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The only other quotation we give is a ballad by Allan Ramsey. It is well known in Scotland, but will be new to most of our English readers. Its title is

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

THERE came a Ghost to Margaret's door,

With many a grievous grone,
And ay he tirled at the pin ;

But answer made she none.

“ Is this my father Philip?

Or is't my brother John ?
Or is't my true love Willie

From Scotland new come home ?

“ 'Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;
But 'tis thy true love Willie

From Scotland new com home.

O sweet Margret ! O dear Margret !
I

pray thee speak to me :
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.”

Thy faith and troth thou’se nevir get,

Of me shalt nevir win,
Till that thou come within my bower,

And kiss my cheek and chin."

“ If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,

Thy days will not be lang.

O sweet Margret! O sweet Margret !

I pray thee speak to me:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.”

• My faith and troth thou’se nevir get,

Of me shalt nevir win,
Till thou take me to yon kirk yard

And wed me with a ring."

“My bones are buried in a kirk yard

Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my sprite, Margret,

That's speaking now to thee.”

She stretched out her lilly-white hand,

As for to do her best :
“Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,

God send your soul good rest.”

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An Essay towards a New Translation of the Epistle of St. Paul to the

Romans, on the Basis of the Authorised Version ; with a Paraphrase, and Brief Explanatory Notes. By Basil H. Cooper, B.A., of the

University of London. Mr. Cooper is a scholar and a man of talent. He has, moreover, evidently applied himself with great care to a consideration of the subject to which his essay relates. Still, we must say, that we do not see he has improved in the existing version of the Epistle to the Romans. His “ argument” and “paraphrase" are decidedly the best parts of his production. His translation, with a few exceptions, is more forced, unnatural, and less perspicuous, than the one now in use. In some cases, too, he has brought out the import of the original so imperfectly, as to inculcate an objectionable theology. For example, his translation would in one place, though we are sure he does not mean it, carry the idea, that because we were sinners the Deity loved us.

Surely the Scriptural statement of the truth referred to would be, that while, or though, we were sinners, the Supreme Being loved us. Our pages are not the proper place for theological discussion, else we would point out several instances in which Mr. Cooper's translation seems to us liable to the objection of not stating with sufficient precision the great truths which the inspired Apostle, in his Epistle to the Romans, sought to expound and enforce.

Poems, by ELIZABETH BANET BARRETT. Author of "The Seraphim,"

&c. &c. In 2 vols. Miss Barrett is an accomplished lady. She is imbued with no small measure of the poetic spirit, but there is a frequent quaintness in her manner of expressing her sentiments, that often mars their beauty and impairs their effect. The measure, too, which she has chosen for many of her pieces, is one not in common use, and, though strictly correct, does not commend itself to the ear. With these drawbacks, there is much poetry in the volumes before us. The pieces are on miscellaneous subjects, but they are all, more or less, of a serious or sentimental nature. The volumes are dedicated to the writer's father. The dedication is beautiful as a piece of composition, and remarkable for its touching tenderness. Many of the poems, too, are characterized by a pathos which must make its way to every bosom. We give one specimen. Its heading is, “Catarina to Cameons, dying in his absence abroad, and referring to the poem in which he had recorded the Sweetness of her Eyes.”

On the door you will not enter,

I have gazed too long-adieu!
Hope withdraws her peradventure-
Death is near me-and not you !

Come, O lover,

Close and cover
These poor eyes, you called, I ween,
“Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.”

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Yes! I think, were you beside them,

Near the bed I die upon-.
Though their beauty you denied them
As you stood there looking down,

You would truly

Call them duly,
For the love's sake found therein,

“Sweetest eyes were ever seen.” Oct. 1814.--VOL. XLI.--NO. CLXII.

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And recal the choral singing
Which brought angels down our talk ?

Spirit-shriven

I viewed heaven,
Till you smil'd—“Is earth unclean,
Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?"

When beneath the palace-lattice,

You ride slow as you have done,
And you see a face therethat is
Not the old familiar one ;

Will you oftly

Murmur softly,
“Here ye watch'd me morn and e'en,
Sweetest eyes were ever seen.” »

When the palace ladies sitting

Round your gittern, shall have said,
“Poet, sing those verses, written
For the lady who is dead,"

Will you tremble,

Yet dissemble-
Or sing hoarse, with tears between,
“Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?”

Sweetest eyes! How sweet in flowings

The repeated cadence is !
Though you sang a hundred poems,
Still the best one would be this.

I can hear it

"Twixt my spirit
And the earth noise intervene-
“Sweetest eyes were ever seen!”

But the priest waits for the praying,

And the choir are on their knees;
And the soul must pass away in
Strains more solemn high than these !

Miserere

For the weary-
Oh, no longer for Catrine,
“ Sweetest eyes were ever seen!”

Henri de Clermont ; or, the Royalists of La Vendée. A Tale of the

French Revolution. By the Rev. William GRESLEY, M. A., Pre

bendary of Lichfield. The title of this work sufficiently indicates its nature. In the story there is a ground-work of historical fact, on which a superstructure of fiction is erected. The little volume is well written, and is calculated to improve the minds and benefit the morals of those young persons for whose perusal it is mainly written.

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