But to return to this dire event, which ought to have been recorded in verse, had not Mr. Bulwer, in his clever preface to the Last Days of Pompeii, clearly shown that poetry is de trop in the world; that now we go too fast for it; that prose is more expressive, more comprehensive, more compact, and more eloquent. Certainly poetry is not in unison with the spirit of the times-a spirit of rail-road, steamcarriage and many similar shorteners of time and thought;—when all is reason without rhyme, calculation without passion, and enthusiasm turned to party politics, from the want of love or war to feed upon. Under these awful circumstances of the depression of the genius of poetry, a matter of fact detail of this sad and tragical event and its consequences has been given; though the historian is fully aware that this is a sad falling off from the graceful and beautiful elegy upon "the pensive Selima." Her death was less in the spirit of Greek and Roman tragedy than that of our heroine, though more in the spirit of the time being.

We are informed that the fair Selima was "demurest of the tabby kind;" but notwithstanding the description of her well-bred manners, and of the state of repose and apathy in which she lived habitually, she was, like many young and beautiful ladies of these days, so transported at the sight of gold, that even at the distant view of it, "she saw,-and

purred applause ;" and it is farther recorded

later in the story, that on a nearer view,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize,

Presumptuous maid! again she stretch'd-
Again she bent.

and in so doing, thus met her untimely and cruel fate!

The same moral may be drawn from both stories! with which our tale will conclude.

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,

And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes,
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,

Nor all that glisters-gold.

A SUMMER EVENING WALK

IN THE

VILLA RICCIARDI, AT NAPLES.

I sing of birds, of blossoms, glens, and bowers,

Of April, May, or June, or July flowers;
I rave of groves and twilight, and I sing
Of pale moonlight, and of the fairy ring.
I write of travelled joys, of days gone by,
Of many a hope destroy'd, yet dread to die.
Mine is no poet's dream of magic land-
I tell the wanderer's tale.

D

SUMMER EVENING WALK IN THE VILLA

RICCIARDI, AT NAPLES.

Heureux qui dans le sein de ses dieux domestiques,

Se dérobe au fracas des tempêtes publiques,

Et dans un doux abri, trompant tous les régards,
Cultive ses jardins, les vertus, et les arts!

How can I describe the beauties and enchantments that surround me? Read all the books of travels, read the glowing descriptions of poets, get by heart the hackneyed and enthusiastic terms that are distributed through every guide book-raise your imagination to fairy dreams! still you can have but a poor idea of all that is lovely in nature in Italy.

This region surely is not of this earth?

Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove,