And ah! no more can I call my own This ocean kingdom and coral throne; But tyrant man must be lord alone Of the earth, and the air, and sea; And my pure spirit he’ll bear away To the lamp-lit land of the sleeping day, There only to own his constant sway, And his tireless vassal be. Aye, there, in the bannered hall of state, A radiant spirit, I’ll nightly wait, And throw new light on the long debate, And thwart Ambition’s schemes. I’ll sit me down by the statesman, too, Engage in whatever he chance to do, Read all his documents through and through, And enlighten his darkest dreams. I’ll then to the hall of mirth advance, Pour Love’s own light on the joyous dance, Give life and point to the speaking glance, And charms to the blushing fair. At night I’ll visit the student’s room, And I’ll scatter the ancient mist of gloom Which darkly hangs over Learning’s tomb, And the classical mummies there. I’ll help him fathom the depths of Time, Or up the heights of Parnassus climb, Or sport in the babbling brooks of rhyme, Or—for want of sense—make _dashes_;— Thus all I’ll serve—but I’ll have my pay— Revenge—and that in my own good way;— A dwelling I’ll touch—it shall be my prey— And a city shall burn to ashes! REVIEW. _“The Partisan,” a Tale of the Revolution. By the author of “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” &c._ There are two ways of acquiring literary reputation—the one is by an author’s _real merits_, the other by his _puffs_. Of the former method nothing need be said, but the latter merits the severest censure. Puffs, have become the publisher’s, and in a great degree the author’s, living. So completely is it the publisher’s trade, and so firm withal is his hold upon the nose of that stupid _gull_, the public, that he can make a book, which contains one page that will be read in a newspaper, as an extract, “the best novel of the season,” and can exalt “the most stupid ass that brays on paper,” to a place “among our first novelists.”