[1] An artist of celebrity is now engaged on a portrait of Mr. Southey, _cum privilegio_, we suppose, Mr. Southey is not the only public man, whose lineaments have been traduced by engravers. Only look at some of the patriotic gentlemen who figure at public meetings, and in _outline_ on cards, &c. But Houbraken is now known to have been no more honest than his successors in portrait engraving: although physiognomy and craniology ought to help the moderns out in these matters. Then comes A Farewell to the year, one of Mr. Lockhart's elegant translations from the Spanish; a pretty portrait of rustic simplicity--the Little Gleaner, by the editor; and some playful lines by M.A. Shee, accompanying an engraving from his own picture of the Lost Ear-Rings. The Wedding Wake, by George Darley, Esq. is an exquisite picture of saddened beauty. The Ettrick Shepherd has the Carle of Invertine--a powerful composition, and the Cameronian Preacher, a prose tale, of equal effect. In addition to the pieces already mentioned, by the editor, is one of extraordinary excellence--the Magic Bridle: his Lines to a Boy plucking Blackberries, are a very pleasing picture of innocence:-- There stay in joy, Pluck, pluck, and eat thou happy boy; Sad fate abides thee. Thou mayst grow A man: for God may deem it so, I wish thee no such harm, sweet child: Go, whilst thou'rt innocent and mild: Go, ere earth's passions, fierce and proud, Rend thee as lightning rend the cloud: Go, go, life's day is in the dawn: Go, wait not, wish not to be man. One of his pieces we quote entire:-- THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG. I'll launch my gallant bark no more, Nor smile to see how gay Its pennon dances, as we bound Along the watery way; The wave I walk on's mine--the god I worship is the breeze; My rudder is my magic rod Of rule, on isles and seas: Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France, Or shores of swarthy Spain: Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord, When monarch of the main. When last upon the surge I rode, A strong wind on me shot, And tossed me as I toss my plume, In battle fierce and hot. Three days and nights no sun I saw, Nor gentle star nor moon; Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks, I sang to see it--soon The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun, Broad dimpling smiled the brine; I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made Half of her riches mine. The wild hawk wets her yellow foot In blood of serf and king: Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe, And helm and cuirass ring; The foam flies from the charger's flanks, Like wreaths of winter's snow; Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start In thousands from the bow-- Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all Use tongue and tuneful chord-- Be mute!--My music is the clang Of cleaving axe and sword.