composing an epicedium to the memory of departed days, and proving her glorious claims to the poetic character, "creation's heir."--Mary Russell Mitford, great in her histrionic portraitures of liberty, whether patrician or plebeian; yet not forgetting in her dramatic wanderings, her happy village; but drawing us, "by the cords of love," to the rustic scene; amplifying that fine axiom of the Stratford bard-- "Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than does the embroider'd canopy to kings?" J.H. Wiffen, dating from the sentimental seclusion of Woburn Abbey, a song replete with all the grace and imagination of his "Ionian Hours."--Charles Lamb, the "deep-thoughted Elia," introducing us to the maidenly residence of his cousin Bridget; delighted with delighting; his fancy expatiating on a copious medley of subjects between the stiff Mandarins on the old fashioned china, and that _Beaumont and Fletcher_, the purchase of his rigid economy, ere his talents had brought him fame and fortune.--Letitia Landon "the English Sappho," a being existing but in the atmosphere of love and flowers; equally sensitive at the opening of a violet as at the shutting of a rose. But our list of the living is too extended; and we will speak of some of the departed. Interspersed with the emanations of our existing bards, we have, occasionally, those precious _morceaux_ which have been bequeathed us by the illustrious dead. Trifles, yet how esteemed! Remembrances of Byron, with his fiery impetuosity, spurning the trammels of worldly sorrow; and prescribing death as a _panacea_ for his lamentable despair; yet subduing us with refined regrets, as he was wont, in his changing mood, "To sun himself in heaven's pure day." Shelley, misanthropically commencing with the turbulence of the chainless sea: a spirit matured to madness by the overawing and supernatural terrors of German romance: as he asserts himself to be, in his lamentation for the author of Endymion, one who "Had gaz'd on Nature's naked loveliness, Acteon-like, until _he fled away_." John Keates, forsaking the land of his fame, and prematurely resigning his "quiet breath," on that spot "Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour;" leaving to the less sensitive reviewers to prove, whether he had been "led astray by the light from heaven, or by his own clouded and tempestuous genius:" "That fire within so fiercely burned That whence it came it soon returned." Maturin, though corrupted and enervated by the follies and dissipation of the anti-poetic city, becoming, in his lucid intervals, "himself again," in the composition of a splendid dramaticle.--Henry Neele, the "martyr-student," inviting us to share in the intense admiration of intellect; forcibly demonstrating "that song is but the eloquence of truth"--but of him no more! "The churchyard bears an added stone; The fireside shows a vacant chair."