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.

Ꭰ

A

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!

DELILLE.

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,

Citron or pine, or cedar; not a grot,

Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine,

But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings
On the clear wave, some image of delight,

Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers,
Some ruin'd temple or fallen monument,
To muse on as the bark is gliding by.

Travellers falsely suppose that winter is the time to be in Italy; and my fidgetty countrypeople, at the approach of summer, put themselves into their comfortable carriages to leave the country with the crowd who seek gaiety and amusement in some great northern capital. The charms of summer are to them as perfectly unknown, as all but the name of summer is unknown to the inhabitant of the north of Europe. To a mind at ease, to a person at peace with himself, to one capable of home pleasures, or of literary pursuits, or the love of nature, this country has a thousand untried and enticing charms. The mornings are calm and peaceful, and the evenings so lovely, that words are wanting to describe them, and hues