. 135. 2. Italy, a Poem. By Samuel Rogers. Part the Second, London. 1828. 12mo. pp. 188. THE HE' Epistles in Verse,' which we name at the head of this paper, are the productions of a man of polished taste and amiable feelings, who, with modesty little in accordance with the spirit of the times, disclaims the title of poet. That he might have earned that title, even in the high sense which he attaches to it, none who read his little volume will doubt; and we hope its readers will not be few: We have had enough of noisy and impatient VOL. XXXVIII. NO. LXXV. L impatient pretenders to genius of late years. Surely, real elegance has some right to attention. Several of the epistles are addressed to an eminent poet,' and from one of these we quote a few lines, which will give a sufficient notion of the author's spirit and manner. Sweet though his numbers as the murmuring stream, He lives, whom lost, contending nations claim, How different is thy fate, accomplished friend! Thus gifted, thus encouraged, be it thine And pour out all the treasures of thy mind, Epistles, p. 10-12. This call has not been made in vain; and the Second Part of Mr. Rogers's Italy' will be considered, we think, as every way worthy of the author's high reputation. It consists, like the former, of a series of detached pictures, all of them touched with the delicate skill of a masterly artist, not a few of them conceived in a spirit of chaste and noble pathos, such as the devourers of our modern poetry have had few opportunities of contemplating. Let the following specimen suffice: 'THE NUN. 'Tis over; and her lovely cheek is now Her's never more to leave those mournful walls, "Tis over; and the rite, Narrow and dark, nought thro' the gloom discerned, And the grey habit lying by to shroud Her beauty and grace. When on her knees she fell, That she might fling them from her, saying, "Thus, That she might say, flinging them from her, "Thus, ('Twas ('Twas in her utmost need; nor, while she lives, That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love Like a dream the whole is fled; And they, that came in idleness to gaze Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death But thou canst not yet reflect The monstrous birth of one eventful day, All in turn Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed Hover, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heart, Two or three fragments of prose are, not appended to, but interspersed in, the texture of this portion of Mr. Rogers's worka circumstance which might, we think, have been avoided, and which, we hope, the author will reconsider. The fragments, however, are in themselves beautiful, and it is from one of them that we shall take our text for some observations on a subject which we consider as, at this time, of high and serious import ance. 'If life be short,' days and its hours. (says Mr. Rogers,) not so to many of us are its When the blood slumbers in the veins, how often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the sun would would rise and set before it does; and to escape from the weight of time, how many follies, how many crimes, are committed! Men rush on danger, and even on death. Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their resources; and when these things fail, they destroy themselves. Now in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures; and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon, and night. The day we come to a place which we have long heard and read of,-and in Italy we do so continually,—it is an era in our lives; and from that moment the very name calls up a picture. How delightfully, too, does the knowledge flow in upon us, and how fast! Would he who sat in a corner of his library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so much in the time, as he who, with his eyes and his heart open, is receiving impressions all day long from the things themselves? How accurately do they arrange themselves in our memory, -towns, rivers, mountains ;-and in what living colours do we recall the dresses, manners, and customs of the people! Our sight is the noblest of all our senses. "It fills the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues longest in action without being tired." Our sight is on the alert when we travel; and its exercise is then so delightful, that we forget the profit in the pleasure. Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it runs, like a spring that takes its course through some rich vein of mineral, we improve and imperceptiblynor in the head only, but in the heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by one. Seas and mountains are no longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them. Our benevolence extends itself with our knowledge. And must we not return better citizens than we went? For the more we become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more highly must we value our own. 'I threw down my pen in triumph. to rest for ever. And yet―" "The question," said I, " is set "And yet—” I must still say. The wisest of men seldom went out of the walls of Athens; and for that worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to which we are most liable when most at our ease, is there not, after all, a surer and yet pleasanter remedy-a remedy, for which we have only to cross the threshold?' The English have long held the character of a travelling people; a peculiarity derived partly from our commercial eminence and naval power; principally, we believe, from the habits of intellectual and political energy engendered by our free institutions at home. Our frequent exclusion from the continent, during protracted wars, has further had the effect of giving a sudden fashion to foreign travel, when the obstruction was removed. Still this migration was comparatively limited in extent. A certain number of noble or wealthy families, with a befitting proportion of eldest sons, pursued the beaten road of France and Italy; bringing home the |