Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "_Tales of Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "_The Monk_." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "_Cloud Kings_," and "_Water Kings_," and "_Fire Kings_," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_" undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amusement. THE WOLF KING; OR LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. An Old Woman's Tale. Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello _Persius_. Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad. The birds they sung, the morning smil'd The mother kiss'd her darling child, And said ... "My dear, take custards three, And carry to your grandmummie." The pretty maid had on her head A little riding hood of red, And as she pass'd the lonely wood, They call'd her small red riding hood. Her basket on her arm she hung, And as she went thus artless sung: "A lady lived beneath a hill, Who if not gone, resides there still." The wolf king saw her pass along, He ey'd her custards heard her song, And cried "That child and custards three This evening shall my supper be!" Now swift the maid pursu'd her way, And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay; Nor had she pass'd the murky wood, When lo! the wolf king near her stood. "Oh! stop my pretty child so gay! Oh! whither do you bend your way?" "My little self and custards three Are going to my grandmummie." "While you by yonder mountain go, On which the azure blue bells grow, I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear, Or I before you will be there. "And when our racing shall be done, A kiss you forfeit, if I've won; Your prize shall be, if first you come, Some barley sugar and a plumb."