_Allan Cunningham_--there is poetry in the name, written or sung--and high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every production to which that name is attached--and among these "The Anniversary for 1829." All the departments of this work too, (as in the "Keepsake") are unique. Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor, is a man of refined taste, his Editor and his contributors are men of first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers are of the first rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham's Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a combination of talent, and so it proves in the _Anniversary_. As might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the volume is superior in its poetical attractions--both in number and quality. By way of variety, we begin with the _poetry_. First is a stirring little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a humorous epistle from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in which the laureat deals forth his ire on the "misresemblances and villanous visages" which have been published as his portrait.[1] Next is a gem of another water, Edderline's Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed editor of "Blackwood's Magazine." This is throughout a very beautiful composition, but we must content ourselves with the following extract:-- EDDERLINE'S SLEEP. Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light That lingered on the stormy even, A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave, Hath sunk into the weltering grave. Castle-Oban is dark without and within, And downwards to the fearful din, Where Ocean with his thunder shocks Stuns the green foundation rocks, Through the green abyss that mocks his eye, Oft hath the eerie watchman sent A shuddering look, a shivering sigh, From the edge of the howling battlement! Therein is a lonesome room, Undisturbed as some old tomb That, built within a forest glen, Far from feet of living men, And sheltered by its black pine-trees From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas, Flings back its arched gateway tall, At times to some great funeral! Noiseless as a central cell In the bosom of a mountain Where the fairy people dwell, By the cold and sunless fountain! Breathless as a holy shrine, When the voice of psalms is shed! And there upon her stately bed, While her raven locks recline O'er an arm more pure than snow, Motionless beneath her head,-- And through her large fair eyelids shine Shadowy dreams that come and go, By too deep bliss disquieted,-- There sleeps in love and beauty's glow, The high-born Lady Edderline.