She likewise (I think in the same year) published an animated poem upon the valour of Spain and her patriotic ally, England. Instead of Mrs. H. residing, as the writer of the above memoir observes, chiefly in London, she has passed the principal years of her life since her removal from Grwych, at a pleasant dwelling, termed "Rose Cottage," near the city of St. Asaph. The Editor of the _Edinburgh Journal_ is again wrong in saying that her "Songs of the Affections," and the "Records of Woman," are understood to have had a very limited circulation, whereas, in the space of two years, they have reached a third and fourth edition. _The Author of A Tradesman's Lays._ * * * * * MASSENA'S TOMB. PERE LA CHAISE, PARIS. (_For the Mirror._) "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth, ere gave, Await alike the inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave!" GRAY. Rest Soldier! not the trumpet's peal, Can break the hallow'd silence here; For ling'ring footsteps only steal, To weep the mourner's bitter tear. Sad trophied "city of the dead!" Far around are night dews weeping; And cypresses their branches spread, Where the fair and brave are sleeping. Affection brings her wreath of willow, And fondly decks the funeral stone, The cold, damp earth she makes her pillow, And only hears the night-wind's moan. And hoary age, hath laid him down, With the weary weight of years upon him! And youth, in his spring morning flown, Ere life's cold hues had shadow'd on him. Beauty, hath joined the assembly here, With marble brow, and close-shut eye, And pallid lip,--while o'er her bier, The dirge was chanted mournfully. And roses bloom on many a grave, With lilies fair, and violets blue, And willows their green branches wave, Shedding pale evening's tears of dew. Round many a tomb _that_ flow'ret springs, "Forget me not"--the tale it tells, Vainly the fond appeal it brings To Death's domain, where silence dwells! Long years, "with all their deeds," may roll, Ere the cold clay, its cell forsaking, Shall join the disembodied soul, When the last morning's dawn is breaking! _Kirton Lindsey._ ANNE R. * * * * * THE WRITINGS OF BURKE. (_For the Mirror._)