In the _poetry_ are Cleopatra, well according with the splendid scene it is intended to illustrate--and I think of Thee, a tender lament--both by Mr. T.K. Hervey; Mrs. Hemans has contributed four exquisite pieces: Night, the Ship at Sea, and the Mariner's Grave, by Mr. John Malcolm, only make us regret that we have not room for either in our columns; Mary Queen of Scots, by H.G. Bell, Esq., is one of the most interesting historical ballads we have lately met with; the Epistle from Abbotsford, is a piece of pleasantry, which would have formed an excellent pendent to Sir Walter's Study, in our last; Zadig and Astarte, by Delta, are in the writer's most plaintive strain; the recollections of our happiest years, are harmoniously told in "Boyhood;" a ballad entitled "The Captive of Alhama," dated from Woburn Abbey, and signed R----, is a soul-stirring production, attributed to Lord John Russel; and the Pixies of Devon has the masterly impress of the author of Dartmoor. And last in our enumeration, though first in our liking, are the following by the editor:--Invocation to the Echo of a Sea Shell; King Pedro's Revenge, with a well written historiette; the Youngling of the Flock, full of tenderness and parental affection; and some Stanzas, for our admiration of which we have not an epithet at hand, so we give the original. ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS. _By A.A. Watts, Esq._ Relics of love, and life's enchanted spring, Of hopes born, rainbow-like, of smiles and tears:-- With trembling hand do I unloose the string, Twined round the records of my youthful years. Yet why preserve memorials of a dream, Too bitter-sweet to breathe of aught but pain! Why court fond memory for a fitful gleam Of faded bliss, that cannot bloom again! The thoughts and feelings these sad relics bring Back on my heart, I would not now recall:-- Since gentler ties around its pulses cling, Shall spells less hallowed hold them still in thrall! Can withered hopes that never came to flower Match with affections long and dearly tried Love, that has lived through many a stormy hour, Through good and ill,--and time and change defied! Perish each record that might wake a thought That would be treason to a faith like this!-- Why should the spectres of past joys be brought To fling their shadows o'er my present bliss! Yet,--ere we part for ever,--let me pay A last, fond tribute to the sainted dead: Mourn o'er these wrecks of passion's earlier day, With tears as wild as once I used to shed. What gentle words are flashing on my eye! What tender truths in every line I trace! Confessions--penned with many a deep drawn sigh.-- Hopes--like the dove--with but one resting place! How many a feeling, long--too long--represt, Like autumn flowers, here opened out at last! How many a vision of the lonely breast Its cherish'd radiance on these leaves hath cast?