of Girolamo. But this is no concern of Mrs. Ellet's. Of the original poems, which form the greater part of the volume, we have hardly been able to form an opinion, during the cursory perusal we have given them. Some of them have merit. Some we think unworthy of the talents which their author has undoubtedly displayed. The epigram, for example, at page 102 is rather a silly joke upon a threadbare theme, and, however well it might have suited Mrs. Ellet's purpose to indite it, she should have had more discretion than to give it permanency in a collection of her poems. Echo was once a love sick maid They say: the tale is no deceiver. Howe'er a woman's form might fade Her voice would be the last to leave her! The tragedy (Teresa Contarini) at the end of the volume, "is founded," says the authoress, "upon an incident well known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction." Mrs. E. has availed herself of a drama of Nicolini's in part of the first scene of the first act, and in the commencement of the fifth act. The resemblance between the two plays is, however, very slight. In plot--in the spirit of the dialogue--and in the range of incidents they differ altogether. _Teresa Contarini_ was received with approbation at the Park Theatre in March 1835,--Miss Philips performing the heroine. We must confine ourselves to the simple remark, that the drama appears to us better suited to the closet than the stage. In evidence that Mrs. Ellet is a poetess of no ordinary rank, we extract, from page 51 of her volume, a little poem rich in vigorous expression, and full of solemn {117} thought. Its chief merits, however, are condensation and energy. Hark--to the midnight bell! The solemn peal rolls on That tells us, with an iron tongue, Another year is gone! Gone with its hopes, its mockeries, and its fears, To the dim rest which wraps our former years. Gray pilgrim to the past! We will not bid thee stay; For joys of youth and passion's plaint Thou bear'st alike away. Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow's swell Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well! Fill high the cup--and drink To Time's unwearied sweep! He claims a parting pledge from us-- And let the draught be deep! We may not shadow moments fleet as this, With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss. No comrade's voice is here, That could not tell of grief-- Fill up!--We know that friendship's hours, Like their own joys--are brief. Drink to their brightness while they yet may last, And drown in song the memory of the past! The winter's leafless bough In sunshine yet shall bloom; And hearts that sink in sadness now Ere long dismiss their gloom. Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow, In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!